♭♪🎵🎵♮🎵♩

Black and white is all she sees. She doesn’t see the blue in me.

Tears run down her cheeks as her fingers hit the keys.

“Wrong note, you dumb child! Do it again, all over again! Again, again, AGAIN!”

Mom leaves her on the piano bench with a throbbing headache and a broken heart.

Later, Mom thinks of apologizing. She comes the next day — all sweet and smiles — taking her daughter’s heart, carelessly placing a Scotch Magic tape on the heart as if she was patching up a broken window, and then dropping it back in her daughter’s hands.

“It’s Mommy’s bad. Will you forgive her? Aww, what a sweet child.”

I hold the roughly patched-up heart in my hands and look up.

No, no I won’t forgive you, the voice whispers in my head, whimpering in the corner, its trembles falling apart under the fragile Scotch Magic bind. Because you never change. I want to say it, but I don’t. I can’t.

Instead, I smile and say it’s okay.

This sickening cycle was put on repeat, happening nearly everyday. She screams, then later asks for forgiveness. I don’t have a choice but to nod, then say “it’s okay.” I’m tired of it.

She may have put all the pieces together, but the cracks will always show. The words behind the throbbing headache will always escape through the seemingly nonexistent fissures.

I love my parents. I appreciate that they feed me, buy things for me, and support what I do as long as it is within the restrictions they set and the beliefs they have. But it’s hard to differentiate what “for me” means. Because sometimes, I think they’re doing all of this for whatever they see me as — whether it be a high-quality product they can show off at the family friend gathering, or a beautiful artifact they are proud of owning. They don’t do it for me.

I feel like I am constantly trying to live up to their expectations and desperately hoping to ease their anxiety. If I don’t meet them, it’s my fault they are stressed. Even if they don’t directly say it, I will feel it — the guilt crushing me. I can’t feel stress — only they can.

Every time I say I receive a score they are unsatisfied with, I want to squeeze my eyes shut and slap my hands over my ears. I do this in hopes of escaping my dad’s heavy sigh laced with disappointment and that hopeless shake of his head, in hopes of escaping my mom’s stressed “Why?!” and a face immediately scrunched up in worry, worry that chases her at night. It makes me want to cry.

I look at you in disbelief when you ask me: “Why are you crying?”

I’m speechless.

Maybe it’s because you told me I wasn’t good enough. Maybe it’s because I’m not your perfect dream child, an ace machine.

At dinner, I am being yelled at. In my room, I can hear her harsh voice scratching through the thin walls. So, I find solace in my headphones. I try to tune it out because I know the next morning, she’d act like nothing was wrong.

And yet, despite my greatest efforts to sit still and dispel the stress, it still sits on top of me, in my gut, buzzing in my brain, and stifling every breath I take. It slips through the surface: headaches, trouble sleeping… enough is enough.

Of course, the apology comes later, in the form of an “I’m sorry” and a fruit platter. I can’t accept it, but I still eat the fruit. I refuse to forgive, but the next day rolls on as if nothing happened.

It rolls on and on, my mind desperately buries the memory, wishing to erase it. And I forget — on the surface.

A wound that never heals.

What is love?

Is the desire to show off and prepare your child for “future success” so strong that she feels like she could shatter at any moment?

Does it make sense to fit her into this mold when she is meant to grow out of it? Why can’t you love her as is? Does it make sense to prepare her for a “happy future” when she hasn’t smiled the past six months? What use is an embellished mirror if the mirror itself is broken?

I know you have her whole future planned out for her, but have you ever considered what she wants? How she feels? I’m sure you’re worried about her, but are you ever worried about her?

Love, to me, is being there for someone at the moment, during their hardest times. Love, to me, is being a shoulder they can lean and cry on — not being the cause of that sadness. Love, to me, is being their comfort in every way you can during their highest moments of stress — not adding onto it.

So, when you aren’t there when that person needs you the most, you lose their trust. It might be love to you, but it’s not love for them. Think about it for just a moment. Does it matter what love is to you when it doesn’t make others feel loved?

Don’t be surprised if it impacts the way this person treats you later on. It takes a lot to be able to care for someone who didn’t care for you the way you wanted.

I know that all you see black and white. Will you try to see color for your only daughter?

Redefine Love for me.

Sincerely,
Faye

Author’s Note: I know many people out there relate to my experiences and feelings. Instead of feeling suffocated, I hope you realize what you were/are going through is abuse. I encourage you to redefine your outlook on love.