It’s quite sad that I have to forcefully elbow myself out of my current state and towards a subterranean lair of deep blues, all for the hopes of bringing my despicable self to sit down, and write something. This time however, I decided to take advantage of my surprisingly dormant wraths, which recently decided to imitate a volcanic eruption.
Whilst I am aware that I undeniably do not have a place reserved within the written world, nor do I intend on getting a hold of one, I keep finding myself guided to a blank document. Truthfully, I think that subliminally, it’s me trying to remove myself from the veiled grief, if I may.
That being said, I don’t want to keep regurgitating the typical rants of the victimized teenager, even though that’s probably going to be the destination of this post.
For the past few months, I’ve adapted a method that drove me to ‘self-content’, or so I thought. I said maybe, just maybe, if I pretended to be this conforming, compliant individual, I might actually fool myself into acceptance.
I’d accept the unsolicited meddling that followed the loss of my parent, I’d accept the despairing looks that never failed to corner me, and I’d accept that the frameworks of my household would not align with your ‘typical’ family. I might even start to believe the idea that my household did, in fact, correspond with the norm.
Mariam, the nincompoop, expert at fabricating false facades, fails to smother the worn-out seed of woe that’s holding her back from self-satisfaction. Funny.
With every family gathering, I’m always left with this feeling of overwhelming, transcended exhaustion. I bite my tongue in the arc of conversations. “I have to keep mother happy,” I remind myself. If I say something, chances are, I prompt the domino effect of fury. Mother needs not to add more anxieties to her doubled list of worries. After all, considering the unfortunate circumstances that left her anchored to three kids, and forced her to take on the responsibility of both parents, I at least owe it to her.
In terms of myself, I’m bitter.
This metaphor of perfection, a leader in her workplace, the epitome of independence, an incentive to many, is constantly stifled and throttled when it comes to drawing a line with anything concerning her children.
Appalling is understating the fact that I’ve become accustomed to the scheduled frenzies after the Morning Prayer. It frustrates me so much. I see her removing herself from the emotional distress, and into her work she delves, assimilating it as the only companion that would offer her distraction from them. A painful truth that no one would ask for.
If that’s their attempt with filling the void of fatherhood, then it’s about time that someone reported back of their progress.
It has almost gotten to the point where I can taste the bitterness seeping from my sour reality.
But all that I can do at this very moment is play my infamous cassette of silence, and quench their neediness to meddle. I think I can safely say that my mother did a plausible job at raising all three of us with the help of no one but herself. People associate chivalry with knighthood, but just the mere thought of having no one to share the stress with, the inescapable pain, the restraining responsibility or even the bliss that parents encounter with raising their children, mother, I praise you for exhibiting the true meaning of chivalry.
From here, I leave you with silence.