The bathroom light is shining a bit too bright.

It’s too blue, it’s too surgical sometimes.

It only sharpens the shadows on my face and irritate the already red skin across my cheeks.

I think of what my mom said this morning.

How i’m lazy, how I don’t listen to others, how I am cold.

It hurts, badly, to have your flaws thrown in your face on a weekly basis. I have tried countless times to keep myself motivated, but I never follow through.

The face staring back at me is already too old, despite how young I’m supposed to be.

The stress lines, the dark circles under my eyes, the discolored marks and acne sprinkled around my face.

It’s not even that i’m lazy, I’ve said to her, it’s my job. I work such long hours, am I not allowed to spend what little time I have off focused on myself? I relax when I can, try to keep my mind occupied on things I truly enjoy in life. Why is that a problem?

I listen plenty, i’ll have you know. I listen to my boss, to the customers, to my coworkers. So I sometimes drift away during a conversation, is it such a crime to daydream? To get lost in a world of your own creation? I engage when I can, advise when need be, but surely I don’t have to be completely present during every single conversation. I doubt anyone else in the world is.

I turn on the sink faucet, and splash some water on my face. I try to keep a regimented skin care routine in hopes that my acne will vanish. It is a bit more involved now than it was when I first started; I can’t help but wonder if she’ll comment on that as well.

I huff to myself.

Cold.

My own mother thinks i’m cold.

I rub face cleanser on my skin, really scrubbing my forehead. I can’t get her out of my mind.

I have never been an emotional person. I’ve always described myself as calculated, even she has said so occasionally. So why is this suddenly news to her?

Am I sympathetic? Of course. Empathetic? Obviously. So why must I cry at every small story she tells. Why must I react in the same outlandish way she does?

I think before I speak. I try to make sure everyone is heard. I don’t react impulsively. Of course I care, I have plenty of friends and family I cherish dearly. Would she not be insulted if I called her dramatic? Emotional? Impulsive?

I rinse off my face. The soap suds sting my eyes a bit, but I wash it out quickly (perhaps a bit too harshly). It seems the water ran down my arms and made a mess of the countertop. I grab a towel to wipe it all away.

This relentless nitpicking and arguing won’t change anything. She sees me one way, I see myself in another.

It’s fine, at the end of the day. I know to cut myself some slack, i’m human, not a machine. I can’t be the carbon copy my mother hoped I would.

I may be the villain in her story, but I refuse to be one in mine.