September 3 - Belief

“This is an inopportune time for you to give in to a fit of hysterics, my dear.” Her matronly voice, enough in itself to quell the other children, was not going to cut it this time. Especially not with that tone of voice. Fit of hysterics indeed. Any time I want to do anything contrary to her wishes I am being headstrong, throwing a tantrum, or devolving into hysterics. The problem is, even though I start out with clear and reasonable goals, by the time our ‘discussions’ come to a close I find myself red-faced and shouting, with strands of hair stuck to my face and tangling in my mouth. Her face slips into the age-old mask of put-upon patience, and suddenly it all seems so ridiculous and why am I being so unreasonable when she’s only trying to help me? So despite my best efforts, she always knows how to push my buttons. I haven’t won a single argument with her. Yet.

That’s not happening today. I am going to ask Toby to go to the deb ball with me. I will tell her that he is a respectable young man, from a good family, and that everything shall go smoothly and safely. I’ve come prepared, too. I put on a nice dress and solid shoes, washed my face and brushed out my hair. I will wear a small, self-assured smile and I will speak in measured tones to her. No matter what she says to me, I will not let her goad me into losing control.

I sit down across from her, and immediately butterflies sprout wings in my stomach. Her piercing blue eyes stare into me, looking me over from top to tip and cataloguing every single fault. Skin too pale, or not pale enough. A stray freckle, a wayward strand of hair. Anything that does not conform to her perfect image of me is meticulously stored and used as ammunition to undermine my confidence. A slight smirk quirks her lips.
“So here we are again. What makes you think that you will fare any better this time? You never win, because you know I’m always right. You know you can’t escape me, so why even try?”
The worst part of her arguments is that they’re all true. Everything she picks on, no matter how little, is nevertheless accurate. But I must stand my ground. I tell her about Toby, and all my arguments. My voice is steady, only wavering once, but I know she noticed. She notices everything.
“I’m sure Toby is a very nice boy. He does come from a good family, you are completely correct.”
Could it be? Will she let me go this time?
“As it is, what makes you think a nice respectable boy like Toby would want to go anywhere with you? Such a handsome boy would have his pick of the girls, and you think he would accept mousy little you? With your too-high forehead and your weird little smile. He will turn you down, you can be sure of it. Dearest, you know he will. Why go through that pain? You obviously have feelings for him. Better that you don’t ask, that way you won’t be hurt.”
Her words wash over me. I don’t want to hear this, I don’t want this to be true. I want to feel like I’m worth something, I want to be confident. But I believe every single word she says, with all my heart.

Because she’s me.