The day after
And here it comes: The Guilt. You feel like an ungrateful, arrogant, wretch of a devil-child for having raged at your mother so furiously. And on the web, as well, which is rather unfair because it doesn’t give her a chance to defend herself. And you think how badly she would feel that she is the last to know about how you feel about her. But you know you can’t be honest with her. You’ve tried that before and it only hurt her and made her doubt her abilities as a mother. Some words you just can’t take back. There are many things you don’t want to see in life and one of them is seeing your mother cry because of the things you’ve said.
The thing is, I know I had it good. I couldn’t have had a mother who cared and gave up more for her kids than mine did. She could easily have said, “Sod you, you little punk,” and tossed me out on my sorry ass. She could easily have not gotten up at 4am every morning to make her children breakfast as well as lunch so we had something good inside us while she was at work. She could have not spent more buying free-range and organic and used the money to go for a massage every month. She could have splashed her hard-earned cash teaching other people’s brats on a new pair of shoes instead of putting it away for her children so that when her daughter is braying for more money at university, it’s already there for her. She could have not had me or any of my siblings at all, and lived on a beach-front property on the East Coast with a maid and a driver to take her to the capital city for a day of shopping and pampering whenever she wanted. She didn’t have to live a penny-pinching life of stress and worry that ended up ruining her health. But she did, and you know there’s no way you could ever pay her back. Such debts you carry to your grave.
Does it mean I shouldn’t have been angry with her? No, because denying it would have been a disservice to me and in a roundabout way, to my mother as well. My feelings were valid and my mother can’t be right all the time, and there’ll come a day when my mother would be grateful that she was wrong and I was right. (I’m still waiting for that day, though.)
My mum would probably deny it but I think part of her anxiety and worry over me is that I haven’t fulfilled what she thinks is my full potential. My parents have always said, “You can be anything you want in the world. But whatever you do, be the best at it. Even if you are a toilet cleaner, be the best toilet cleaner there is.” The caveat to that is that my parents will hit the roof if any of us kids do become a toilet cleaner, because with our brains and education and opportunities in life, they don’t expect any of us to have to be one.
But I wish that my mother would just let me be me without feeling like I have to justify my existence. That being ordinary is not a crime. That she doesn’t always have to compare me to everyone else. That she should stop thinking I could be better. Can’t I just be an ordinary doctor and not discover the cure to cancer? Can’t I just play volleyball and be totally shit at it but continue to play it because I enjoy it? Can’t I read a million and one trashy fantasy books without having to read all the high literary stuff that win awards? Who am I competing against here? My parents’ friends’ kids? Maybe I just like to try different things in life. It doesn’t mean I’m a quitter or a failure. How do I know whether I’d be good at something unless I try it first?
Fear of the unknown controls my mother. She stopped me from playing hockey because she said that it was dangerous. She stopped me skateboarding because she was scared I would break a leg. How do I know I’d break my leg when I haven’t even rolled down the ramps yet? When I was at home two months ago, her justification for not letting me drive on my own at night was because I may get abducted and murdered like the poor women in the news recently. Yes, I can understand her fears but they are also unrealistic. In another hair-tearing moment, I asked, “Well, do you NOT want me to come back to Malaysia after all? Are you telling me to stay in England where you think it is safer?”
“No.”
“But, I will be driving on my own at night all the time once I start working here. I already am driving on my own at night.”
“Yes, but you can always reduce the chance of abduction and murder by not driving on your own when you don’t have to,” my mum replied, not realising how ridiculous she sounded.
I could only splutter in disbelief. There was no way you could argue against someone whose reasoning was logic-defying.
You can see the contradiction. She fears failure and getting hurt. You can’t instil that in your children yet lament their unwillingness to be ambitious and adventurous. Yes, maybe I’m naturally laid-back and probably would be this way no matter how my mother behaved.
Yet, my mother isn’t (always) the psycho woman I or my siblings portray her as. She can be smart, funny, incredibly witty and screamingly profane when the mood takes her. She can be tough as nails or a real softie. She is honest, hardworking and conscientious. She is a person after all, not a freaking angel. She was a 27 year old once, who had her own problems with her mother. In fact, she still has, because she told me all about it.
That’s a nice thought isn’t it? I’ll still be having issues with my mother when I’m in my fifties.
And here it comes: The Guilt. You feel like an ungrateful, arrogant, wretch of a devil-child for having raged at your mother so furiously. And on the web, as well, which is rather unfair because it doesn’t give her a chance to defend herself. And you think how badly she would feel that she is the last to know about how you feel about her. But you know you can’t be honest with her. You’ve tried that before and it only hurt her and made her doubt her abilities as a mother. Some words you just can’t take back. There are many things you don’t want to see in life and one of them is seeing your mother cry because of the things you’ve said.
The thing is, I know I had it good. I couldn’t have had a mother who cared and gave up more for her kids than mine did. She could easily have said, “Sod you, you little punk,” and tossed me out on my sorry ass. She could easily have not gotten up at 4am every morning to make her children breakfast as well as lunch so we had something good inside us while she was at work. She could have not spent more buying free-range and organic and used the money to go for a massage every month. She could have splashed her hard-earned cash teaching other people’s brats on a new pair of shoes instead of putting it away for her children so that when her daughter is braying for more money at university, it’s already there for her. She could have not had me or any of my siblings at all, and lived on a beach-front property on the East Coast with a maid and a driver to take her to the capital city for a day of shopping and pampering whenever she wanted. She didn’t have to live a penny-pinching life of stress and worry that ended up ruining her health. But she did, and you know there’s no way you could ever pay her back. Such debts you carry to your grave.
Does it mean I shouldn’t have been angry with her? No, because denying it would have been a disservice to me and in a roundabout way, to my mother as well. My feelings were valid and my mother can’t be right all the time, and there’ll come a day when my mother would be grateful that she was wrong and I was right. (I’m still waiting for that day, though.)
My mum would probably deny it but I think part of her anxiety and worry over me is that I haven’t fulfilled what she thinks is my full potential. My parents have always said, “You can be anything you want in the world. But whatever you do, be the best at it. Even if you are a toilet cleaner, be the best toilet cleaner there is.” The caveat to that is that my parents will hit the roof if any of us kids do become a toilet cleaner, because with our brains and education and opportunities in life, they don’t expect any of us to have to be one.
But I wish that my mother would just let me be me without feeling like I have to justify my existence. That being ordinary is not a crime. That she doesn’t always have to compare me to everyone else. That she should stop thinking I could be better. Can’t I just be an ordinary doctor and not discover the cure to cancer? Can’t I just play volleyball and be totally shit at it but continue to play it because I enjoy it? Can’t I read a million and one trashy fantasy books without having to read all the high literary stuff that win awards? Who am I competing against here? My parents’ friends’ kids? Maybe I just like to try different things in life. It doesn’t mean I’m a quitter or a failure. How do I know whether I’d be good at something unless I try it first?
Fear of the unknown controls my mother. She stopped me from playing hockey because she said that it was dangerous. She stopped me skateboarding because she was scared I would break a leg. How do I know I’d break my leg when I haven’t even rolled down the ramps yet? When I was at home two months ago, her justification for not letting me drive on my own at night was because I may get abducted and murdered like the poor women in the news recently. Yes, I can understand her fears but they are also unrealistic. In another hair-tearing moment, I asked, “Well, do you NOT want me to come back to Malaysia after all? Are you telling me to stay in England where you think it is safer?”
“No.”
“But, I will be driving on my own at night all the time once I start working here. I already am driving on my own at night.”
“Yes, but you can always reduce the chance of abduction and murder by not driving on your own when you don’t have to,” my mum replied, not realising how ridiculous she sounded.
I could only splutter in disbelief. There was no way you could argue against someone whose reasoning was logic-defying.
You can see the contradiction. She fears failure and getting hurt. You can’t instil that in your children yet lament their unwillingness to be ambitious and adventurous. Yes, maybe I’m naturally laid-back and probably would be this way no matter how my mother behaved.
Yet, my mother isn’t (always) the psycho woman I or my siblings portray her as. She can be smart, funny, incredibly witty and screamingly profane when the mood takes her. She can be tough as nails or a real softie. She is honest, hardworking and conscientious. She is a person after all, not a freaking angel. She was a 27 year old once, who had her own problems with her mother. In fact, she still has, because she told me all about it.
That’s a nice thought isn’t it? I’ll still be having issues with my mother when I’m in my fifties.
Comments
Also, she didn't let me go-kart or ride a horse because "You wouldn't be able to fit into the go-kart" and "You'll kill the horse."
Other than that, I feel bad.
Ha hah, kill the horse. So funny ...... and yet so cruel.