Slightly edited from a few years back. I like to think it’s worth a second look.
I wish you would praise me. I wish you’d say I’m wise and wonderful, even when I’m not. I want to believe I’m okay but I’m afraid. I’m not sure. I need to hear it from you. Without your assurance, an irrational passion compels me to earn your approval.
Do you see how hard I work, the indecency I endure? I’m an entertainer, promiscuous, a prostitute. Bisexual, indiscriminate, nymphomaniac. To feel loved I’ll sleep with anyone—well, crazy it sounds, almost anyone. I accept insult, abuse, whatever it takes. I don’t whimper or protest. I love my work!
You have reason to be puzzled, amused, annoyed by my act. When I play the four-year-old vamp in Mama’s dress; pull stupid stunts like a fifth-grade boy; trip over my feet like a Keystone Kop; beat up on myself like the Three Stooges, how bewildering I must seem.
Beneath the acts and disguises I’m fragile as a butterfly and exquisitely cautious. If you ignore or scorn me, I’m crushed. So, I play the whore, the clown, the fool. I humor you, make you laugh. I seduce, trick, beg, and bribe you.
Confusing, irrational, silly as I seem, I strive for your approval the only ways I know. Please understand—while I rarely do—with all my incorrigible antics, with all my strength, with all my heart, I work to earn your approval. Because it’s absolutely essential!
More than eight decades down the road, I remember what I knew before I “grew up,” before I learned to fear you. Relationship, love, is all that matters.
Should I apologize? You don’t know—or do you?