I often say that we should work for one’s happiness, for our own goals, and not care about what others have to say. Don’t take me wrong, I find that to be a truth of mine but the real truth is that I don’t follow it all the way through. I do care about what someone says (one person in particular), that person being my mother.
I grew up with a very strict mother, being the youngest one I always felt left out by everyone. My siblings were much more older than I was, and had no interest in playing with a little kid (especially since they were going through puberty and the like). To get attention I strived to be the best in school, to get the best grades possible, to be the best of the best. To get who’s attention? My mother’s. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I realized why she was so different towards me compared to my siblings. My father named me after an affair of his, I had the unusual name. Some people like unusual names but when my father named me, he “cursed” me. I guess it stuck with my mom, I didn’t ask for what I’ve gotten but I did. My mother has a thing where she’ll be extremely sweet to me, and that is to make up for how she feels about me. She dislikes me every now and then because of my name, because it brings her memories of my father’s awful adventures. I didn’t ask for it, but that’s just what I got.
All my years from elementary to high school, even now to college I try to be the best in hopes that one day my mom will just for once tell me that I’m doing something right. To her, everything I do is wrong, or bad, or just never enough. She never attended a teacher-parent conference, or any of my award ceremonies, she had to be practically dragged by my brother to my high school graduation. Graduating with honors and top of class wasn’t good enough for her. When I started college she said how my career was just not good enough. Why couldn’t I have studied to be a lawyer? A doctor? That’s what she asked me. I got to a point where I said I gotta work hard for me, not for her.
To be honest, I do work for me, but deep down I’ll always have that in me. To want her to notice that I’m not doing everything wrong. To tell me at least once that what I’m doing is right. To not be compared with my sisters. That is my confession, I confess that I do care about what my mom says. Why? Because it hurts when she tells me that I don’t do anything right. Really? I mean, seriously? Making the Dean’s List, being in Honors doesn’t seem to mean anything to her.
See I don’t understand. I’ve heard her say amazing things about me to others, others have told me so too. But why can’t she just tell me? I never asked to be named what I am named, I never asked to remind my mom about what my dad did. I confess that it hurts, I pretend like I don’t care, but I do. Sometimes, I just wish she could let go of the past, that’s all.
Smile, because sometimes it feels good to confess the things that haunt us the most.