Mother Dearest

I appreciate your attempts to comfort me or protect me, but you forget we do not have the same problems. I did not care about my weight, my acne, my hair until you told me there was something wrong. I did not care to watch not what I ate but how much I ate until you started commenting. I do not need to hear "don't you think you've had enough?" or "is that skin?" or "I've found...for you to use." I did not ask you to become my largest critic because of your own insecurities. I loved myself, my body, my hair until you began to "help."

I did not need to hear your constant comments on your weight and your body. They've begun to squirm their way into my mind, and now they wait until I have let down my guard.

I did not need to feel your fingers subduing my locks, teaching me that I had to hide a part of myself to look presentable. It's taken me years to accept my mane.

I do not need to hear your constant whisperings of what I should and shouldn't eat, and lately, how much. I wonder if your problems stem not from eating too much but not enough.

I do not need to hear your constant critiques of everyone around you. You're only teaching me how to be impatient and angry.

I love you, mother. I really do, but sometimes I wonder if it's me you see or only a younger you.