She had her first period when she was twelve years six months and five days old. She never wished for her mother more than she did then. You really don't know what awkwards means until you get two men and a little girl in a drugstore, trying to figure out what works best, a pad or a tampon? When her fathers realized where a tampon went, they both looked like they were about to throw up right there at the aisle in between the sanitizers and the lady-things (their words, not hers). As if the flame of embarassment that lit up her face wasn't enough, daddy had to swoon dramatically, and fainted on the spot (Sometimes she's certain he's her biological father. Their penchant for theatrics are just too similar to be coincidental.).
And nobody ever told her how much menstruation hurt. All she could do on the first day was lie on her deathbed, doubled-over in pain. She was absolutely certain she was about to die from some fatal disease. There was no way this kind of pain would be inflicted on any innocent soul on a monthly basis. Boy was she wrong. The fact that her period was so regularly predictable means that daddy would start fidgeting and fussing every single time the sixteenth of a month comes around. Her dad would shake his head and tell him to leave her be but to no avail. It killed him to see that a glass of water just could not cut it any longer. It took the three of them about a year before they realized that a hot water bottle would do a much better job.
Since then, she learned to go through all her firsts by herself. Granted, she didn't even know she needed a bra until a teacher had politely pulled her aside one day during lunch and suggested it delicately. She had returned to her seat, face stuck at abject horror, with a book placed protectively over her chest for the rest of the day. After the disaster that was forever after known as Red Dawn (again, their words, not hers), she thought she'd rather jump in a pool full of alligators before asking her fathers to take her bra shopping. Thankfully she met a very nice middle-aged saleswoman who thought she looked like a lot like the woman's niece. Martha was very helpful in assisting her with her selections and she felt eternally grateful towards the woman. In fact, she refuses to shop for lingerie with any other salesperson and would rather come back another day when Martha wasn't around.
She began to research extensively on what it means to be well, female, for a lack of a better word. As much as she loved her parents, and she does so dearly, being gay and being female are two mutually exclusive things and the two of them are painfully clueless sometimes. Maybe if her fathers were more like the gays she sees portrayed on television (usually the sassy, stylish bestfriend of the leading lady), she wouldn't be having so much problems. But neither of them knew a thing about fashion, although their knowledge on theater was vast and endless (She was beginning to think that the way homosexuals are depicted on the big screen was doing a huge disservice to her upbringing).
Up until she was twelve years seven months and a day old, her fathers dressed her up in overalls and knee socks, jumpers being their favorite wardrobe of choice. By the time she realized she was too old to be dressed by her parents, Rachel had gotten too comfortable with the argyle and the animal prints to willingly part with them. It comforted her, the familiar scratch of the wool on her body reminding her that she was Rachel Berry and her star shines bright. The only thing that changed were the skirts which will always be a point of contention between her and her dad. She believed that it was the only article of clothing that made her blend in somewhat (to completely blend would be her greatest nightmare) with the rest of the school population. He thought it made her look too grown up, whatever that meant. In the end the skirts lingered because she was Rachel Berry and she wasn't raised by two of the best lawyers in the county without picking up some argument techniques along the way.
She wrote her first letter to her elusive mother when she was approximately thirteen years, nine months and fourteen days old when Quinn Fabray had laughed at the panda prints on her sweater and called her RuPaul. She always had a love-hate relationship with her nose, but she hardly thought she looked in any way similar to a drag queen (much as she admired the man's courage to push boundaries.). All the same, her feelings were hurt. She could hardly talk to her parents about it, not wanting them to worry about the bullying that happened at school. And she hardly remembered what it was like to have friends. The only true friend she ever had was Sara who moved away when she was eight to follow her father who was with the army. Eight year-olds just don't know how to keep in touch.
When she was fourteen years six months and three days old, she got hit by her first slushie, courtesy of Noah 'Puck' Puckerman from the football team. The bell signifying the end of another school day had rang and she had almost reached the exit of her own personal hell when the boy had come up to her without her noticing. The ice cold burst to her face felt like a wake-up call, telling her she would never be welcomed among the rest of the student population. The shrill, cruel laughter from the group of jocks in front of her prevented her from letting the tears fall. Without a word, she had swiftly turned around to look for the girls toilet. Ice chips had hurt her eyes and she was practically blind as she tried to find her way. Suddenly, someone had a grip on her wrist and she almost screamed, thinking that this might really be the last straw that breaks her. But the grasp had softened and the quiet "Come on," had calmed her enough for her heart rate to come back down to normal.
From her skewed vision she made out a tall figure (approximately six feet and three inches she would find out later, after the first time they danced together), in front of her, slouching almost as if something was weighing the person down. She realized that it was one of them when she saw the letterman jacket, the red and white of the school logo taunting her. Rachel wondered if she was just setting herself up for another cruel joke and was about to pull away, but he suddenly stopped and let go of her hand. "Here," he had said pushing open a door and gently nudging her in. She found herself in the girls bathroom. As she tried her best to look presentable to her waiting fathers (She told her parents that she tripped and spilled the drink all over herself, hoping they don't question the fact that she hates ice-blended drinks. They don't.), she remembered the younger version of Noah Puckerman , who defended her once against the very people he call friends now. She leaves an extra set of clothes in her locker from then on.
She knew the best way to survive with her sanity intact was to keep herself under the radar and be invisible. But Rachel Berry was a star in the making and she would never stoop so low as to let these people bring her down. So when she was fourteen years six months and one week old, Rachel began sticking a gold star next to her name. She had gone to the drugstore the previous weekend and bought a box full of those stars. It would last for months. It was a metaphor, and metaphors are important. She joins every society and club under the sun because being invisible just doesn't suit her.
(Sometimes she wonders if maybe she does this as a sort of twisted revenge, forcing herself onto these people who were determined to extinguish her shine. She was adamant that she would only shine brighter, enough to blind them.)
It never used to be this bad when she was younger, but she guessed childish scorn just made its way into youthful cruelty among the teenage population of Lima, Ohio. Or at least those attending William McKinley. She knew her fathers had something to do with her lack of friends in this small town. Being raised by gay men was just not something that flies among the general community in Lima. And because she loves her parents more than anything in the world and would defend them to the death if and when the need arises, she does her best to protect them by keeping every hurtful insult a secret. She knew how much they loved the place, much as she wondered why sometimes. Or most of the time.
But a person can really take so much before they start losing their minds, and although her fathers pay handsomely for a professional therapist to analyze her mental health every week, Rachel believed that her letters to her anonymous mother were more therapeutic (Plus she could never actually tell the therapist anything, knowing it would all go back to her fathers). She never knew the woman, never knew what she looked like. She would never ask her parents, not wanting to hurt their feelings. Still, it was nice to pretend that she was sending these letters to someone out there (even though really, they were all tucked away in a shoebox under her bed), someone who knew what her life was like. She liked to think that wherever the woman was, she was just as curious as her.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night when all the lights are off and she lies in bed under the covers, Rachel Berry imagines that wherever she is, her mother was thinking of her too, when she looks up at the brightest star in the sky.