The Lost Translation of a Mother's Love

When I woke up this morning, the first thing my head did was pain me.

It was 4am, and my loving mother had advice, and things to get off her chest with regards to my lifestyle choices, and tension in the home, which she has been trying to convince me to mitigate. The main problem is my father has passed on his pride, and I too, shall shine it diligently, and wear it as a mantle. At least, that is how it appears to onlookers of a certain age.

I like to think I have no problems with humility. Of course this is not true, but I can certainly think of scenarios where it is. I can put aside my hurt and anger and check in with someone I have an issue with; that we are not on good terms does not mean you deserve calamity. It’s still fuck you though, but I’d rather not look like the evil people described in Psalms who rejoice at the suffering of God’s servant. So why am I not yielding to my mother’s advice?

Aura for aura. They say not to cry more than the bereaved and this is true, but the picture that has been painted is that of a far less than ideal situation that all involved can only grin and bear. Naturally, anyone who loves you will encourage you to leave. Fuck sunken cost. Fuck “all those years”. People have been ill in their fundamental years and still recovered, and are living splendidly. I may be delusional, dangerously optimistic, or out of touch with reality, but I genuinely believe there’s no such thing as too late. Even if it is, your mind must never accept that. But I have digressed.

There is a certain level of tolerance she has built for the one who causes her pain. I refuse to build such tolerance, and I desire to break hers down. I have found that the older generation prefers to be deceived, and this has unfortunately not encouraged me to act accordingly. The truth will get me what I deserve (again, dangerously optimistic, but let me cook), and that is currently what I have received. Attempts at communicating and being honest have been interpreted as disrespect, and surely, this means more dialogue and mediation, right? No, I am immediately shut out. And I will stay out. Nothing else to it, you’re talking to someone who is learning and practicing conflict navigation with her friends because home is a beacon of passive aggressiveness. Maybe writing this is also passive aggressive. Maybe writing is acceptable in this situation because speaking got me ‘punished’.

How did I get this far without mentioning my drinking problem? Possibly due to my refusal to acknowledge it. I don't think it's bad, if there's anything to worry about, it's sweets. I cannot remember that i have alcohol on me and express and intensely feel the kind of joy that I felt remembering I had a (non-infused) brownie on me at work. If there's anything I should watch out for, it's sugar (it's both really, but the sugar is insidious, but then again, I can drink alomo straight...). I know her points are valid, but I want to tackle them my way, at my pace. I don't think I'll even have time or energy for the activities my mother is worried about, but I'll still be happy, because it would still be on my terms.

I do not expect this post to stay up long. But for now, behold my dirty linen.