Dear caretakers.

You know, I really wish I could be an actual person. Instead, I'm forced to fit into this perfect space in their giant jigsaw puzzle of freaking life. But they don't get that they trying to squeeze me into this itty bitty space and I just don't fit. Or rather, they get it; they just refuse to accept it. So they keep ripping off pieces of who I am. But they'll just keep ripping me until there's nothing left.
I'm sorry I'm not little enough.
I'm sorry I don't have any given talent for you to show off.
I'm sorry I don't make straight A's.
I'm sorry I have opinions that differ from yours.
I'm sorry I can't be 100% happy 24/7.
I'm sorry I can't be perfect for you.

But most of all, I'm sorry you can't see.



See, I painted this. When I showed it to you, you said it was "nice". But you didn't get it. You didn't get what I was trying to tell you. She has flawless skin because you won't accept anything but perfection. She has no mouth because you took away her voice. She has no body because no matter what she does, it will never be skinny enough for you. And yet, she cries. Because she's still not good enough. I'll never be good enough, will I?

You know, (well, actually, you don't) all I've had today are two doughnuts. And I have to figure out how to work those off here in a bit. That's pretty messed up. But you'll never know how hard I work at this, because you'll accuse me of being sick. Ha. Maybe I am sick. But I can't tell you that. You'll send me to another therapist. But it won't work. You know why? Two reasons.

One. Therapists can't be trusted. They'll tell you all my secrets. Everything. And then you'll know more about me than I care for you know. I've taken care of myself for the past seventeen years. I don't need you jumping in now just because you feel guilty. Spare me.

Two. I'll go twice before you start telling me I'm not REALLY screwed up. That it's all an act. That I'm wasting your precious money. Just like you did before.

So I think I'll stick to blogging. And in a year, I'll go off to college. And I hope you have fun when I come home, stay at a friend's house, and not even tell you I'm back. You'll see me in Brookshire's maybe. And I might smile and wave. And I hope you realize how lucky you are that I'm not the one who decides where you'll live when you're too old to take care of yourself.

P.S. Have you ever wondered why one of your kids lives ten hours away and the other one doesn't like to call or come over? Have you ever wondered why I keep talking about going to college as far away as possible? Did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, it's because you're doing something wrong???