Yesterday, I received a message from my sister saying that she feels really unlucky. She was telling me about her fight with our mother. Again.
You see, we grew up in a home that was incomplete. No mother and no father. I guess some of us are just really lucky to live life like this.
It was crap.
Growing up with my grandmother and grandfather seemed normal that time, and with your cousins, aunts and uncles occupying the same abode. It was a weird setting. We had to live and deal with everybody so we can be sent to school and try as much as possible to live a normal life.
I loved my father very much. He was the perfect man for me. He was silent, very smart and hardworking. Until one time he lost it all and the last of his fuse just suddenly exploded. Then he left. I was 8. My sister 1. My brother, the one who came after me just died 4 years before that.
The last memory I had of him was him lying in a coffin when I was 15. Dead. Promises gone.
My mother. I can say that she is different. She is just plain different. I think everybody who knows her can say the same thing. She is sweet, yes. But there are times that she will be the total opposite of that sweet, sweet facade. She can hurt us. She hurts us. Never physically though.
She has her own mind. She “listens”, but forgets. I told her many times that we never felt her presence in our lives. I remembered her crying and embracing me.
Sometimes I wonder how she was raised by the same people who raised us.
Once, a friend was telling me about the time when she had her first child, a daughter. She said that after having her, she finally realized how much her mother loves her. Then she asked me: “It is true, right?” And I nodded my head to “show” my agreement. At the back of my head though I was thinking: “I really don’t know what you are talking about.”
She is my mother, you see. We know that she is passing through a difficult time right now and we have always been there for her. A difficult phase that she alone placed herself into. We are. We provide. She is always welcome. We love her unconditionally. But I think it will never be enough.
These are strong words, I know – but really vague. This post is not clear. I am sorry.
Watching Zoë sleeping in her bed this morning, I know, while wiping my tear-stricken face, I will love her even after my last breath.
I will never be my mother.
But I will forever be her daughter.
I forgive her everyday.
Could it be that our mamang needs professional help?