“It was because of her job. It all started when she was riding on her bike, in that stupid purple dress she wears for work, the one with the gold fringe, when a boy from my class saw her and made fun of her in front of everybody. I wanted to be like shut up or I’ll make you shut up, but all I could do was laugh along. I laughed harder than anyone else, too. Then, when we were fighting, at the end, when she was mad but looked like she was about to cry, she shouted, “What can I do? We gotta eat, right?” That’s when I said it. It’s your fault for having me. I realized something after that, though. It’s not her fault she was born.”
— Breasts and Eggs, Mieko Kawakami
Then
Relationships of teen girls with their moms are so dynamic. I felt it too many times before. Being a middle child wasn’t help too. Everything I did was covered by the cleverness of the first and the cuteness of the third. At that time I said to myself, ‘Why would my parents even have me when they didn’t want to love me’, ‘Why do my siblings always get what they want but me.’
I used to think the world revolves around me. They revolve around me pointing their fingers at my head and saying I’m the problem. When something wrong happens it’s always ‘me’ who’s blamed. Why not my siblings? They are kids too. Kids do dumb things, right?
I did my part as a kid truthfully; do the dumb things. I said hurtful words to my parents. Of course, I didn’t mean it to be harsh and mean. But I said it anyway because I wanted to let out my frustration on them. Maybe I want them to recognize me as their child too. Maybe I want them to give love to me as they should.
What happens after I express those emotions? I feel regretful. Why did I say such mean words to my parents? I became furious with myself and beat myself up. I have mastered silently crying under my pillow all night and making the art of puffy eyes in the morning. I blamed myself for such thoughtless words I let out.
Being furious with myself has made me close the door from outside. I built walls from my ‘own people’ to protect myself from further disappointment. I begin to tolerate it and let my heart dull. Seeing the world with a filter that every happy moment is fake and followed by sorrow. Lowering expectations for everyone because in no way they will give me what I wanted. Thinking not worthy of something good and nice for myself. At that time I’ve already decided that I don’t want to become a mom like my mom.
Reading that part of the book has waken silent memories and feelings from the past. Feelings that I never felt again in recent years but still lingered in my memory like its imprinted on them.
Looking back, honestly what is it that ‘teens me’ want to gain at that time? Attention? Love? Recognition? Maybe all of them, but above that, all I need is for my mom to soften her words to me. Females tend to be a mirror of each other. If one emits a low and melancholic vibration, other females around her would willingly cry together. As if they think that crying together will lighten the weight on one’s shoulder.
The same thing goes for me and my mom. If only at that time she use more of a soft language, would I still yell her off like that? Maybe no, or maybe yes. And if only I still did that, at least I would feel more ashamed of my rude behavior and willing to lower my pride to ask for forgiveness first. Because I speak rudely when she makes delicate and tender approaches to me.
Now
Relationships of teen girls with their moms are so dynamic. Now that I have grown older, lived together with her longer, and ‘know’ her a lot more than I was in my teen years, I begin to understand. I experienced her vast emotions and expressions that were unique to her. I found that the pointing fingers at me were also pointed at her head too. I saw her stress and break down on something that irritated her integrity and belief.
One night when I was 16 or 17 she told me with her clouded mind and wandering eyes, far from my white bedroom ceiling, I can tell that she’s here but also not even here, ‘Even if you’re married, you need to struggle for your worth, you’re your own being and nothing can taints you into somebody else, that’s how you stand up for yourself. So that no one can hurt you.’
I’m not even sure if it’s a dream or reality but I remember it vividly, so vivid that it could color my room golden and bright. In fact, my room was pitch dark but her eyes glistened on its own, making a path for silver beads of diamonds. My room was so silent but her loud mind shouting into my own. I had never seen her more vulnerable than that. A person who I thought was rock-hearted can be this fragile that I want to hug close and keep safe.
I’m learning about a woman who is persistent and confident. Strive for her family and stand tall in her shoes of integrity. Now I saw her with awe in my mind and prayer in my heart. Someday I will be like my mom. No, I WANT to be like my mom.
But what can I say now? I still wouldn’t dare to say thank you, I love you, I’m sorry for shouting, and slamming the door when I was 10. Why? Because she had never said it herself.
Regardless, I understand it more than ever before. She loves me in our everyday banters, our inside jokes, and our shared lipsticks. She loves me for me. It’s her first time being a mother of three, so why would I expect perfection from her?
Hana’s note
In this post, I write my most raw self to ponder over. After I read that part in the book, my mind traveled to teen me and began a train of thoughts. I’m sure that I’m not the only one who feels this, that’s why I decided to post it. Thank you for reading until the end. Love!
