My mother raised me as a “good kid”. She doesn’t remember me as a naughty, trouble-maker. She doesn’t have memories of me hitting my older siblings, running around, or secretly sneaking out of the house. She raised a rather quite girl who grew up wanting to please people, wanting their approval and acceptance. In a way, not breaking rules and needing to be as perfect as the word meant, was a burden.
I’m not a little girl anymore and I’ve made my mistakes along the way. In my own eyes, I have not been a perfectly innocent child. But in the eyes of most who know me, I’m the innocent, nice kid. I’m the kid who turns in homework on time and is never late to class. That’s the label they’ve put on me.
I’m thinking of the boyfriends I never had, the dates I never went on, the secret parties I never attended, the beer I never drank, the…But on a daily basis, I don’t have to think of these little things. I don’t have to think that maybe I missed out on something because I didn’t miss out. I lived life my own way. I decided to write. I decided to take it slow, whatever the “it” is. Society can label you, but you don’t have to keep that label.