I want to write. I want to write so badly. Maybe if I had started writing ten minutes ago, something amazing would have filled these pages. But now I feel the numbness that takes over once you finish crying.
My mother’s sick. Not seriously sick but the physical and mental hardships my mother had gone through for twenty years has begun to show. My mother has always been strong. Especially with her positive attitude and happy mentality, they were the only things that had gotten her this far, or I would have lost her a long time ago.
However, I was’t crying because she was sick. We were talking about a lot of things. The conversation soon turned towards the mental abuse she had gotten from my father. My dad is a great person, but like I explained, good people can do bad things. For my father, it was my mother that got hurt.
So, I cried…like always. But I was mad at myself. I’ve always been emotional and if only I acted stronger than my mother wouldn’t hesitate to come to me when things got hard. However, I can’t pretend. Maybe with someone else I could, but with her I can’t because I’ve seen it. I’ve witnessed firsthand her loneliness, the arguments, and lack of life during her lowest moments.
I cried because I realized subconsciously, that the main reason I so badly didn’t want to continue sitting at home doing nothing and began writing this blog was because I didn’t want to become like my mother. My mother is honestly the greatest mother and the most wonderful person I know. Yet, she made me realize what I’m most afraid of….the idea of just existing. Just breathing everyday with no purpose, just a routine where you take of others, and taking care of yourself takes no place in your mind.
My mother has always explained to my sister and I that everything happens for a reason. There were always good things and bad things. However, my mother never had any good things that were good enough to outweigh the bad. She had no passion she could turn to or pursue without being held back by her spouse. She became isolated in a new country, knowing no one or the language where as she was used to growing up with ten siblings in the house that basically spelled rowdy in caps.
I cry for my dad too, knowing what he had gone through. But if only he hadn’t been one of the biggest reasons in scarring everyone else in the family, maybe I would have cried more.
All I can think about is how I badly want to write more. There’s so much to tell. So many details to describe. So many bad memories and pain to spill.
…but it’s hard to stay awake.