The meaning of being me- being talented, smart, friendly, and kind, even when I’m not. It means always being two grades above everyone else, even when I can’t comprehend anything. It means having a niche, being a star at everything I do, and when failing, being met by disappointment and reproach.

It means setting expectations so high, you can’t help but be met by failure every time.

I’m not saying my parents are monster control freaks. They’re not. What they really are are people who expect their daughter to be as perfect as they are.

I am not perfect. Everything I do- school, sports, music, community service- doesn’t come to me easily. I’m not the genius my father is. I stay up late to study for tests that I still fail anyways, then spend the rest of semester trying to do enough extra credit to make up for it. I wouldn’t have become an SCA officer unless I had my friends helping me, and my opponent being one of the not so popular girls. I don’t have scouts telling me I should try my hand at modeling; most days, I feel ugly and plain.

Being me means a sudden change- lack of interest in school, being b***** and opinionated, instead of caring and sweet- will shock your parents. They’ll wonder what happened to the adorable daughter they once had, the one that never really existed.

I’m goal oriented. That is really me. Doing all those activities for an outstanding college resume is me. What isn’t me is being in band and playing an instrument I hate, agreeing with my parents’ politics, being fake and smiling even when I want to cry.

Today, for the first time, I told my parents what I really believe about gay marriage. And when they immedietly got angry, told me I was wrong and stupid, I cut them off. I told them that I didn’t want to argue, but I wasn’t going to be them anymore. Baby steps. I was me, and solely me.

The meaning of being me- trying to do everything perfectly, sometimes failing, sometimes succeeding. Loving her parents, but needing to be alone sometimes as well.

That is who I am.