She claims to hate her. Forever criticising and disapproving of everything she does. She vows to be proud if she turns out nothing at all like her. She doesn’t understand her she says, she never has, she never will and she doesn’t want to.
But she doesn’t hate her. Far from it in all honesty, she desperately yearns for her approval. She always has. She wants to do her proud, to play by her rules and emerge victorious in her eyes. So much so that she’s always prioritised her happiness over her own, often without even realising it.
And so, over the years she’s slowly but surely laid the foundation for a vicious cycle of resentment that she’s now stifled by, she can’t break free. Does she even want to break free from it though? I honestly have no clue; it’s all she knows at this point.
She tries so hard to be noticed by her, to feel like she’s a priority. All the while convincing herself that she couldn’t possibly care about her, not in a genuine sense any way. She only tends to take an interest when there’s a crowd around, it’s always for show.
She often cries herself to sleep at night with these poisonous thoughts festering in her mind. As she catches her blurred reflection in the mirror she reverts back to being that little curly-haired girl again. The one who would stand on her tiptoes and adopt a high-pitched voice all in a bid to regain a sliver of the attention that was forever hoarded by her siblings.
She wants somebody to refute her irrational mindset now. To grab her by the shoulders and say, “No, of course your mother loves you, don’t be so silly.” But no assurance is enough when it’s not from the horse’s mouth.
And so it continues, the strained bond.