Posts tagged with "mother"

The Idea of Love

While my mother always made it a point to stay involved in my life (to a fault), it was never because she loved me. She’s not someone who’s emotionally intelligent enough to understand what love is.

She just loved the idea of a son, something “normal” people have.

Which is why she tries to cling to me so desperately, even when I try so vehemently to avoid her. It’s the same way that some men or women only love the idea of marriage, instead of their spouses. They’re relationships based on all the wrong reasons.

Realizing this has made me wonder; did I ever actually love my girlfriends, or did I just love the idea of love?

The Cut-Off Defence

Through all this, I’ve come to realize that I cut people out of my life as a defence mechanism.

When someone hurts me, I distance myself from them so they mean nothing to me.

And if someone means nothing to me, they can’t hurt me.

Often it’s an easy choice — just one wrong word or action — but not all the time. Cutting off my mom was by no means a rash decision; it took years of consideration and plenty of chances before she finally went too far.

What surprises me the most is that even though I now know that I have this defence mechanism, I don’t see a problem with it.

I’ve been hurt by enough people, and I don’t want to be hurt any more.

Are You In A Lot Of Pain?

People wonder how it got so far. They ask me if something happened and I tell them, “Yeah…my childhood”.

They ask me if I hate you, and I tell them “hate” isn’t a strong enough word.

It hurts, doesn’t it? Are you in a lot of pain? Cause I was in a lot of pain.

I’m still trying to fix your damage. Still trying to cover up the scars.

You deserve this. You did this to yourself.

And I fucking hope it hurts.

The Old and Immature

My mom called.

She started about some transfer forms, unfinished business in the wake of the divorce, but carefully segued into asking if I wanted to take a trip to the States with some other family.

This is how she tries to make amends. She doesn’t apologize or ask how I’m doing because she can’t. She can’t admit that she’s done any wrong, not even to herself. Her insecurity doesn’t allow her to show any vulnerability.

I keep my rage in check, but it’s a hard fire to fight. After what I’ve been through, after telling her never to talk to me again, she has the audacity to ask as if nothing has happened.

With a firm voice, I tell her no. No to the trip, no to her, and this causes her tone to grow angry. It’s funny to think that she may be angry at me, like a rapist being angry at his victim, but I know it’s not anger. It’s sadness, but she masks it with anger, the way she hides her guilt behind her excuses and explanations.

It’s easier to deal with the loss of your only child when it’s his fault.

From what she says, I can tell she’s more worried about her image of being a bad parent to her friends, than to actually being a mother to me. This was the person who “raised” me. The person who was supposed to teach me to be proud of who I am. To not be superficial. To be humble. To own up to my mistakes. To take responsibility for my actions. It’s a scary thought.

I can read my mom like a book. Not because I’ve known her for so long, but because she’s still a child. I know exactly what she’s thinking, and at the same time, she shows a total lack of self-awareness. She still hasn’t learned the important lessons, the epiphanies one experiences through childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood.

Talking to her is like talking to myself at an earlier stage in life.

Lessons From a Childhood of Abuse

I often explain to people that Karaoke to the Chinese is like drinking to the British. We don’t pour pints at our parties, we sing. It’s part of the culture. The Chinese-Canadian dream is a Toyota in every driveway and a Karaoke machine in every house.

My dad was no exception. Like all his hobbies, he took Karaoke seriously. He had singing lessons from a famous teacher. Sometimes, he would record himself and listen to the tapes to analyze his singing when driving me to school. We would never talk on those hour-long rides, I would only hear him singing, sometimes along with his recorded voice, sometimes practicing the parts that he didn’t have quite right.

When I was young, about seven, I would sing one of the English songs from his collection. I couldn’t tell you why. Karaoke didn’t particularly interest me. Maybe it was a way for me to be a part of his life. He had nothing to do with me otherwise.

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