I am finished.
This has gone on for far too long.
Trying to fit into your box of expectations had been my only goal since childhood.
I see now that your expectations are not me.
I won't let you define my life.
This is my insurrection against you and your suppression.
You dressed me up.
You pulled my hair straight back into the tightest ponytail that a five year old could withstand. Smoothing out each of the bumps until it was flawless. Pretty. Perfect.
Well, perfect at least by your standards...
Perfect for me was wild, messy hair with knots so big it took hours to brush them out. Mud caked at the ends from playing with friends and fly aways that screamed freedom.
But you didn't like that. That wasn't proper...
Proper. That's how you taught me to act. Like a little lady.
And I did.
I never threw a tantrum.
Never talked back to you.
Never told you what I really thought.
How I really felt.
You always told me to watch my mouth.
You said ladies shouldn't swear. "Darling, only men and whores swear."
Hearing this, I shyed away and ran upstairs to put on a nice dress for dinner. It was beautiful and pink with spring flowers and it bounced when I walked. I hated it. I wanted the black one with skulls and purple roses that brushed the ground around my feet like a flowing black river.
But you didn't like that. That wasn't how a young woman should dress.
Young woman. That's how you wanted me to act.
And I did.
I never was rude.
Never was I disrespectful.
Never did I tell you what I really thought.
How I heard you swear when you and daddy fought.
But now I'm exhausted.
Tired of trying
And having to be someone I am not for you.
I tamed my hair.
I held my tongue.
For you I was obedient
For I was raised by hand and knew what punishment would come had I acted otherwise.
But I'm finished now.
Finished letting you yank my hair.
Finsihed standing up straight.
Finished being someone I am not.
I am different, wild, unruly.
I mismatch my clothing creating an entirely new style
Which you tell me to take off...
My hair is unrestrained. Wild curls cascading down my shoulders.
Which you tell me to tie up...
From here on out, I speak my mind. I tell my opinion.
I refuse to let others walk on me like you did for so long.
I am not your rug.
Mommy, what's wrong..?
Are you angry that the little girl you raised has finally broken her shell and seen your lies?
I am not what you want me to be.
I can see that.
You want elegant and proper and restrained.
I am different and wild and unruly.
But you do not like this.
This is not in your box of expectations.
So, now what? Our realities meet.
Of course not...
Mine is over-ruled simply because you are the matriarch.
I am forced to retreat to my sleeping refuge.
My dreamland is my only safehaven where I can be myself.
Without being squeezed
Trapped inside your
Box of expectations.