Our parents will never see the best version of ourselves.
They will never see us take care of our sorority sisters when their hearts are broken, or they took too many tequila shots. Judge me or not, the choice is up to you, but remind yourself we have all been 20 years old. They won’t recognize nor understand the immense amount of responsibility we took on when we decided to take on a leadership role despite taking 19 hours of classes.
Our parents, as much as we love them, do not always see us when we are most human.
They do not know the purest and realest parts of our hearts.
Because we shamelessly hide that from them. And I hate that.
I reserve the deepest and most insecure parts of myself for no one else other than myself. That way no one can break me, no one can harm me and no one can hurt me.
At least, that is what I rationalize in my head.
I know, there is a load of BS.
Personally, ya, I’m getting personal, I will not admit my inner demons to my parents first. I am far too concerned with, wait for it, keeping them safe.
Ironic, I know.
Children are not supposed to keep their parents safe. Parents are supposed to be keeping their children safe.
But that’s yet another load of BS.
I have an eating disorder. I’m bulimic, and this is the first time I have ever put it out in public. The actual public, not just my closest group of friends and my family members.
The inner demon that has shunned me, yes, it has actually taken over my mind in ways others cannot imagine, took away the right I once had to tell my parents whatever is and was on my mind.
And guess what? It sucks. It sucks more than being told by your ex-boyfriend he doesn’t love you anymore.
I finally told my parents over spring break and I think it broke my heart five times while contemplating whether or not I would tell them, more that the time I told them in the first place.
Once I told them, a heartbreak worse than anything I imagined, worse than the time I got in trouble drinking, worse than the time i moved 1,000 miles away, took over. And I could not stop crying.
My parents, whether they read this or not, will never understand the epidemic the millennials deal with. Millenial or not, I know I have tried my best to make them proud. But making them proud and being honest with them is two completely different things.
I want my parents to know almost everything, I want them to know the terrible dates and the amazing nights with friends. And for the life of me, I have no idea why I’m not sharing with them what is truly going on. I have no idea why I am not inviting them on the roller coaster that is my life.