biancagoulart

I spent eighteen years fighting to be good enough fighting to be the best at whatever I was going to do fighting to make her happy. She said she just wanted me to be happy but when I was happiest she was dissatisfied. And when I finally could tell her that for eighteen years every hour every minute I’d been fighting for her, she wouldn’t hear it, because it’s not enough for her and sometimes she can be wrong but no one else is allowed to be right. And when I told her - let it all spill out in messy chunks, my fear and anxiety, the constant pressure of her words and disapproving eyes glassy and green, something I once wished