I’m having a day, you guys. All seventeen-year-old girls want approval, right? Do most of them need it the way that I do? I mean, are there other girls who would react the way I did to my mother’s comments about my hair? I feel a little ridiculous being this upset. The conversation went like this:
Mom: [looking through my senior pictures] I mean, these are nice. [pause] I think you need to do something with your hair. It’s not very feminine.
Me: Mom, I’m not straightening it or cutting it short. I like it the way it is, and you know that.
Mom: [sigh] Katy… You know Ms. Dineyli from church? You’ve seen her and her sister side by side. Now, her sister’s obviously the prettier of the two by far. The thing is, Dineyli actually isn’t unattractive. It’s just that she has that frizzy hair that makes her look tacky, not very well put together. I look at her, then I look you and your hair. [grimace]
Me: MOM. My hair is absolutely fine. It doesn’t even look like hers.
Mom: Katy, it’s not that much better.
Yes, I’m sorry, I get really sensitive about things like this. She always, always, ALWAYS has something to say about me, the way I look, my personality, my friends… Literally, I get daily compliments on my hair. “Your curls are GORGEOUS!” “People pay serious money for hair like that. Don’t ever cut or straighten it.” But then there’s my mom! Other people can say the nicest things about me, that I’m smart, pretty, interesting, funny…she’ll say I’m lazy, stubborn, insensitive, antisocial, and that I need to take my antidepressants/ADD meds before she’ll be willing to talk to me. She constantly talks about how I’ll never make it in the “real world.”
So, yeah… 😦 I’m crying right now, and I really can’t help it. I don’t mean to be dramatic, I really don’t! I’m just not happy with myself, and nobody else sees it. Here I am, struggling with bulimia and anxiety disorder and depression, and I have to keep quiet about it. Nobody thinks I’m trying my hardest. When I have my “days,” everyone in my family thinks I’m fishing for attention. Just now, my younger sister Lauren said, “Katy, you know you’re fine. You’re being rude and dramatic, and you’re making a big deal out of nothing, like you always do.” Lauren’s so no-nonsense. She doesn’t cry or have panic attacks the way that I do. I can’t tell her that I’ve been making myself throw up. I’m afraid she won’t believe me. Nobody in my house will, and they won’t take me to a therapist. I don’t know what to do.