You know, bedrooms tell a lot about a person.

Mine? It's blue, and ramdom pictures and cards adorn the walls. A fan, origami, a rubberband chain, and a paperclip chain also decorate the walls. A single photo hangs from the ceiling, and a bamboo plant grows by the window. It's a mess.

What does this say about me?

My mother's room: plain, except for the king-sized bed dominating the space, and a dresser covered with jewelry and perfumes. There's door leading to the walk-in closet, and her vast amounts of makeup fill the bathroom.

What does this say about her? Guess what she's like.

I'll tell you. Vain. Materialistic.

And she doesn't give a damn about me. I'm not the daughter she'd always wanted. She wanted a mini-me. Too bad I don't share a brain with the rest of the fashion-following, barbie clones of society. Then I'd be just like her.

She basks in attention.

I like my solitary time.

She was a cheerleader.

I'm a band geek, computer geek, dorky misfit. And I love it that way. She just doesn't understand that I don't care what other think of me, because she does. She cares so much that it dominates what she does. She dresses in a way that shows she cares too much. I dress in a way that shows I don't.

I can't have a full conversation with her--alone, no friends--without her using a disapointed tone with me. Sometimes it even leaks in while my riends are there. I don't even know what I did. That one of the reasons I'm afraid to tell her what I'd like to wear, besides t-shirts and jeans all the time. I really love punk style. But I don't tell, because I'm so afraid of that tone.

I try to make her proud, I really do. but everytime she's proud of me, she has to ruin it by using that tone again. Or yelling at me for one thing or another.

It's almost like all the time is rag on Darkened time. She almost always leaves me in tears in my room because she is so verbally abusive. Because of the combination of her bringing me down and my step-dad yelling at me, I love school and my father's house. I can escape from it for seven hours or a week. But it always comes back. My dad is always proud of me. She's not. I don't know what to do anymore.

I know there was a time when she was nicer, but I don't remember that side of her anymore. I try to remember, but she's honestly slipped out of my memory.

You know some of the things she says to me? "I wish you were more like Elisabeth." ,"What's wrong with you?" ,"I just don't know what to do with you." She always takes my brother's side. Always. I wonder all the time if I've failed her. Do you know what it's like, to fall asleep wondering, "Does my mother love me?" She's a bully, constantly tearing me down, and you just can't help but care what she thinks because she your mother. And I hate that I care, but I do. She tears me apart.

"Your spend too much time alone. Why don't you hang out like everyone else? Why cant you be like cathereine? Why do you do that?"

She shows favoritism all the time with my other siblings. She'll yell at me for something, then turn around and not yell at my brother for that. Even go as far as cleaning it up for him.

I just feel so trapped; I can't be myself at home. I want to stand up to her, to tell her all this. But it's that damn tone. It breaks my heart everytime. Like ripping out fresh stitches over and over. I wish I could tell her I think fashio is for a bunch of sinple-minded lemmings who can't think for themselves. To tell her her cooking suck and her noodles and rice are always overdone. To ask her to treat me like a human being, not a dog who can;t understand a single thing she's saying.

It feels good to get all this out, to tell all the secrets so that they feel like they have more substance.

I want to be my own person.

Not her.

Me.

A/N: I'm sorry if I offended anyone. I just needed to get this all off my chest. Thanks for reading.

I have a confession. I was crying the whole time while writing this.