First off, “Mom”, I don’t appreciate your phrasing. “Don’t drink more than four green smoothies a week.”
Excuse me. I don’t take your orders. You’ve built no foundation of respect for yourself. You have never looked out for the good of the child over your own comfort with any consistency.
Second off, I have researched green smoothies. I looked into every corner and aspect, found out the health benefits, found out the dangers to my health.
I know that the oxalates in green bind calcium. I know that this can cause kidney stones.
I bet you didn’t know that they are easily counteracted with black tea, lemon water, or CALCIUM SUPPLEMENTS.
I’ll bet you don’t know how hard I work when I care. To find the perfect recipe, or the best pattern, with the best reviews.
You don’t want me to move away. You tried to read every fear, hesitation, and coercion into my decision to move to another State.
But the only reason you want me to stay? To help YOU with YOUR project, to make your life more comfortable. So you can snipe and tease me until I want to die.
I’m not a good daughter. And I don’t have a mother.
You don’t hug me anymore. Even when you did hug me, you acted disgusted. Laughing it off as a joke. It still hurt my feelings. I’m still sad, because there’s nobody to hold me when I’m just sad. There is not one person in this house who understands what I go through as an unattractive, lonely, overemotional, stupid woman.
I’m sick of your politics, your bigotry, your sexism, and the scare tactics you raised me on. There isn’t a murderer outside, every guy friend I have? No intentions of attacking me. That woman who is my best friend? She is my best friend.
The family who I stayed with for a weekend? Why did they want to take in a complete stranger? BECAUSE I’M FECKING AWESOME.
You have murdered my self-esteem. You’ve murdered my past chances of getting self-esteem, or making a career and a life for myself.
When someone you admire tells you “You probably can’t do this,” it doesn’t make you more adamant, not always, not often. When you’re seventeen and reclusive and sheltered, discouragement makes you quit.
Forget your feelings. Your feelings don’t matter right now; we are discussing mine. But no. It always has to be about you. What you believe. What happened to you today. How your friends are doing.
Until you run out of topics. And then try to pry into my private affairs. Hell no. Stay out.
There is no ‘lady-like’ so far as I’m concerned. And I don’t want to be your ideal. I never will be that.
Stop telling me I’m skinny. I’m not. And it hurts my feelings when you say it.
I’m filled up with so much anger and stupid because of you. And I can’t wait to get away and start my own life.
You won’t be hearing from me very often. I wish I had the balls to cut you off forever.
Maybe I’m just mad right now. I mean, you always blamed my period for any arguments we had. Because it’s either my fault or yours.
And it’s never your fault, is it.