My mother. To the world she was a dream and to me, a nightmare. In me she saw only herself, my body mirroring back her own reflection, her will moving my limbs, her mind infiltrating my own until I did not know my own desires, only measuring whether or not I was fulfilling hers. She was the perfect woman, educated, successful, beautiful, blonde and pale with long, thin limbs attached to a perfect center. When I was perfect, she loved me. But, unlike her own, my perfection was always short-lived. There was always something new at which I could fail. Her disappointment in me reached right through my soft stomach and took up permanent residence in the hidden corners of my heart. It got worse as I grew older; my teenage body and flush of youth seemed to exist only to highlight her own surprising inability to elude the effects of time and gravity. When boys started coming around she told me to cover up while she dressed to the nines, making them blush and me fade into the background, knowing better than to draw attention to myself in her presence. And still, even as she ignored me, raged against my flaws (and there were so many), and told me stop thinking only about myself and show her a little support at my father’s funeral, I was so hungry for her approval, lapping up the smallest scraps of affection.



