Don’t patronise me.
Don’t think I don’t know how I come across, shy yet desperate to be noticed, often confused, full of half-matured ideas and opinions.
Don’t think I don’t know that I am still young, that I have a lot to learn that I could have done better.
Don’t think I don’t know my faults, my shortcomings.
Don’t think I don’t know that I am a curiosity at best, an unwanted intruder at worst.
Don’t belittle me.
I have feelings, a lot of them. Maybe too many. Maybe too intense. Maybe too frequent. Maybe I am not too good at handling them.
I have opinions, and points of views, and a craving to understand more, to explore and to find out. Yes, I need chiselling, yes, I may not always be logical. I am work in progress. Appreciate the process.
I have thoughts, and they may differ from yours. I may come from a place where smart phones are the cliché of the pretend posh. I may feel impostor syndrome when I buy a nice top, when I put make up on. I am carving myself, building the person I want to be. If it takes a while, then so be it.
Don’t give me false hope.
If you want it, say so. Or better yet, take it. If not, don’t play with me.
If you care, show it. Make me feel. If not, don’t pretend to listen while your eyes can’t escape the TV screen, because it hurts more to be ignored while saying something of personal importance than knowing from the outset that I should just keep quiet.
If it’s possible, make it happen. If not, tell me the reasons, and make them good ones, otherwise I will return to my mind, withdraw my emotions, exert my enthusiasm elsewhere. I can be rationalised with, if needs be. Even if my emotions overrun the initial understanding, even if I throw a silent tantrum, even if resentment stirs in me. I can work on those in my own time. But I’d rather you explained, than made a decision only you could comprehend, and shut me out.
Don’t remind me.
If I remember, there’s a possibility the scars don’t let me forget. If I managed to bury it so deep that I can talk about it with a straight face, take what I can say, and try not to probe me.
Don’t pity me.
We all have our weak sides, pathetic sides, suffering sides, lost sides, trying but always failing sides. You can help me try to work it out, but I don’t need your sorry.
Don’t compare me.
It’s an insult, not a compliment.
I am me. Nobody else. I may remind you of someone, you might think you know my stereotype, you could think you figured out which box I fit in. Chances are, you may be half right. But I’d rather you took the time to find out just how wrong you were, than write me off as ‘just like this’ or ‘just like that’.
I am unique, happening only once in the whole history of humanity.