girl's shopping trip

I went make-up shopping with my mother once at Marshall’s. I got two palettes and plenty of skin care products. I think my mother bought some hair products, but I don’t remember well. All I remember is the conversation we had in line.

“I know I have enough money but, like what if I don't?”

It was a simple question. It was a simple answer too, a throw-away comment meant to get a small laugh and ease my nerves. Instead, it’s on a loop in my head. Constantly, in my own mother’s voice all I hear is

“That’s my fault. I ruined you.”

I’m ruined.

I always knew I was different. That something about me was off and I wasn’t like others. Broken seemed like the verb I’d default to: damaged but able to be fixed. I always hoped I could fix myself to be like others, normal and happy. But ruined? You can’t fix something that’s ruined. Ruins are left for centuries, crumbling down, and rotting while people walk by and gaze at what’s left. I sympathize with the remains of Athens. Constantly acknowledged as but never offered any help. It wouldn’t do anything; I’m too far gone to be fixed. I’m ruined. And that’s something I can’t change.

Mother knows best.