dear

to my perfect mother. (i don't say that sarcastically.)

you've done basically nothing wrong. you are always trying to be a better person, make our home a better home, and make our family a better family. you're voice never raises and you've never spanked any of us. you make us do chores, you let me extend my curfew every once in a while, but you always make sure i'm on time. you've never fallen asleep if i'm out, even for a midnight movie. and i tell you "just go to bed" but really i think it's adorable how you wait up. never in my whole entire life have i doubted your love for me.

it's your perfection that alienates. you're that one friend who i can't let see me fail. i understand you'll always love me. you never actually told me i need straight a's. or flawless technique. or long curled hair. or top-notch friends. (well maybe you did say that one.) or strong lungs and a lean body. or untouched faith. but you exude those things, and your mere presence makes me hide the parts of me that are tarnished. i read other blogs, hear other stories about how other people scream they "don't want to end up like you" to their mothers, and i'm here praying you never find out how much better you are than i ever will be.

to you, i'm
a hard worker
faithful
"at grandmas house"
truthful
BYU-bound
pure
well on my way to motherhood.

mom, sometimes i'm some of those things. (never the latter.) overall, i'm not a bad person. but i can count on my toes the times i've seen you cry, and three were my fault. the bishop promised you'd be a source of comfort to me during that time, but the mascara on my cheek right now says that wasn't the case. because how could something you produced be so broken? you never said that, though.

i feel renewed shame and sadness at myself whenever i remember how i made you feel. how i can't let you feel again.

i wish that was enough motivation for me to change my actions, but i've lost that capacity; and i'm good enough at lying to let you think i'm as wonderful as you don't know you are.

i don't actually write

the Hardening. (define: a time when suddenly everything hurts and unshakable general life philosophies shake, resulting in a cynical heart and a pessimistic mind.) it's sad, because that should be an unusual thing, but it's not, and i feel minimal amounts of heartbreak for them, probably because there isn't much room for my heart to break after my own Hardening, but i'm buoyed when i see people who haven't succumbed. people who've somehow retained that incandescence. (qtd.) and i'm glad for them, but not quite jealous.

because, truth be told, i like being in control. (especially of my emotions.) i hate myself when i lose that control. weak and malleable, why would i want to be that?
good question, because ever since i started writing, i feel a little more. i look to tap into something inside that produces a clean fresh spring, and i think i have on this blog, but it's overflowing into the rest of my life, and i'm trying so hard to stop it because it feels a lot more like drowning than taking a swim.
but i've really never been good at compartmentalizing.

so i have to choose: drink that water, or thirst? (thirst has worked out pretty well for 547 days)

i don't write, i just feel.


but at least i'm learning to feel again


 "i don't want to repeat my innocence. i want the pleasure of losing it again." f. scott fitzgerald.