Ballet.

I don't remember when exactly, but my childhood best friend-my mother- suddenly turned into this presence that I must avoid. This fond memory I keep but a reality I hide from.

Perhaps its my rebellion or her overwhelming need to control. Perhaps its this low tolerance I have for hysteria coupled with her tendency to shriek. Perhaps its her wanting me to become a doctor and me deciding to become a business student. Perhaps its the stress: her stress of making ends meet, and mine trying to having to one day be able pick up after her obligations.

Whatever it is. It is not the one thing we both refuse to talk to each other about. My homosexuality. Steve. A future I am planning that she refuses to and snidely wont accept.

Sometimes, like today, I wake up to find her giving me evil eyes. I pretend not to see it. Nightfall, she comes home from work and screams about stuff that I threw out a few days ago in the process of cleaning. I ignore it all. I am numbly silent. I don't react. I close my door and avoid the drama. This scene is typical for us. Its usually is follows some sort of statement or proof that I am very homosexual. (I annouced a trip to Hong Kong this Fall over dinner last night.)

I remember when I was younger. When she gets home from work. My sister and I would run to the door to greet her. She would hand me her purse and tell me stories about her day. I would proceed to heat up dinner. Then she would ask me to massage her hands and tell her about my day. I looked forward to those few minutes before bed. Sometimes when I think about having kids with Steve. I imagine my son/daughter doing the same for my mother when she is older.

That is the situation. Its been like this since I turned 17. I started writing this entry hoping that I could reflect, conclude, and do grand jeté across the pages with the finally of wisdom. Sadly, I still feel the same way I do about my mother as I did 5 years ago: unbalanced and entangled.