Sheep

I'm up again, dreading the fact that I will be at my mum's in an hour. I just called in and although I didn't talk to her I could imagine her expression. Hello dad, Hi, I'm going to be late. To which dad said, ok see you later. He's laid-back. She's not. Which isn't a flaw, but a characteristic I have inherited. I have inherited a lot, perhaps too much. I wish I had inherited her svelte figure, not her beauty, her trim trendy build. As for beauty, let's call it facial beauty, I'm the one who has got it all. Not even my sexy twin has the facial beauty to go with it. So there, I guess it has all been shared appropriately. Yesterday I got a glimpse of how difficult it is to be 11 years old. Nobody understands you at 11 years old. If that is true, then I am still 11 years old because I really feel as if nobody understands what is lurking in this brain of mine. I wish I'd been given a pea-sized brain sometimes; what you don't know won't hurt you. It's when you know full on, full blast that the hurts really begin to hurt and burn. I was actually quite a content 11 year old living in my own world. I saw my twin as very childish when he was just the same age as me. He didn't think, I did, I'm sure I did. It was the time when I read so many many books. I read and read and was very happy locked away in my own world of books. I was a model student, my music awareness was quite terrifying. It was when the world seemed so easy. It was easy being a model student and it was easy being musically precocious. My dad was so pleased, it just never was easy pleasing mum. She'd lock away my dad's library so I couldn't read. True. I swear it's true. She'd lock away my music because she didn't like where it was going. Also true. I also swear it's true. She wanted a 'normal' child, probably one she could control. She's not stupid, she probably could already see the daggers I had for her in my eyes. She also could probably see the love I had for my dad in my eyes, and the love he had for his daughter. Geeze, Freud would have won a million dollar wager had he taken me and my dysfunctional family relationship and written about it only. It was so strange, when all the other mums begged their daughters to read, here was one mum, my mum, who wanted the reading to stop. I admit, I read a whole lot. But it wasn't hurting anybody, it was just making me get straight A's in a lot of things. At 11 I loved Graham Greene, D.H. Lawrence, and Thomas Hardy. She wanted me to read Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte and to read about those infamous Little Women. I didn't. So I became very good at 'stealing' books off my dad's shelf. I'd take one and hide another under my vest for later. At the same time, she got so pissed off at me having my very first female flow. She thought I was too young for it, and probably realized that if there was one thing she wasn't controlling, it was my body. I guess and think, years later that such a tiny woman was not able to cope with her big daughter. It seemed as if I were some kind of threat, sometimes as if I were about to take her place somehow. So so dysfunctional. I think I still took her place anyhow. And if I could look back with psychotherapy glasses it wouldn't take me long to find out why. My mum is what she is; a prudish puritan who must have harboured so many kinky secrets somewhere. And just because her kinky, possibly gory kinky secrets never saw light... that is what I get. It's I who have been on the couch, when perhaps she should have been there before. But she'll never admit to it. She's perfect while I will always be the blackest sheep. And I wonder that says about the ewe.