She lives in fear of her mother's x-ray visions of her being. It is uncanny how often her mother comes into her room when she is, at that very moment, contemplating sneaking out to visit her friends. She so wants to go out with them and hang around the shopping mall, flirting with the boys. Or when she reads a "silly romance" (her mother's words) instead of doing her homework.
When she is with her mom in a room, her mom always gives her accusatory looks as if she knows what she is thinking. Not only knows them, but it is as if they are being televised directly, loudly into her mother's brain.
Her mom's "stop lazing around" reprimands sting. Those words can incinerate any rebellious, free-loving, adventurous thoughts like a lit match to a dry Christmas tree. She craves the power to shield her being with an impenetrable barrier to all her mom's criticisms and maligning commentary. She wants to unleash the jungle of yearnings and musing growing wild in her heart.
From outside her door, her mom yells for her to come and empty the dishwasher. Sighing slumped-shouldered, she leaves her gets off her bed.
(part 2)
(This post is part of my "Growing Up & Growing Old" project.)
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