They were stone cold. They were strict, overprotective, and were helicopter parents. They meant the best, but my younger self never really took it well. I was a rebellious sixth grader and that obviously did not clash with them. They told me that I had to be someone I'm not, they took away my hands and my mind, and the only thing that I could possibly rely on were numbers. Some examples?

My grades, my attendance records, my weight, the amount of acne that was on my face.

In fact, because they vowed to control and watch over what I do, I continued to do the opposite. I continued to make friends with people they wouldn't approve of, I continued to sit in the back of classrooms with headphones in my ears, I continued to lay back on my skincare routine — not like I had one anyway.

Every time they would attack me, I would attack back. I was the troublesome kid, the tomboy, the girl that they continuously wanted to overpower. But I would always find a way to slip out of their nets. I would continue to escape their vicious attempts to grab me and put me in my place.

You may have thought I enjoyed what I was doing, mom and dad, but I didn't. I was miserable. I wanted you to like me, to like my personality, to not constantly put me down. Everything I did seemed like it wasn't enough for you. Even those rebellious actions were just a cry for attention. I wanted you to see who I was, but you didn't accept me. You kept trying to change me, and that was what I didn't get at the time. Why? Why did you want me to be this thing that blindly followed your commands? I wanted to be recognized as an edgy human being, but you never accepted my differences.

Yes, you were traditional. Yes, you wanted me to fit in. But I was born the way I was. I couldn't possibly be the girl that you had wanted me to be. Straight As, good posture, popular, beautiful, I was still a pre-teen, and I was far from that. To think that you wanted me to be like that, I sunk deep into depression. I was constantly anxious, constantly afraid to disappoint you when I had average grades or below. I hid those numbers, for fear that you would label me as exactly that.

I didn't realize that the only reason you yelled at me was that it was your way encouraging me for doing better, that it was your way to push me further, out of my comfort zone. But you didn't realize, all I wanted was for you to realize what you were doing to my self-esteem.

And that's why I did all those crazy things. Not too crazy though. I didn't smoke marijuana with my drug obsessed friends, I knew you didn't approve. I didn't try riding a hoverboard because I knew I would hurt myself. I didn't stay out late because I knew you wanted me to be safe. See, even though I was out of control back then, I still wanted you to see that I was responsible. I constantly wanted to prove that I knew what I was doing, that you could see that I was responsible, that you could see I was mature enough to make my own decisions.

And when the stuff I did caught up to me, you would forgive them. But it seemed like everything I did defined me. That my friends were who I was. That me helping others was just me being a desperate friend, wanting to climb up the social ladder. You didn't see me for me, you saw those reckless decisions I made in the past define who I forever was in your mind.

Even up to this day, I don't know how you see me. You would tell me you talk about my accomplishments with other parents, but yet at home, you would constantly ridicule me and tell me that I am just a lazy bum. You would slut-shame me, say that if I wore that outfit out, I would be praying that someone would rape me. You wouldn't see my confidence, you wouldn't see it as me loving my body, you would see it as me wanting guys to touch me.

See, my parents and I, our views of the world were so different, that everything I did seemed so wrong and so inappropriate to them. Maybe it was the cultural difference. Maybe they wanted me to super similar to them so that they could relate to me. But I couldn't accept that. How could I accept them if they couldn't accept me?

Even though I grew out of my rebellious ways, I continued to be myself. Of course, I did not make reckless decisions, but I created a balance. A balance of myself and who they wanted me to be. I strived to be a good student, I didn't do drugs or make the wrong type of friends. But I made my own choices of who I wanted to be, and I didn't let their thoughts change who I wanted myself to be. They are my parents, yes, but they do not get to paint my life. I am the artist, the author, and the protagonist. I hold the brush, and the brush contains me.