I am not my brothers, I do not have to fail, I am not my brothers, I do not have to fail. The mantra repeats itself. As my heart slows and the urgency to act rashly dissipates, I gently remind myself, They did not fail. They struggled and succeeded. I wish I believed my words.
Deep down, behind my anger and frustration, I think that I know the truth, and I envy them. For one, cut after cut, self-inflicted punishment repeated itself until he helped himself. For the other, hit after hit from a bong, drugs consumed and dictated action until he realized his desire for something more real. But me? I am lost in the wake; my parents want only to succeed once with any trouble. I hope to grant them their request because I do not think it was asking too much of God to have a daughter who did not hurt or defy.
Yet I am consumed by the flames of my own want.
I want to mutilate.
I want to act out.
I want to live.
My entire being aches to be able to step away from their expectations and ridicule.
****

I know they do not mean to hurt my sense of self. I know instinctively that they act to protect me from the world and the horrors that reside outside the walls of our home. And yet… I find my only refuge to be away from them. Hiding within the confines of my bedroom, I am struck with a sense of calm and peace. I wish I could carry these feelings with me far outside the reaches of these four corners, but instead, I find that I have to steel my nerves to even attempt walking to the kitchen.
I am shattered by their words.
I feel beyond inadequate. Why am I not enough? Why can’t they love me the way I am, without implying that I am anything less than I could be?