Are You Proud of Me?

“Are you proud of me?”

I turned to my parents, expecting a vibrant smile and an enthusiastic “of course, sweetheart.” But no. I received a shrug of indifference. I was nine.

“How did I do?”

I turned to my parents, expecting looks beaming with pride and my father saying “That girl right there, that’s my daughter.” But no. I was given a list of mistakes. I was eleven.

“Do you think I can do this?”

I turned to my parents, expecting encouraging nods and my mother saying, “I know you can do this.” But no. I was given a hasty shove and expectant expressions.  I was thirteen.

I am now sixteen, sitting on the bathroom floor tearing at my skin with a placid expression, my ears ringing from the screams of wonderment as to why I can never do anything right.

“Are you proud of me?”

Please say yes, I need to hear that I am worthy like I need to breathe air.

I need to feel accepted by you, my dear parents, because you are why I am on the earth.

If not, what’s the point?

 

 

 

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