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Dear Ma and Papa MAG
I love you. You know that. I hope that you love me too, but I'm not sure. You may want to know why. You gave me a beautiful brother. I'm grateful for that.
But the thing is, I hate you, too. I hate you for what you do to me. You underestimate me. You want better grades. You want me to dress like a girl. You think my brother is better in every aspect. Because he brings better grades. And because he doesn't answer back. That's because he's stupid. Stupid not to answer you back, even when you're wrong.
I answer you back when you're wrong. You want me to be a better person. I am a better person. Better than you, because you think that I'm stupid when I help someone. On the other hand, you tell me to help others. Now that is stupid!
You think I'm useless when I don't get good grades. You think I don't try hard enough. But I do what I'm capable of. And I'm not useless. I know I don't talk to my relatives nicely; I am an average student; I leave the lights on when I leave a room; I don't dress properly; I'm not social and don't mix well with people; my room is messy; I'm rude to our housemaid; I have bad handwriting. You think everybody around me uses me to get their work done, and you also say that I'm hopeless. You want me to be on top of the world, but I can't be. Why can't you just accept me as I am?
I'm not useless. “Useless” is obviously not a good term to describe your only daughter. It really breaks my heart to feel that you hate me. I bet I'm going to be a better parent than you. And I hope that you don't kill me before that.
You want me to be a doctor, right? You say it's good to save lives. But have you asked me how I want to be? No. And that's selfish.
You don't like what I do – you've never liked what I do – but NEWSFLASH: you don't have to! I'm not hurting or killing myself or anything. I'm just doing what I need to do: writing and singing. Is that bad? I'm not a very good writer. Maybe I don't have the best skills. But I can improve. And I want to improve. But you won't encourage me.
Right before I sleep, I make up all these perfect scenarios of how I want my life to be – but then it hits me. My life is nothing like I want it to be. This is my life. Not yours. You have lived your lives, and you are both set. You have what you wanted. Aren't you going to let me live mine?
I try my best to please you. I even try my best to outshine my brother. I just can't.
I can't say this to your face, because I can't bear to hear you tell me not to answer back yet again. So, all I can do is write. I'm sick, I'm tired; sometimes I wish I did not exist. No matter how long I sleep, I wake up feeling tired and sad and helpless.
I don't know why I still love you. And I really do love you, Ma and Papa.
Just for once, please let my best be good enough.