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wildfires-n-thunderstorms · 7 years

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photo credits: not mine; ctto

Journal Entry No. 3 Nov. 10, 2017 3:01 AM

Sometimes I feel like my life is a big question mark.

Am I deluding myself that there is something out there for me? That my future, twenty years from now, will be much different from the present - that it will be better. And I wonder, truly, if that is possible or is it just one of the hopeful fantasies we tell ourselves to sustain our lives, to get us through another day?

Will it truly be better? And if so, how?

I weigh the options - extract the possible futures laid out for me by my current conditions and... It’s bleak, to say the least. I just don’t see it. What do I live for everyday? To who or what do I wake up and rise and endure and suffer?

God. I’d say, but even then, I don’t feel the privilege to answer as such because I admit honestly that I haven’t been quite as devoted to Him as I would have hoped and to answer in such a way only seems hypocritical and unfair. I am already a liar; but as much as possible, I want to be as honest as I can be with Him.

Maybe someday, if I can get my priorities sorted out, maybe someday I can answer the question with an answer that feels right.

So if not God, then the closest would be my family. It all roots down to my family; everything I ever am is all founded on my family. I endure everything for them, even if they are the ones to break me to pieces.

The situation at home hasn’t been great for three years now. My heart has grown weary with the pain and resentment and with the effort of trying to keep shit together. It’s frustrating; everything is hanging on by a thin thread and it’s fucking fragile and I am so tired of walking around eggshells so everything won’t fall apart but even just one movements chip a large part of the broken glass and I am rendered motionless. But even in immobility, it still falls apart.

It still breaks; and how do I fucking stop it to break? How do you fucking stop the ground from breaking apart under your feet and preventing yourself from falling in its bottomless pit?

I feel helpless. Futile. And I am so tired.

I don’t know what to do anymore and life just doesn’t come with a fucking manual. I need my parents because aren’t parents supposed to guide you through this? Aren’t they supposed to... I don’t know, be the example of shit, of explaining shit?

Is it fair for me to say that I am so tired of being parents to my parents? All of these childish arguments and I know that my ears have already heard enough hurtful words, and my eyes have seen quite enough to stray me away from marriage life.

Everyday I know that my parents can barely stand one another. And I don’t quite deserve to be raised in such an environment; and most especially, my brother. I am being poisoned by the toxicity of our home and this hatred and anger in my heart is making it so hard to breathe. I don’t want to feel so miserable anymore, and I don’t want to always be hanging on the edge of everything, so fucking scared every time that today may be the time that I finally fall down.

My mother is great at hurting people. I try to understand her, I really do. But she has pierced me with the sharpness of her words enough times, and I have bled because of it enough times that I hardly feel the need to defend her. I want her to be happy, because I love her but forgive me if it hurts to know that her happiness is only guaranteed when she is finally away from us. She regrets her life, I know, she’s said so herself. Regrets she married my father and by extension, having us. It is not to say that she does not love us - of course, she does as much as any mother might their child. It’s just that, if she were given the opportunity to redo it all - even at the expense of our non-existence - would she say ‘yes’ to the opportunity? It says so much that I truly do not know the answer.

While other children may readily, and firmly, answer that ‘no, my mother will never’, I, on the other hand, am quite certain she will say ‘yes’. And you know what? I want her to say ‘yes’ because I want her to be happy because maybe then, when she’s finally content with her life maybe my suffering would finally end. She watches X-Factor auditions, Pageant videos, so religiously every night that I know she watches it wistfully - hoping she had done something better with her life than us. She goes to job sites every day, looking for someplace she can go where she can be someone else - maybe someone she will actually like. She hates that we’re poor, that we barely get through the day; she’s proud like that. I almost want her to go; it’s not like I can stop her anyway, I will beg and beg and I am so tired of begging for love to be given to me when it should have been rightly mine in the first place. I know, deep inside her, that she appreciates being away from us - the freedom from the everyday pretenses of being a devoted wife and a loving mother (because my mother is so concerned with outward appearances like that, so affected by other people’s opinions and has no qualms whatsoever with putting up a facade to please whoever she’s conversing or interacting with; she always wants other people to have the best impressions of her, even if it’s not real, and throws fits whenever her reputation is tarnished in anyway, perhaps it’s the reason why she’s so outraged with my father’s rumored affair - I am almost tempted to believe that it was more because of her hurt ego than anything else). She will go abroad sooner or later, away from us/free from us, and she will go saying good intentions: to provide money for us, give us convenience - but truly, it will be a relief for her. And I am so tired of fighting what she wants that I will let her go.

For so long I have been crying for my mother, calling her name silently and asking her not to go, not to leave us - I’ve never stopped begging her to stay but she never listens. She wants to go and what does a daughter who does not want to be abandoned by her mother can say to that, when her begging has already proven to be ineffective? What more can she do if she is no longer her mother’s happiness but is part of her suffering? Her love for her mother compels her to want her mother to find her happiness, even if she has to be left behind. And she can’t even hate her mother for it - because she loves her so unconditionally that seeing her mother unhappy is more painful than being left behind.

Financially, my parents support me - they provide me with everything I need, materially speaking. I never go hungry. I have clothes to wear. I have shelter. I have the opportunity to build a decent future for myself. Heck, I even indulge my luxuries once in a while. For that, I will be eternally grateful to them, and for that, for raising me, I will love them fiercely.

But emotionally, mentally, I have always fended for myself. I have depended on myself entirely, and occasionally with my friends. I have grown emotionally apart from my parents - they know nothing in depth about me through my own mouth. What does it imply when a parent has to resort to other methods to divulge their daughter’s secrets and emotional troubles than simply just asking her?

My father had to spy on me through a trusted friend, who betrayed me later on, asking her to share all the things I tell her in secrecy, trusting her to keep it to herself but then doing the exact opposite by reporting to my father as if she was some hired journalist.

My mother had to secretly read all my diaries, going as far as hiding them from me, had to invade my privacy by going through all my social media accounts - reading my messages, my notes, all the things that were my secret. And you know, if they had just simply asked, I would have told them because I have been begging in my heart for so long to have the chance to tell them, to share who I really am, only I have been so afraid that they would not listen, least of all understand. But with the way they handled everything, going behind my back and without my permission, invading my space, invading me. I feel forced out of my own closet, harshly forced out of myself when I would’ve gladly let them in if they had just knocked. And yes, it makes a difference. Consent makes a great difference, willingness is a sign of trust. And this act of theirs, it becomes building blocks of the wall already in between us, still steadily rising and to my fear, might become impenetrable one day, if I had finally had enough.

I have been abused enough times. Verbally. Emotionally. Physically.

Emotionally, I have been brought to the realms of the most negative of emotions. On the edge of madness, on the edge of things I never imagined I would experience. Emotion is a horrible, uncontrollable monster. Losing control is such a frightening experience - and as a human, I never knew I was capable of doing and saying the things I’ve said when overcome with rage and sadness. It’s suddenly so very clear to me - understandable even - the drastic change of a decent person into a capable murderer; of a carefree person into suicide. People have their limits and limits are there for a reason - beyond that, if they are pushed enough, if they are tested enough, the consequences are much too dreadful.

I have done things I have regretted. Said things I wish I hadn’t. Being exposed to such extreme emotions, such negative experiences, it tears apart your soul - it takes a toll on a person.

I am sure my father regrets hurting me as well. In the midst of his blind rage, it might have been the only way for him - to punch me in the face or anywhere he could reach, to hit me with a broom, with a slipper, with anything he could grasp on, straight to my face or anywhere he could reach, to make me bleed, to bruise and wound me - I am sure he regrets that. I am sure it hurts him after to realize what he has done after his anger fades away, and I can see his remorse every time he tries to make up for it by subtly giving me gifts or indulging me with my food cravings.

Even so, even if he regrets, he cannot take away the fact that he has hurt me. Has rendered me helpless and vulnerable and feeling so small and submissive and unimportant. And fearful for my life, most of all. It changes a person - damages their self-esteem, their self-expression, and their interactions with other people - when they are physically abused.

He cannot take away the trauma he had induced to me - how I flinch so hard, so involuntarily, whenever someone raises a hand near to my face - and I hate it. Because every time it happens, the fear of what I had experienced under his hand rushes through my veins once again and I relive the experience all over again. And I hate being so vulnerable and being so fucking afraid.

See, you don’t hurt people into submission. Because they may obey you for a time, merely because of fear and self-preservation but when the first opportunity that empowers them arrives, your authority will crumble like a stone wall built on sand on a rainy day. Fear, tyranny and dictatorship does not win affection or loyalty, but understanding and compassion will.

The only thing you gain by hurting people physically is their distance, from you to them, and with each hit, with each wound and scar, is another step away from you until you can no longer see them at all, until in the place of their opinions and thoughts they tried to express but you pummeled into submission, is silence. A deafening silence of nothingness, not a word, not an emotion but a wall that won’t hear and won’t speak. Something no longer within your reach, because you pushed it too far away.

I have expended all my emotions and all my efforts to them. I feel numb now, most of the time. Jaded. I’ve learned to separate emotions so I can no longer feel them, to ignore it, to keep a straight face, to hide it all.

But there are times that I break down - how I can never be alone anymore, because it makes me go insane, how the mere mention of my parents and family and anything related to it can bring me so easily to tears, how I can never talk about my emotions.

My parents aren’t very emotionally intelligent. I believe that I am, but I am incapable of expressing my emotions through speaking words - I don’t trust my voice enough and frankly, I don’t trust people, even my closest friends, to understand. It’s easier to assume that they won’t.

And you know, my father is exactly the same. I’ll go so bold to say it’s where I got it from. He’s so inexpressive of anything remotely emotional. He lacks so much initiative, he’s cowardly, easily disheartened, and so non-confrontational. A complete opposite of my brazen, loud-spoken, scandalous mother. He cowers so easily and he’d rather to stay silent and accept the verbal abuse rather than defend and explain himself - so really, I don’t know the fucking truth about their situation except that my mother keeps throwing accusations at his face (the authenticity I know not) and he barely explains himself. Sometimes, he would actually attempt to defend and his explanations appeal to the logical side of my brain because he does make much more sense than my mother but then that will quickly be overthrown when my mother, shockingly, provides evidence or past examples I have previously no knowledge about that debunks his seemingly ‘logical’ explanation. And that confuses me, because I don’t know who or what to believe anymore - and that I wonder, maybe my father is just as a great as a liar as I am and that maybe, that’s where I got it from.

It’s a recurring problem in our family: we’re not open to each other enough, Yes, we’re close and casual and all when everything is alright. But we’re not intimate in the emotional sense, not at all.

I can’t even ask them for the truth. I can’t even reprimand my father or speak my mind honestly. It’s just not how our relationship works.

I find that it is much easier to no longer meddle. To let them sort out their problems and stay on the sidelines without picking any sides. but of course, that creates problems with my mother, when she’s acting exceptionally cruel to my father and I take pity on him, because I love my father as well and as much as my mother, and I show him kindness because I know deep inside that he is self-loathing and incriminating himself again as if he doesn’t look lowly on himself enough.

They are both self-victimizing people; they pity themselves; they both don’t enjoy their current lives. And while my mother fights for her own selfish desire to have a better life, my father is resigned and has already accepted that there is nothing more better for him.

I wish he’d fight. I wish he finds his courage. Because I am tired of keeping this family together, of it not falling apart as they badly want to, I wish he makes an effort. If not for me, but at least for my brother, he deserves to grow up with two parents that don’t constantly argue.

My mother is fierce, dominant, and my father so submissive, cowardly. She keeps throwing punches and he keeps accepting them, believing that it’ll make things better. It doesn’t. He has to start speaking, because he is the only one who can fix this - we all deserve the truth.

So here we are in a stalemate. Will this weekend be abusive once more? Or will it feel like we’re a family? It’s such an unstable thing; one moment everything’s fine, and then the next, it’s not, it’s chaotic, destructive. It’s like being on guard all the time, always on your toes, always prepared to have your heart mauled anytime.

It’s so fucked up. I’m so fucked up.

The main reason why I’m studying, why I want to find a stable job is so I can provide everything my parents need. Maybe if they don’t have to work anymore, maybe if they have all their desired luxuries, maybe there will be less reasons for them to be so abusive with each other. Maybe they will finally forgive each other, finally love each other again, or atleast be content in each other’s presence. I really only want them to be happy in the end, never mind all the pain they’ve given me. Nevermind that I will always hold some form of resentment over them because of everything they had made me endure, I will always strive to just make them happy. I will snap at them sometimes, maybe raise my voice and maybe say things a child should never say to their parents but if I do, don’t I deserve a bit of justification as much as I have tried to provide for them for everything they have and everything they haven’t done as our parents.

But then, what if before I have accomplished anything, it all falls apart? What if I’m too late? Then what am I still fighting for if in the end of the battle, I still won’t have my family and they still want to be distanced from their life with me?

What happens when giving them all the material things they desire still isn’t enough to make them want to want their life, this life of theirs, of them as husband and wife and with me and my brother as their children?

Is there a still a purpose for me here?

My brother. I’d answer. If my parents don’t choose me, if their happiness isn’t with us then I’d live, I’d try to make everything better for my brother. He is the last thread that I will never let go of. So please, fucking please, Life, I am talking to you right now, don’t ever attempt to take him away from me because I will fucking lose it. There is no greater threat to my sanity than the thought of a life without my brother. He is my most stable purpose for living.

I love him with all my heart and I am trying everything in my power so that he doesn’t go through everything I am going through. That he doesn’t end up as fucked up as I am.

That’s it then, in my pondering, I have found my reason to wake up each morning. Him, if not my parents, even just my brother.

If there is anything good coming out of this whole ordeal, perhaps it’s my discovery of how it really is, how it really feels to love unconditionally. Because even after everything, even when I don’t want to become and live a life like my parents, I still love them. So much.

And unconditional love, it hurts. There is no thing in this world, even the most horrible thing about them, will ever completely diminish my love for them. It may darken or lighten throughout my whole life but it will always be there. It is a curse somehow, and a blessing, I guess if you look at it. No matter what they do, truly, and no matter how much the truth of who they are is revealed to me, I will always accept them. Even if I no longer defend them from myself, I still will be fiercely protective of them from others - I will never let others think ill of them, never let others freely say shit to them or to oppress them in anyway - I will fight for them. Perhaps it’s the reason why I never share too much about my parents to anyone, I’m afraid it will ruin them to other people. Funny, how I still feel so strongly of presenting to others that we are still an ideal family even if clearly, there are some very serious problems. Although sometimes, a cry of help from my tired heart escapes and they get a glimpse of the truth. The truth is ugly, and I will never let my parents be tarnished in other people’s eyes. They have flaws and inconsistencies as parents, but I will never let other people be the judge of that.

And so I find myself keeping all of this in the deepest recesses of my thoughts, no matter how damning the burden of it is in my heart. My friends will never understand my parents as much as I, and I will never give them the opportunity to pass judgments on them. I will fight them, no matter how much sense they may make - they need not make sense of our condition at home, I am not asking them to and they certainly don’t know better than me when it comes to this.

But sometimes, all I need them to know is that I am sad. And I need some semblance of support. And that most of the times, I am on the edge of madness and nothing feels right and nothing is right. I don’t know how they’ll be able to help though, I really don’t. Maybe I am all alone in this after all.

I just hope, you know, that one day it will come that it no longer feels like my parents’ happiness is exclusive from mine.

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