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Hands in the proper position, fingers nimble for the right notes. Fluidity once moment; the next, harsh strokes of the bow and the painful thwack of pizzacato. Closing eyes and swaying your body like you feel possessed in the song’s gripping pianissimo, bending your body like bamboo in the wind. It is no longer you and an instrument and a composition; it is the harmony of the heart, soul, and mind in perfect resonance with one another.

I open my eyes to applause, and the quiet moment of peacefulness is gone.

I ready my instrument for the next composition, and it begins again.

"I wish everyone was tolerant and accepting, but that is not the world. Because I know this, I accept it. I try not to let others get to me because they have a right to their own opinions, no matter what I think or do.
“If we do not accept other people’s rights to their own opinions, then how will the world change?
Stephanie (Me)

“When I was your age, I had you,” my mother yells at me. “I was married and had a four year old. Not that I want you to instantly have children,” she says a bit more calmly. I know that’s a lie, but I don’t call her out on it. “I wish you had responsibilities.”

I Wonder Why

I’ve been feeling all out of sorts lately. Is it because I’m in therapy again? Is it because I’m older? Is it because of my medications? I don’t really know. There are an infinite number of possibilities, and all seem worse than the last. I don’t know why I feel so depressed. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to therapy, or told my parents that my brother’s friend sexually assaulted me. Maybe I should have taken a year off before graduating, to let my physical self heal. 

But I didn’t do that. I stayed, graduated, went to therapy, and told my parents. I haven’t told my parents the real reason I go to therapy is because of them. I didn’t know mothers weren’t supposed to hit their children until I was in my teens. How fucked up is that? I told my therapist last week about what happened when I went clothes shopping with my mom, how she would hit me and yell at me if something didn’t fit. How she’d tell my I’d be alone and miserable the rest of my life, because boys didn’t like fat girls, and I was a fat, ugly little girl.

The look on my therapist’s face… I’m not sure how to feel about that. I just laughed. What else could I do?

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