Dear Mommy,

I have a secret.

I don't know how to tell you this, which is why I'm writing you a letter.

You know how you always say you don't know what to do with him anymore? Well, I did. Remember that time I had such a bad stomachache for three consecutive days and the doctor said it was because I "ate something wrong"? And you couldn't figure out what the hell it was that I "ate wrong"? I knew what that something was. It was fifteen somethings to be exact – fifteen Panadol pills.

Yes, your daughter shoved fifteen un-prescribed pills down her throat along with a mug of hot chocolate. (And you wonder why she doesn't like hot chocolate anymore.)

I don't know how you're feeling right now. Pissed with your daughter for being so stupid and wasting your money on medical bills? Sad, that your daughter has semi-suicidal tendencies? I really don't know. But I do know how I feel/felt.

I was pissed that all you cared about him him him, even when I told you that his loud music and rowdy friends were bothering me, even when you knew that I had three tests the following week and you know how important doing well in tests is to me. I don't want your sympathy, or a fraction of the attention I never had, I just want you to understand. Now, I feel sad. Because you still think that your daughter's a-okay, and you still condone your son's seditious ways. And I know it's not your fault, because you always tell me that he just doesn't listen anymore. But I just wanted to tell you, that it's not mine either. So why do I have to suffer with the consequences?

Why am I a straight-A student while my brother struggles to advance to the next grade? Why am I scolded for saying 'shit' when you pretend you can't hear the 'fuck's he punctuates his sentences with? Why do I rigidly adhere to my curfew while he calls you at midnight to pick him up from some place you have to look for in the street directory?

You're my mother, and his too. So why did we turn out this way?

I know that I sound incredibly immature and stupid. But when I try to talk to you maturely, you like to pretend that I'm old enough to be independent, and that you don't need to spoil me, like you spoil him. But Mommy, I'm just a kid. Like any other bratty kid, I want to be spoiled; I want to be fussed over. I want to be your little girl. Always.

And that's my secret, the secret that you will never know because you assume that when I smile, I mean it, and when I say, "I'm depressed", I don't.


Your daughter