I always thought of you as my sort of homeostasis. And maybe you didn’t always keep me upright, but when I was going down you were the one that pushed your hands upon my breastbone and forced me to go up, because sinking is not the way to get things done.
My equilibrium has never been the greatest, and neither has yours, but you taught me that things will only balance out if you make them.
Sitting in your room, crying in the middle of your floor is not the right way to make things happen. Never have weak moments. Never feel pity for yourself, because you don’t deserve to feel sorry for yourself. Don’t you ever think that you have it bad because being a teenager is nothing to being an adult.
It was tough. I understand that. It’s tough for people like you to be around me. I’m a half-baked genius who can’t tie her own shoes and gets sick three out of three times that a virus goes around and even when it doesn’t.
I’m a bumbling idiot who trips over her own feet, breaks her own toes, and bruises places that probably should never have been bruised in the first place.
But you cannot help but love me, because you have to. I don’t care if you don’t like me. There are many times when I do not like you at all. But the thing about family is that they are all you have, so like them or not, you have to love them because ultimately, I’m going to be the one deciding if I should pull the plug or not and you are the one who will be lying in the hospital bed.
And I guess I was your placebo, because you asked for a normal daughter that could get good grades all the time and make you money when she was older, and instead you got a malfunctioning piece of shit that cares more about dancing than she does doing business.
And I’m even sorrier that you gave birth to a girl that is ten sizes too big and who thinks that dying is easier than breathing (because it is.)
But I’m not sorry because sometimes I feel unwanted.
In fact, there is not a time I do not feel unwanted or useless or not ever enough because I never seem to be. No one wants me, and that’s not a hard thing to accept in my opinion. My voice is never loud enough, pace never fast enough, hand never quick enough. Heart never big enough.
And god damn it all, I cry a little too much. I’m so damn sad on the inside and my heart breaks like it’s a half-life (which is probably a symbol) and I never sleep enough.
I don’t think anyone knows how cold my fingertips ever are.