Ever since I first started to comprehend speech, my mother has burned it in me that she is far from perfect. And that has been her argument for all of my 16 years of life. Every mistake she has ever made has been swept under a rug. She isn’t perfect and therefore her mistakes are just a way of life that I have to make my peace with.
But the minute I so as much as step over a line ( one of many lines) I have broken the balance in the household and everything just cracks. I am faulty, I am weak, I am a mess. All of the many things my mom has told me. She says she isn’t perfect but I must be as perfect as the heavens. I am to be as proper and as beautiful and as kind as one can be.
But she reminds me every day that I am far from perfect.
She wants me to be perfect but I can’t expect perfection from her. She wants me to be what she wishes she could’ve been. I am her sculpture.
She carves me as she sees fit, she takes pieces away and she adds more, she paints me one color and then another, she is never satisfied.
Family isn’t chosen, I didn’t choose my mom and she didn’t choose me. I am grateful for what I have and I know it could be much worse.
Therefore I never confront her when her words run a little too deep into my soul, or when my tears leave a stinging trail down my cheeks whenever I mess up her image of me. Because I know that at the end of the day I am lucky to have my mom.
I know I will never satisfy her expectations of me, I know I will never be the perfect daughter, or the perfect sister, or the perfect human being. I am flawed and I am weak. But if sculpting me is what makes my mother finally be able to look at me instead of shunning me away, then her sculpture I will be.
Word Count: 355
No comments:
Post a Comment