2 days. 2 days I’m
left feeling like a mess. You know what they say about the third time’s the
charm? Maybe tomorrow will be the day where I finally lose myself. Dare I say I
look forward to it?
How could you say
that to me? How could you find the hate within yourself to say that to me? I
love you so much I stay realistic. I stay grounded and rooted to the ground
like a hundred-year-old tree so that I could hold on to your ropes when you
stray too far. I am the mechanism in a music box to stop you from spinning too
much. I love you so much I bury the dreamer in me, smothering her screams to be
let free from practicalities and pessimism.
Could you blame
me? For wanting to be safe from harm and disappointment at every turn of the
way. Could you blame me? For wanting you safe with me and protected against
harm and disappointment. Could you blame me? For turning out the way I did.
You tell me you
are disappointed. You are disappointed that I, as your daughter could not share
your hopes and dreams. I, while protecting myself, I smother the dreamer in you
from being free. You tell me that your life was made up of nothing but
disappointments and could you blame me for reacting the way I did because I
love you so much, I don’t want you to feel that way, especially if I am going
to be the one inflicting it?
I am so tired of
watching you get your hopes up only to be shattered at the end of the day and
you say it’s okay? What about me? Am I supposed to think it’s okay too? Am I
supposed to put aside whatever little heart I have left to just let you
continue your quest on continuous disappointments? Am I wrong in wanting to
protect you, my mother, from getting hurt? But you say I’m living too
realistically that you are disappointed I could not listen to your dreams.
But you have no
idea of the nights I think about that dream of yours. Whether it was possible,
whether it was going to be a success. You have no idea how excited I get at
turning our lives around. You have no idea the tears I’ve shed fearful of that
dream not becoming a reality. You have no idea how battered and bruised the
dreamer in me is from the constant beating to hide away. I had to stay
realistic so that your hopes won’t get too high.
You tell me that I
can never understand parents’ love and wishes for their children. Mom, I can’t
help it, I’m not a mother. But if I turn the question back to you, you who have
lived your life banging into concrete walls of let downs, do you know how it
feels like to watch your mother get her feelings trampled by people who don’t
appreciate her? And not being able to do anything for her because you don’t
have the authority, nor the means to do so. Do you know how difficult it is to
be in the position where you can’t fulfill your parents’ dreams? This is not me
being pressured, mother.
This is me, aching and dying for not being able to
live up to your expectations. This is me, wanting to do so much but not having
the capabilities to. This is me, being so frustrated because you will never
understand me.
And we will
constantly be in this roundabout of misunderstandings because we can never find
it within ourselves to understand each other. We can never know how much one
loves the other.
Why does it have
to be me who breaks your heart? Me by being realistic causes your disappointment.
Why can’t you be disappointed at things you should be disappointed at? Why am I
left in such a mess, and filled with so much hate for myself that I don’t know
how to continue living with this eternal guilt of failing to be your daughter
when I thought that I love you so much, I wanted to protect you.
You ask me to ask
for your death, and this is me, asking you to ask for my death because I cannot
live with myself anymore. For I am now the one inflicting the pain upon you.
