I work hard to fit a mold that I resent, but it still takes up most of my time because it is my ultimate obsession. It depresses and drains me. I took out my piercings, and I hide my tattoos because I must be socially acceptable. I must be a lady. I must be quiet. I must nod my head and accept a disrespectful tone used to talk to me. I must fit your mold. Again, I must be quiet and never object to the way someone talks to me. How old am I again. . . who am I?
I see me everywhere.
I see my problems everywhere. I feel them as I look around my clean room. Each bland spot seems to intensify my anxiety. Each thing reminds me this isn't what I truly want and this isn't who I am, and there is a problem in me that is much deeper than what is easily evident. I see my straightened books, my made bed, and my organized desk. I see bland colors and nothingness.
Nothing seems out of place.
...except me.
