Dear Mom,

I've never been the best at talking about... anything, really. At least, not with you or Dad. You've told me on multiple occasions that you want me to feel comfortable coming to you with things, but for some reason I just can't. I just don't feel comfortable doing so.

I've always been more quiet than my siblings, less competitive, drawn to the stage rather than the field; all around, I've just always been different from them. You were never slow to point it out, nor were you slow to point out the many similarities. I can't blame you for comparisons. It's hard not to. I catch myself comparing myself to them, too.

They were always so good at sports. My older brother was practically a star on the soccer team. My older sister worked hard to earn a spot on the basketball team, even if she didn't get to play often. Hell, my little brother is still working hard so he can keep his starting spot on his middle school basketball team and become a better player for the football team. I was never like that. You and Dad enjoy going to these things so much and watching and cheering and I...

I never could do it.

I tried. But I just don't have that competitive flair that they do.

I find it hard to muster up the energy to do much of anything lately, least of all anything related to basketball or soccer or football.

You know, the other day you asked why I never told you I struggled with anxiety and depression. You asked why I never said anything while you unloaded your frustration on me after we had first moved. I told you I didn't know why.

I think we both know I lied.

I was always so different from them, and you and Dad looked at me differently than them, held me to higher expectations than them. Or maybe you didn't really, but it certainly felt like it to me. I was different, a seemingly perfect combination of some of my older siblings' best qualities. I wasn't allowed failure. I remember the first time I had gotten a grade that was less than a 90% and you had made a comment asking why it hadn't been better. You said it was a joke, but it hurt. The thought that I had disappointed you and Dad hurt.

I wasn't allowed failure. I wasn't allowed imperfection.

That was what my anxiety and depression was in my opinion. Failure, imperfection. I didn't want to be broken. I was already your "special child," whatever you had meant by that.

How could I tell you I think the world would be better off without me? That people would be glad to see me go? That I swear I can hear their whispers when I walk by, condescending and judgmental? That I can't help but feel like a burden people put up with out of politeness or pity but would rather I just leave?

How could I possibly tell you that I've been like this before I had even reached my teenage years?

By the time we had started going through the moving process in 2013, I was the furthest thing from okay, but so were you. Someone needed to be put together, to be okay, and as much as you tried, it clearly wasn't going to be you. Not with my little brother screaming at you and complaining and throwing temper tantrums every other day. You weren't okay, I wasn't okay -- none of us were okay, but I was certainly more used to pretending to be than you were.

By that point, I had been pretending for years anyway. Sometimes, it felt like I wasn't a person at all; I was a doll without a face and many masks to hide behind.

Of course I couldn't just tell you. It wasn't exactly dinner table conversation, and you weren't okay, either. Even if I had told you, you would've felt like you had failed somehow, too. I know that I'm right because I know you, because sometimes you treat me more like I'm your friend rather than your daughter.

Above all, I didn't tell you because I didn't want to see you cry.

I never know what to do when you cry. Or when anyone cries, really.

Anyway, the whole "me not talking to you about anything" seems to have become a trend, huh? I didn't tell you about my tattoo until it came to a point where I absolutely had to. It took me a ridiculously long time to tell you that I was bi.

Maybe that has something to do with it. The "me not talking" thing.

I know you don't want to make my sexuality a big deal and all, but I can see it in your eyes. You've never been a very good liar. You don't understand it, it makes you uncomfortable, and I think to a degree you don't even believe me or the idea that I could be attracted to both men and women. I can see it in the way you tense up if I make a joke that references it, the way your smile will strain and you can no longer look me in the eye for a few minutes.

I go back to that a lot, whenever I'm letting my mind drift. Maybe that, those small, nonverbal reactions to things, is what keeps me so silent about what's going on inside my head. It makes it hard to talk to you about things when all I can see is the furrow of your brow, the downward pull at the edges of your lips, the far-off look in your eyes as you don't quite meet mine.

Part of me hopes you never see this. Part of me wants you to confront me about everything as soon as it's been uploaded.

A larger part of me wishes I had the courage to tell all this and more to you in person.

With love,

Your Daughter