Originally Posted by Sandy
(Post 337709)
Ugh... okay, here goes...
My mom. We're locked in a perpetual arguement that's been going on since I was eleven.
Our personalities conflict massively. I am water, she is fire (actually, I'm earth, but this makes a better metaphor), she is the popular girl, I am the quiet kid, I am the one who just wants to mind my own business and she is the one who has to have everything her way. She rages at the stupidest things, she plays stupid mind games, she does stuff JUST because she knows it really bothers me...
She keeps telling me I'm fading away. She told me that I had gaunt, for god's sake. Who tells their kid something like that? Her exaggeration is atrocious! A normal-sized bowl becomes "teeny weeny tiny" if I've eaten out of it. A good portion of food becomes "a crumb" if I've eaten it. Something becomes "tiny and nice" if I'm wearing it. A number is too small if it's my weight. A BMI is too small if it's mine. There's never, ever enough food, as long as that food is for me. A figure becomes "muscular and tiny (if that combo is even possible)," but only if it's mine--if it's anyone else's, it's fat and curveless.
Mom, I don't understand why you have to keep screwing my mind, over and over--there's really no other word for it. You're screwing it, leaving me in insecure shreds. You don't realize that your chronic lying is making me instable, fearful, and panicked--you don't understand how I see you as a parent. I don't act like it, but your word is my Bible. Your actions are my guidelines. Your feelings are my sky. I'm still your little four-year-old because you've managed to keep me pressed beneath your thumb for so long. Every stupid white lie that comes out of your mouth, I see through, and it's worse than if you had told the truth.
No...
I NEED the truth. I need you to tell me that my face is unaesthetic and lumpy, because it is. I need you to tell me that my body is unaesthetic, lacking curves, with shoulders that are too broad for a girl and hips that are too narrow. I need you to tell me the truth, and nothing but the truth--one more lie from you, from anyone, and I feel like I'm going to break from the effort it takes to root through what you say to determine what to believe.
130lbs is big. I don't care how you put it. I look bigger than 130lbs. I don't care if I used to be 150 before all this started.
And I swear to God if someone describes my body as "Nordic," "muscular," or "big boned" I am going to snap. I know perfectly well that those are moronic excuses for you not wanting to say I'm fat, just like you, just like every other woman in this city.
Because of all the stupid threats you've given em about food, I can't... I can't LOOK at food and NOT feel scared and bad and guilty. "You will self-cannibalize if you don't eat this egg." "You will die of osteoporosis if you do not drink this milk." "You will starve if you do not eat this chocolate."
I know what you're doing. You're trying to assimilate me to yourself--you've been doing it since I was born. You never wanted to dye your hair blonde before I was born, and now you've GOT to have it my colour. Your personality has changed since mine has flourished--you're not party girl anymore. You've got to be the subtle, quietly-intelligent, "old soul" that you seem to have alluded yourself to believe that I am. You don't want to have your style anymore--you want MY style.
You want us to match. I find that disgusting and pretty damn scary.
Don't think that it's okay for you to want to make our weights match. I know that's what you want. You're sneaking stuff onto my plate, you're leaving things out that you know I'll eat, leaving triggering books about food in my room, playing games with my head.. but in the end all you ever achieve is this. Me. Blaming you. Again.
I didn't have to be messed up--I believe that it is not the child's fault until they have kids of their own. Because of the way you taught me to think, I don't want kids because I know that, subconsciously, I'm going to play the same guilt games with them and lie to them just like you do to me. You chose to make me like this--I am, after all, nothing more than your little doll, aren't I? I was created for you to dress me up and feed me and love me just so you have something to pour your immature, shallow emotions and instincts onto.
The only thing worse than being told the truth--that no, I'm NOT perfect, I'm a little below average-looking with a body that looks like s**t and a mind that disintegrated long ago, crashing and burning--is being lied to. Especially by the one that I'm supposed to trust.
Every day, I love you and then I hate you, unbelievably, indefinitely, HATE you.
I just wish you would tell the truth to me.
Just once.
Because I'm going to find out eventually.
|
