Other Girls.

No, mum. I will never “be like all those other normal girls”.

Yes, mum. I know I’m not enough and that you stopped loving me a long time ago. I don’t remember exactly when, but I do remember that you told me so yourself.

You see mum, if I were to be like you’ve always wanted me to be, if I were to be like the other girls you see, I would have to be someone your daughter is not; because you raised me to know who I shouldn’t be: something I’d regret.

I’ve always been myself or tried to anyway. I’m sorry if that hasn’t been good enough for you, I’m sorry that you wish you didn’t have me so that all your “problems would disappear”, and that you wish you had a boy because “it just would be easier”. I’m sorry that I made it hard for you, I have to say I know you always tried to make it easier for me, but I’m sorry mum, you failed at it.

If I were to be like all those other girls you point at, I would have had to give myself away at 12 years old, mum, do you know that? And yes, if I was like them then maybe I wouldn’t have gone through all these mistakes, but I wouldn’t stand out around school, I would be a toy to all the boys in there. If I were to be like them I would have lots of friends that don’t even know the real me, I would go to parties every weekend and get drunk and do drugs, and I would have to hide everything from you. I wouldn’t have told you about my first time at 12, but I did tell you when I lost it at 17. You were there when I got drunk the first time, because I wanted you to be there. I never did drugs because I always think of you before doing something wrong. Funny that, perhaps that’s where I go wrong.

And I thought of you that night, too. I did so after. And God, mum, I felt terrible; I cried my eyes out. Not because I was sad, or because I regretted it, but because I knew I would tell you, and I knew just how disappointed you were going to be, because, differently from you, I know you mum. You’ll never know the real me because you’d never love her, but I know you. And I knew how hurt you were going to be. And you were, mum; I could see it: you sat down in shock as your face turned pale without a single trace of emotion or expression on it. Finally, I had disappointed you in every single way a kid could disappoint their parent in. You were ashamed. You’ll always be, you always have. You tell me so yourself as I cry silently in my room, asking myself “why is she doing this to me? Why does the hurt me like that?” Aren’t parents supposed to love their children, no matter who they are? Because I love you for who you are, mum; you never believed it, but I do.

You always wanted me to be like those other girls, you always wanted me to be better, even when I was already the best; I should have been the best for you. You never knew that; you never knew what went on in my life.

If I were to be like those other girls, mum, I would finally be skinny, but that would mean I would make fun of girls that are not, that would mean I would be so confident with my body, I would show it give it away every time. But that’s not who I am. Do you know that, mum?

Do you know all these things, do you know who those “other normal girls” really are?

Do you know how you make me feel when you want me to be anything else, except who I am?

Except the person I was meant to be, the person you raised and thought me to be?

Yes, mum. I wish like I was like them all the time, too.

But you see, mum, their mums don’t pay enough attention, or maybe they just don’t care enough.

And you are the same, really, you are just like those mums, even if you pretend that you’re not.

But I am not the same anymore.

I will never be the same.

For once, I chose to be me. Am I enough?

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