Letters to My Mother- Chapter 1 : What I’ll Never Tell Her
Sunday, October 29th, 2006” What’s the name of that book you wrote? It was about your mother…”
“I Love You but Please Die.” - Stepford Wives.
You tell me I’ve lost my roots. That I’ve been whisked away by the ever tempting West and it’s ideologies. Has it ever occured to you that I do not want to be THIS tree? That maybe I cannot grow up to my full length if I stay planted in this soil?
My mother and I have very different outlooks on life (and thank God for that). From what looks good on me, what is right or wrong, to who Ian should be. These differences have been occuring more often lately, ever since Ian came into the picture, I have to admit. Ian has helped me see the world in a totally different way, and he also sees things in a similar light with me. There is a different life out there, and it’s ok. Sure it lacks sambal belacan, but there they have Tabasco! (and Tabasco is ALWAYS good. Ooh, accept on ice cream. Do NOT try that at home.)
You tell me I’ve changed. That you don’t know me anymore. That I am no longer that little girl you waited for 9 years for. Was I ever?
My mum shoved pink down my throat when I was a kid. Because of that, I hate pink. She tried to push a lot of things into my head, too. Like the west is evil, or men will ALWAYS cheat on you, that anybody who isn’t Muslim or Malay are condemned to be failures. Oh, and that Mother’s are never, EVER, wrong.
You tell us this is our house, so we should take responsibilty of taking care of it, coz this house is OUR home. So why are we constantly following YOUR rules? Maybe we don’t care if the sink isn’t wiped Sahara dry, or if the sofa is 2 INCHES away from it’s “proper” position, or if the kitchen towels are folded and kept facing the cabinet door that will always be closed from the public eye? Maybe we like the house to have the lived-in look. Maybe you’re a paranoid perfectionist.
You tell me you let me do whatever I want, that you support me, that you understand me.
That is why my mother doesn’t know I’m bisexual. That is why she doesn’t know I’ve attempted suicide 4 times. That is why she does not know I cut myself, or that I’m insomniac, or was bullimic AND anorexic, or have experienced a traumatic past with a guy who told me he loved me. Or that I know she lied about an ex of mine, just to get me to break off with him.
I’ve been told that mother’s go the distance to protect their child and show us their love. But their “going the distance” has pushed us off the edge. The rest of our family have to constantly pretend we agree with and understand her. And even if we don’t, even if I stand up for myself, she knocks me down with guilt trips(and I don’t know why I still go on those trips) and threats of leaving. The fucked up bit is that she won’t leave, so it’s this constant goad poking and never leaving.
Get this straight: I love my mother. To bits, I do. But the anger, the pain, the ongoing frustration is overshadowing my patience and love for her. She constantly tells me that I won’t understand until I am a mother myself. Maybe I don’t get it yet. Maybe I’ll come upon one day where I have to swalllow my own words. But till then, I wish my mother would just let me enjoy Tabasco.
