Page 10 of Give My Everything
God, I sound like some destitute maiden inPride and Prejudiceor something.
No, now is not the time to ruffle feathers. That will come soon enough—though in what way, I’m not sure.
Besides, I’ve been working to calm the angry part of me, to keep her muzzled as I lay my head down each night in my parents’ home.
Because I do love them. Immensely. And I know they love me, too. The problem is just how we each see the world.
I think I should have freedom.
They think I should have a husband who chooses to give me freedom.
Okay, maybe notthey. It’s very clearly my mother who pushes for that old-country, old-world, Catholic kind of mentality that women submit to their husbands.
And I know no matter what I do or say, whether I go along with them or fight, whether I bend the rules or break them, my mother just is who she is.
So I have to decide whether I want to swim upstream or quit fighting so hard and just go with the flow.
Which is why a part of me is still strongly considering this…absolutely ridiculous proposition Ben has put in front of me. It’s a potential solution to my problems without me having to give in or give up, not really.
It’s been nearly a week since our conversation on the rooftop at Bennie’s at the Pier, and when I’m not hunched over the toilet, stricken with horrible morning sickness, I’m thinking about what he said to me.
Stripping off the Gucci, I hang it back up in the closet, pulling out the Valentino to breathe while I shower and get ready for my parents’ business function.
I may not have been willing to work for the company, but I’m still expected to show up when they tell me to. Because I’ve been away at college for so long and filled with excuses for not coming home, they’re going to expect even more from me now.
More visibility. More attendance. More involvement.
Even though it’s one of the things I’ve tried to avoid like the damn plague.
I crank on the shower and stand under the frigid spray, allowing the cold water to pummel my body while waiting for it to get warmer.
I don’t want to go along with the family expectation that I get involved with Wallace Media. I don’t want the attention, whether it’s on screen, in publication, or behind the scenes.
No matter what kind of pitch they throw my way, there isn’t a single job they could give me that would make me happy.
Because that’s exactly what it would be: given to me.
They give meeverything, and now I’m at a point where I don’t want shit just handed to me anymore.
My best friend from college, Josslyn, liked to tease me. She poked fun at the poor little rich girl and how hard it is to have everything handed to you in life.
But the only reality I know is my own.
I can try to empathize with people who have a worse lot in life than I do. And I try to, but my reality is still complicated. My world is still filled with uncertainties and fears and nerves and expectations.
Should I not be allowed to have feelings just because my life isn’t as hard as someone else’s?
Should I be forced to smile every fucking day just because I’m not facing the same inequities others do?
No.
I should be allowed to cry when I’m hurting. I should be allowed to get angry when someone expects me to be something I’m not. I should be given the freedom to rage when someone steals my ability to control my own life, my own self, my own body.
I turn and push my face under the now warm water, allowing myself just a single moment to feel the emotions I’ve been experiencing in waves since I was fifteen years old, since the day the world as I knew it shifted and morphed into something much darker than I ever would have realized.
I let that younger me take a deep breath for just a moment before I swallow back the tears.
I had an amazing therapist when I was in college who helped me work through a lot of things. She helped me see that once I’ve sorted through the hardest part of the work, I get to choose who I want to be every day.
