::Fly Away, Honey.::

"I just felt like a shitty daughter, not even being able to be there for my mom when she needs me, when she needs me to be on her side. But I can't do it, I love them both equally, and I just can't take sides"

"I feel like a shitty daughter cause I'm not that pretty, straight, smart, good daughter that'll listen to her and be on her side. I'm probably everything she didn't want me to be."

"That's fine, you're doing the right thing."

"Sometimes the best way to show them you love them is moving away from them."

"...Then, she might finally notice something."

I have a tattoo on my left wrist. It's only 2 inches big or so, and is a stylized letter "G" I sketched one night when I was alone on my bed. It stands for many things, one being the first letter to the name of a musician I highly adore and respect, one being the first letter of the word one of my closest friend's described me as, a word I keep close to my heart.

But most importantly, it was my sign of rebelling against my parents, my mother is particular. In the past years, slowly but surely, I was starting to stand against my parents. Actually, it was more like my mother. In a sense, it almost felt like my father had become apathetic about us at this point, and couldn't care any more. He stopped commenting on my hair color, my dress, and what on Earth I was doing. My mother was always the more nagging one, sighing in disbelief as she saw the piercings on my ears increasing, and became enraged at the fact that I "didn't inform" her that I was getting them done. I could not have argued if I was at an age where I couldn't be responsible with my own body. I am glad I didn't sneak into a studio at age, say, 13 or so, and getting something done I would regret in the near future. But I was at an age where I knew what the fuck I was doing, and what the fuck I would have to do if things went wrong. Little did she know that I used to have my lip pierced, and currently have 3 more "private" work that I wouldn't bother showing her in the first place. The septum became obvious and apparent, and she began her "I am in so much shock" reaction again. By this point, I had started numbing myself out of the whole situation. Here we go again. So? Yes? Oh really. Wow, I never knew I had to inform you about everything I do with myself. Oh, I'm such a horrific child I know, I should repent for my sins oh dear yes I should!
And under the needle I went.
As each time the needle entered my skin, and as the curves gracefully formed themselves upon my veins, I felt more and more liberated. The pain lulled me, the pain wasn't "pain" anymore. In a sense, this was my clumsy, awkward way of claiming my liberty. Effective or not, I do not know. But I can honestly say that I am proud that I took this move, for it has become one of the landmarks of my life.

And then, I felt more and more freed from the fears I was dragging from an early age.
All this time, I was keeping myself away from the breathing space I needed. All this time, I was concealing myself and dreaded the fact that I couldn't be someone I didn't want to be, but what she wanted me to be. As supporting as she was, she never truly accepted me for who I was, nor did she appreciate what I had been doing, not until there was a physical form of proof or verification. All those years she shunned me for "doodling around" magically disappeared as I brought home a certificate and small medal from my high school. All those years of her seeing me as "possibly a disgusting lesbian" dissolved as I brought home an attractive boyfriend. Little did she know that I still could love girls equally as I could love boys, and that I had no way of denying the fact that I was sexually attracted to women. I wasn't what she wanted me to be. Nor could I force myself to be some effigy she had created for me to emulate.
And all these years passed by, and I felt nothing change.
I still wasn't "perfect".

So here I am, after all these years, drawing a line between you and me.

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