Misfits (#2)

6.

Violet.

Perfect has always been a word I've loathed. That word might be the very bane of my existence. And it comes down to my mother's definition of it.

If I had to give you that in a few sentences, I wouldn't be able to. All I've come to learn since being a young girl is that I'll never live up to it. Whatever it translates to.

Violet and perfection don't fit. For that reason, I am everything my mother didn't envision in a daughter. I wonder when she came to the conclusion that I wasn't worth her time or love. When she waved me off like a fly and nurtured my brothers instead.

It had to be pretty young because I have no recollection of it being any other way.

When I was four, I used to like sitting on the swing of the patio and watch my mother crochet in the gardens. She'd always sit with such poise so I used to try and copy, straightening my back and crossing my leg over the other whilst I sat. I realise I probably looked like a doofus but at the time, I thought I'd nailed it.

By that age, I'd already learnt not to approach mother unless she approaches me first. Even when I really felt the urge to talk to her or hug her or watch her crochet, I had to fight it back. Because by then, I already knew my mom didn't like my affections.

So I sat and I smiled as I watched her because even if she didn't think the same of me, I still thought the world of her. I took up crocheting.

I spent every second that wasn't invested in ballet working on it. I sat with my little legs laid out in the library with balls of yarn around me and instruction books on how to learn. I was horrible at it but chose not to believe it because this, if I can do this, I'll be more like my mother and less like myself.

And by four, being me was already something I wanted to change. If I changed enough and could master crochet, maybe she would.

After two and a half weeks, I made a light blue scarf. And as nervous as I was, I held it out to mom and smiled my widest smile.

She looked down to it. Looked back up to me. And then she laughed. She took the scarf and tossed it aside and reminded me, "Things like that take talent, dear. Don't ever kid yourself like that again."

I spent every year since then trying to live up to my mother's definition of perfect. Even when it felt like I was chasing a phantom that my brothers found for free, I kept running.

I was eight when she was drunk and had asked me to read a novel to her under the dim lights of the library. When I stammered on the word apothecary, she listed the things she finds rotten about me and didn't speak to me for six days. When I was nine and got a 32/45 on a test set by a private tutor, she put me into counselling for children with severe learning difficulties.

Moral of the story: my mother hates mistakes just as much as she loathes me. When the two are paired up, me making a mistake, it's as if I become the most abominable thing possible.

So I'm assuming you can imagine my fear when I not only made a mistake, but an illegal one. Involving weed. Me.

I've never felt more like a little girl terrified of her wrath than I did when I got home. I almost threw up twice on the drive.

But she justified it all simply. You deserve it, dear. Because you deserve nothing.

I took it and her berating comments and her one persistent warning. Stay away from Everest Jones. She speaks angrily a lot of the time but she said it with so much conviction. Like she'll want to do a lot more than hurt me if I don't listen to her.