I'm Glad My Mom Died

I’m allowed to hate someone else’s dream, even if it’s my reality.

I’m cemented in people’s minds as the person I was when I was a kid. A person I feel like I’ve far outgrown. But the world won’t let me outgrow it. The world won’t let me be anyone else. The world only wants me to be Sam Puckett.

“Maybe Mom won’t notice. Maybe if I tug my shirt again she won’t notice; maybe if I hold my breath for ten seconds she won’t notice,” says my OCD voice, formerly known as my Still Small Voice, but which I’ve since accepted as the pounding voice of mental illness. It’s more sporadic than it used to be, and almost exclusively related to food and my b

I’m so unimpressed by people. Even irritated by them. At times even disgusted by them. I don’t know exactly when this happened, but I know it’s a relatively recent switch and I know fame had something to do with it. I’m tired of people approaching me like they own me. Like I owe them something. I didn’t choose this life. Mom did.

I recently started shaving my legs, too—well, Mom does it for me, because she still showers me even though I’m sixteen.

our wardrobe designer said that The Creator explicitly asked for bikinis, and so she had to at least have me try on one or two of them so he had the option.

I jump into Mom’s arms. She squeezes me. I’m elated. Everything’s going to be different now. Everything’s going to be better. Mom will finally be happy. Her dream has come true.

I’m sitting in my booster seat. (I’m fourteen and still in the booster.)

“Well, sweetheart, if you really want to know how to stay small, there’s this secret thing you can do… it’s called calorie restriction.”