I hope the start of your week has been kind to you – no one likes a Monday. I am currently being grinned at by a 5 month old Edie Mai who is very intrigued as the what I am doing and why she is not involved.
I am hoping to do a 7in7 day post challenge this week and post one blog post every day until Sunday. Knowing me, I shall not manage it but all you can do in life is try.
Todays post is about being Perfect. Being perfect like me. (I strongly suggest you read to the end to avoid insult!)
What’s the matter with you? What is wrong with you? Is there a screw loose in there that prevents you from functioning?
Why are you always so tired?
Your life is meaningless and small. All you do is lie around, laze around, hang around on the couch – in your bed – in your boyfriends bed. Where is your determination to succeed, huh? Did it float out the window with the smoke from your cigarette? Did it collapse with your lungs as you poison them?
Do you need force feeding discipline? Do you need handcuffing to obedience? Why can’t you be more like me? I’m fine. I’m perfect. Be perfect, be perfect like me.
Stop wearing those stupid ripped jeans.
Your jeans have holes in, did you know?
Stop wearing that lipstick.
You look like a whore, did you know?
You only get one chance, stop acting like a cat with nine lives let, stop committing to songs and stories and spoken poetry rather than studies and life and family.
Stop biting your nails. No wonder you’re alone. Why do you do that? Are they sweet?
You can’t eat sweets. You’ll ruin your teeth like you’ve ruined your life.
My teeth are perfect. Clean. Pristine like the halo above my clean pristine head. I don’t need sweets. I am above sweets.
Why are you down here? Why are you down here when you need to be up? Up here with the people that are going to have a good career. Up here with the ones who listen. Up here with the ones who pay attention.
You will never be up here.
You act as though listening is illegal, paying attention is frowned upon and obeying instructions is downright rude.
Stop biting your nails. Stop biting your nails like trash.
You can’t be trash.
You have to be perfect. Be perfect, like me.
Why is your room a mess? The clothes live in the wardrobe not displayed over your floor and bed with your lack of morals and human decency.
You only disobey the rules in a stubborn attempt at hollywood glamourised teenage rebellion but you can’t be a rebel, you’re too boring. You’re too quiet. You’re too plain.
You need to obey.
You need to nod, say yes and okay.
You need to do so with a smile on your less than average face.
You need to try harder.
Why don’t you know how to smile?
You disappoint me.
You don’t appreciate me.
You don’t try to be a winner.
And you never eat. You never eat the food that is prepared for you. That food doesn’t pay for itself, you know? I don’t care if it’s what you like or not, stop telling me how you feel and eat it. Eat it all. Eat it in a reasonable time with a glass of water.
You need milk.
You need calcium. You need calcium to grow. You need to grow to be tall like me. I drink milk. Drink your milk. Drink your milk and be tall. Be perfect. You need to be perfect, like me.
You need to pay more attention.
Stop staring at the ceiling. Nothing up there will make you better at being human.
You need to organise yourself. You need to organise your life. Your life is a mess. Your life is a disaster.
Just like your room.
Just like your teeth.
Just like your future. Which will soon be erased if you don’t stop writing. Your life is not a book or a poem.
Don’t look at me like that I am trying to help you.
I am trying to make you perfect.
You have to be perfect. Be perfect, like me.
Anxiety and depression can change a simple question of “why is your room a mess” into the above spiel in your head. It is so hard to step aside from your depression, to move away from your anxiety and say, no – that is not what they meant, stop twisting their words so I hate them.
Anxiety is a demon, that mean girl that liked to stir things. That one person that would say anything to be the centre of attention. That supply teacher that changed everything and only wanted you to learn it his way.
Depression is a silence. A darkness. A hole in the ground that you fall down and there is no way out from the bottom.
So accept my outstretched arm. I am handing you a ladder. You words are a spade that once heard can dig your way out to freedom. So speak and let me listen.
Or stay in your pit and cry yourself to sleep and cry yourself awake and refuse to accept help. People will always be walking past, when you’re ready, just shout “I’m here” and they will be too.