My hands are sore from grasping my sanity so tightly. My mind is bruised from the force of her words. My eyes are unfocused, unable to see beyond the truth revealed to me. I'm twenty-nine years old, and my mother doesn't like me. She uses a creator's love to mask the hurt and to explain away her obvious preference for my brother. She is a flawed, maybe even damaged woman, yet I yearn for her respect. It's never given. I am never enough.
It's time. I need to stop judging myself through her distorted lens. She made me, but she's not me. I need to quit fighting for her approval and earn my own.