Regrowth

Thank you, for the harsh reminder that I am undeniably imperfect, that I cannot meet your expectations, and that others are exponentially better than I.

Thank you for the anger and pain that bubbles over from my chest to my head, filling every pocket of my being with resent for myself and those you praise after shutting me down.

Thank you for showing me what it feels like to be at my lowest point, so distressed that I can't paint, or draw, or read, or write because I am so distraught by the paralyzing realization that I and nothing I do will ever be enough.

I know you love me.

I know you're proud of me.

But I don't know why you choose to point out the things you don't love or aren't proud of.

If there was one single thing I could change about our relationship, I would take each of the prickling, withered exchanges of ours and replant them in a garden that is watered by love and fed by encouragement. I would tend to them and nurture them as they transformed from ugly, twisting encounters to tendrils of beauty and adoration.

I could rattle off all the things I admire about you with ease.

I hope one day you will be able to do the same for me.