Talking things out is always successful

        April 27, 2011
        If I thought attempting to communicate with my parents was a good idea, the past thirty minutes have convinced me otherwise. I guess after months of tense silences and level conversations that meant nothing, I thought reaching out and sharing a little might help.

I wrong. Telling my parents about you and me and us was possibly the stupidest move I've made.

Why am I still sitting here?? I rise from my chair, taking quick steps towards the door.

“Wait, Jessica!” My dad puts an arm out to block my way.

I try as hard as I can to empty my eyes of any emotion, any pain or hurt. And slowly, turn to face him.

“Let’s talk this out.”

Yeah. Sure. Translation: stay here and let us talk at you until we feel better.

“I thought you liked that nice boy, Jacob. He's so kind.” My mom puts a hand on my arm, turning me to face them both. They're always pushing and tugging in some way.

I shrug. Study the tile. Push back my cuticles.

“I feel like you don’t tell my anything anymore. I feel like you can’t talk to me. We’re like strangers! I don’t even know you anymore! Talk to me, honey!!”

I raise my eyes to hers, some of my composure slipping as my mind registers her shock and hurt expression.

“How am I supposed to tell you stuff when this is your kind of reaction?” This, at least, is a fair point. Mom over-reacts while Dad under-reacts. Sometimes I wish I could mush them together to create a steady kind of parent. 

“What, I’m not allowed to have feelings too?? Do you know how hard this is for me?”

It's this comment that makes me snap. I’ve been so carefully composed, taken so many lectures and emotional beatings from them in complete silence.

How hard it is for them?? Do they know how hard it is for me?? I can't talk to my parents for fear of their reaction. I can't even be myself around them because they don't accept me! They force me to fit some stupid Mormon mold that I can't fit. But if I pretend to fit, pretend to be something I'm not, then they get off my back. Do they know how much that hurt?? My parents don't love me, they love what I pretend to be. And when I try talking to them to tell them exciting news that was really important to me, the real me, they freak out, they're disappointed and concerned. So can they blame me?

My face twists up with rage, fury, as these harsh thoughts run through my mind, flashing across my face, displayed for all to see. But my parents have never really wanted to see.

I try to control myself, but the words escape—“This is so hard for me too!! I want so badly to tell you everything, but you never listen!”

“Don’t you dare talk to us like that, we give you everything! All we ask in return is that you talk to us!!”

I blink back tears. And Mom barrels on. "We used to be so close, honey. What happened?"

"We were never close, Mom. I tell you the same amount and same types of things I used to tell you. You just never knew there was more to tell."

I push past her hurt expression and leave the room.