You know what will be the first sign that your Thursday is probably going to be a bad one? When your parents start to point out all those flaws you have for the first time in your twenty years of life. It feels awkward at first when the two people you truly believe will accept you for who you are will never complain about these flaws that you practically try to hide from everyone else. But later, it starts to hurt—pretty badly.
My mother scolds me about the way I speak. She says that I am too rough for a girl. She says that I need to low down my tone and speaks gently. It feels as if someone just shoots me through the head with a rifle. At first I try as hard as I could to accept the complaint—because obviously she is my mother—but later when she continuously talks about it, I start to feel the pain. I mean, for twenty years she never once say anything about the way I speak. If she knows that this is how I speak since the day I manage to actually speak properly, why does she say nothing and waits for twenty years to finally say it out loud?
I love my mother, yes. But I hate it when her words start to literally hurt me. I appreciate that she wants me to change for the better, but the way she says it hurt the most. I do not mind anyone else to scold me for the way I speak, but when it is my mother who scolds me in a way that she never does before, I practically wish I am the one who holds the rifle in my head, ready to burst my brain with its bullets.
I am twenty years too late to change the way I speak. I guess the best solution to this problem is to just stop talking for a while. No one will have to listen to the roughness of my way of talking. No one will have to listen to the high tone I use while I speak. I will not offend anyone. I am safe in my own ugly little world.
As if the world is off to rub more salt on my bleeding wound, my father finally complains on how I dress to attend college daily. While I am putting on my seedy sneakers, he tells me to put on something nicer. I say that wearing my nicer shoes mean that I have to walk for a kilometer in pain because my other shoes are practically not for walking. He says that I need to look pretty for college—much like how flashy my younger sister looks when she goes to her college.
Sigh, I am a journalism student. I am going to be a writer. I could not run or walk around in some uncomfortable flat shoes that will give me blisters or some nice high-heels that will practically kill my feet. I could not put on my sandals because my dad already asks me not to wear sandals to college because I will look as if I am going to the market instead. And now when I put on the most comfortable sneakers I own, my father complains that I look shabby.
I wear t-shirts and sweaters and dark colors clothing to college. I do not have a wide range of clothes because I am not a small size girl—I am the one who buys the size L or XL while shopping for clothes. I wear whatever makes me comfortable. I spend one day in college. Why would I want to look as if I am off to a club to flirt with boys? I take the public transportations to return home. I walk for a freaking one kilometer from the bus stop to my house. Why in the world would I ever want to wear something that will make me look like a whore and makes me want to undress my self as soon as I leave the bus?
It seems like it is wrong to be my self lately. I am sorry for not able to be that perfect girl everyone expect. I am sorry that I offend many people because I am trying to be my self. I am sorry that my imperfect existence practically annoys anyone in this space I occupy. I am sorry.
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