Im Not Gonna Fix You

I’m not gonna fix you

I’m not gonna fix you

I’m not gonna fix you

I’m not gonna fix you

I’m not gonna fix you

I forgive myself for all the things I didn’t get to do today or lazily delayed to the point of neglect. I forgive myself for the thoughts and ideas that helplessly slipped through the gaps of oblivion.

I forgive myself for not doing more, for not remembering more despite my lists and itineraries.

I am grateful for all that I did get to do and learn. It was a productive day in its own right m, which far exceeded any of my expectations.

bed hair jiminie

August 16, 2024

Waxing Moon

I’m tired of being a 20-something year-old only-daughter living in their very Hispanic parents’ house

Of being instructed on how I should feel, exactly how much sad I should allow myself to wallow in based on my circumstances (of having them decide for me that my circumstances are favorable relative to their fucked up traumatic childhood experiences which they still haven’t gone to therapy for)

Of being told how I should act in a certain setting or being belittled for an emotional reaction that was raw against a trigger

Of being warned what I am incapable of doing something like moving across states or studying abroad based on their idea of me

Of still being spoken of as if I’m eight years old in the room with them

Of feeling guilty and incapable of going out to places of my interest on my own, feeling like I constantly have to ask for permission or bring them alone so they see I’m not doing anything “wrong.”

Of being baited and guilt-tripped into requesting weeks off from my work just to travel with my parents when I suspect that mother doesn’t really like to spend time with my stepfather out of boredom and uses me as a form of scapegoat/accompanying doll

I hate being the one who orders things in public. I hate being the one used to break an indecision or tie. I hate being asked what I want or think about choices when they are just going to invalidate or coerce me.

I hate that I long for a boyfriend mostly so that I have a place to go other than my own home, an excuse to be away and to possibly move without my mother acting betrayed.

I hate feeling guilty for wanting to be more independent, for wanting to live alone, far away from them, far enough that our time zones clash and we use that as excuses for going days without talking

I hate feeling like I can never fully be my self, or never be able to thoroughly explore my identity because I am limited to their perception of me.

I still feel like a child. I am a child in an adult’s body.

I want to be validated.

I want to not have to justify my choices a million times over.

I want to be free.

I want to be independent.

I want to be able to choose when I see them instead of being obligated to bond over boring dinner talk. I hate envying American families for the way their children leave the nest at 18 and only ever return for major holidays, if even that.

I hate being involved in family drama and robbed of my peace. Blood is not everything. Just because they have title of cousin or aunt doesn’t mean I owe them my peace.

I hate being ridiculed for my lonesome introspective habits. I hate that they think they know me better than I know myself.

I hate feeling like they are holding me back and I especially hate being told that I should appreciate them while I have them as if I don’t already. Just because I am taking a moment to reflect privately on my frustrations does not mean I don’t do well by my parents. Which leads me to the complaint that I hate being the reliable, well-behaved poster child. I wish I’d been more rebellious growing up because then they’d expect less of me.

I HATE being constantly asked whether I’m ok or what’s wrong with me. I’m mostly not but I have to constantly lie about it, force a smile. This mask is drawing a crater between us.

And I COULD find a way to share most of these frustrations with them but it would likely end with cloying phrases of reassurance and the sly comment that I’m just too young to know that I’m wrong. Like cotton candy, I end up feeling coaxed in sweet comfort but with the knowledge that it’s hollow and fading.

I am aware I was born from and of my parents but I don’t want to live FOR my parents. My life is my own. I can’t fathom or make peace with the fact some people my age and younger get handed more freedom and autonomy than I have. It frustrates me beyond belief.

I feel like I’m my mother’s sown shadow. I can never venture too far without having to explain myself. I’m her puppet on strings.

I didn’t have a choice on whether I should have been born so I think I should have a choice on how I live my life from here on out.

Fucking hate my writing lately and the words are scarce and clumsy. There’s no fucking point to it or to anything.

every time I get rejected by a man I was delusional about, I choose to become x10 hotter.

Keep rejecting me. I’ll be unstoppable

Muahhahahahaha (choking)