i spent my whole life trying to be good.
good enough. good for something.
looking back, i actually was a really, really good kid. i didn’t make a fuss. i monitored myself, my behaviour, especially at school. i didn’t talk back. i didn’t talk much at all. i was an A+ student, i was delightful, i was diligent. i did my homework. was kind to my peers. strived to be my best. was quiet, was acquiescent, blended in. they never came to my parent-teacher interviews, there was no need, my mom said. they knew i was doing fine. they didn’t want me to get a big head. i was fine. it was all good.
i bet all they had to say was that i was a good girl.
that i was so good, that good girls didn’t tell. that good girls didn’t like it, didn’t do that, didn’t let them.
that would have been all they needed to say, but once. because no one ever said that to me. i could never be good enough, i never was. no matter what. and i was desperate to be good. to be right. to belong.
i’m sorry because this all feels totally disgusting. i hate this word. i feel sick and i’m not good. i’m not good at all.