By default, does girlhood come with perpetual sadness? As in, there cannot be one without the other? Can there not be a girl without feelings of melancholy?
And am I doomed to hyperfixate on how others judge me and how my parents believe I have failed them? That I’ve thrown my future—my potential, my youth—away for something they cannot understand? Even though that “something” is what I call love?
Am I destined to stagnate between my desires and partial parental approval? In this sense, am I even a person of my own making? My own choosing?
Certainly not. I am an adult but not to any certain, definable degree. I can only feel strings being pulled while my arms and legs flail at the mercy of strangers and those who raised me.
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