A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

She tried to be sassy, a tool for deflection. 
A Taylor quote for every moment
lightens the mood and distracts. It was
only meant to be be funny, I try to say, 
but yes, really, she just wanted to change 
the subject. But you turned it around on me. 
I even failed at sass, she said, and again
you called her out: that it wasn’t a failure, 
that I wasn’t a failure, that the sass attempt
had purpose. Then you scratched off
another layer I hadn’t even seen: even.
You haven’t failed, love, 
and what else was she talking about when she said
‘I even’
and just like that, the floodgates opened
to all the whispers I’d been blocking out,
and I was embarrassed by what surfaced
with the simmering self criticism.
“Everything,” she laughed. 
“You’re currently failing at recovering 
from your eating disorder.” She cackled
like a fairytale witch. “I like this one,” she said, 
“Edwina’s on my side and you,
you fail either way.  When you listen to her, 
you fail at recovering, when you fight her, 
you fail at losing weight, you fail at becoming 
what people want, what people expect.
You really can’t win, can you? And that’s just
where I like you, fully aware of your failings, 
and knowing that nothing will ever be good enough
that you will never be good enough,
and there will always be someone you are letting down. 
Should we start on your executive dysfunction?
On your failure to keep a tidy house. Excuses, excuses. 
I love how you went and got yourself a neat little label,
as though that makes the failure less.  
I wonder what your Mum would say about all this.
Hush, stop pretending you don’t care.
Stop pretending it doesn’t matter. I’ve heard 
you think it. You miss her, sure, but I’ve heard you
feel thank goodness she’s not here for this,
about so many things. You say it’s freeing
but I know that voice is still in your head.
And right here, right now, look at you failing at
even this. You say I’m wrong. You say you want
to fight me, to be rid of me. Then why did you call 
for a long rest? If you’re so sure I’m so wrong, 
why won’t you let her try to take me down?”
Because I do feel like a failure, here and now.
I feel like a failure for even having these thoughts.
If I don’t even believe them then why
do I give them airspace, why do they evoke
such a visceral response, why do I panic
at the thought of admitting them?  I’m arguing
with her now, showing evidence to the jury
of times and ways and situations in which
I am most definitely not failing, or am I?
Her doubt is a hazy mist and I am lost within it. 
“You’ve become weak,” she’s mocking me, 
but I’m not convinced she’s lying. “Remember 
when no one could read you? Remember
when you didn’t need validation and regulation 
and you just got on with doing what needed doing?
She was the heroine, the one who didn’t impose,
the one who was so low maintenance, the one
who didn’t need to talk about fears and feelings.
I liked her.  Well, not really, but more than I like you.”
Tay was right. It really is exhausting
rooting for the antihero.  Of course
I’m the problem, I always have been, and here I am
being more of a problem than ever, and trying to label this 
as healing or growing or learning. Tonight
I can no longer even separate the voices, all I can do
is feel the immensity of the disappointment, 
and not dare to tell you.