Mind over unhappy matters

I don’t know when I started this habit of imagining myself as a girl with magical powers that would make people happy. In this special world, I would fly everywhere and use my magic to bring joy to the needy people. I was very much loved by them because of all the marvelous things I did for them.

As I lay in bed, too spent after a crying, I would fill my head with happy thoughts of the good deeds I would do for people. I would imagine how well they thought of me and their love for me meant so much. I always drifted off to sleep before my thoughts concluded.

After the bra episode, I had begun to develop this habit of expecting the worst scenario that would await me at home. I didn’t take things for granted as far as my mother was concerned. So every time before I reached home I would imagine my mother was waiting for me, not with open arms but with hostility. As I was approaching my house, my mind always was filled with trepidation. It was such a relief when nothing happened. Whenever I let down my guard, something would happen. It was as if when I allowed my mind to be idle, I was inviting the one thing I didn’t want.

One day, I was caught by my mother playing hopscotch in the driveway of my tuition teacher’s house instead of going home right after the tuition. My mother was passing by on her way home from the market. It was a split moment when we exchanged glances and I didn’t know my fate was sealed. Since my mother didn’t stop and ask me to follow her home I’d continued with my game.

When I reached home without a nagging thought in my head, my mother greeted me with the cane, striking me on my leg. My mother was angrier than she had ever been because caning alone wasn’t enough to cool the fire in her and she dragged me into the bathroom and pressed my head into the bathtub of water. Before I could struggle, my head was yanked out of the water and then she repeated the act. After the shock of the few seconds, I remember how petrified I was.

My mother left me in the bathroom crying. As I was sitting on the floor of the bathroom, unable to cry anymore, one thought crossed my mind. I got up and filled a container with water and then I stirred in a handful of washing power. I made two attempts to raise the container to my mouth but in the end I poured away the content. Even back then, I knew I didn’t have it in me to commit suicide. I simply wanted to create a scene to act out my pain. Even though it was a one-man show with no audience I felt much better after that.

Being a self-absorbed person at that time, I didn’t know my youngest sister experienced the dunk-in-the-water experience more times than I did. It only happened to me once. But that’s another story for another time.

blush

The year I turned 11 wasn’t a good year. It was the year when my two paternal aunts discovered they had cancers. They didn’t live for long. The disease had struck them fast and hard. They died within a few short months of each other. I was devastated as I prayed so hard for their recovery.

While my aunts were dying, cancer was a hot topic. My mother was discussing it with the neighbors. I could hear the talk of growth, lump and the deadliness of the disease for it was as sure as a death-warrant. So when both my aunts passed away, it left no doubt in mind that cancer was incurable.

When I had budding breasts, I was all at sea about my condition. Terror was playing havoc with me. I thought I was dying and I had nobody to share my frightening thoughts with. It was a dark period for me as I had been crying quietly in the silent of the nights. It wasn’t death that freaked me out, but the knowledge that I would never ever set my eyes on siblings and beloved grandma was the cause of my unhappiness. Not that anyone had ever noticed I was deeply unhappy. Maybe I hid my depression well.

When my secret became too much for me to bear, I broke down and told my younger sister. Had I known it would bring such a huge relief, I would have shared my worry with my sister sooner. It was as if a burden was lifted off my back. Strange enough, the thought of dying flew out of the window the moment I felt released. Years later whenever my sister remembered my confession she would tease me.

Shortly after I’d recovered from my self-inflicted despair, my mother noticed that I needed training bras and bought some for me.

I came home from school to find my mother sitting on the twin swing with my neighbor and her daughter who was four years my senior.

“Hey, your daughter has reached puberty already,” she expressed her surprise. Woe upon me that an innocent remark would bring disaster to me. My mother rushed out of the swing and pounced on me like a bloodthirsty hound. I’d just walked past the gates when this happened.

She grabbed me by my shoulders just to check whether I’d worn bras or not. “Don’t tell me you haven’t worn your bras, you’re a disgraceful girl.” She was pulling hard at my blouse. I resisted as I felt she was stripping me in front of my neighbors. I was oblivious to her blows for at that very moment I was more concerned over my state of undressed. My blouse was pulled out of my pinafore, the top half was unbuttoned and the top parts of the pinafore were flapping on both sides of the skirt. In my struggle I was pushed down on the concreted floor, my upper body hunched over my bended legs with my both arms protecting my front.

I wonder if she had ever felt any remorse when she discovered I was wearing my bras. Had she ever realized her behavior was disgraceful? Strange things could happen every time a remark was made, no matter how innocent or otherwise. Even if it was innocently said, my mother would somehow see an underlying meaning behind it.

The episode of the bras was a good example. In some part of her twisted mind she thought either the neighbor had noticed that I’d not worn bras or implied she couldn’t afford to buy me bras.

My bundle of joy

My youngest brother was born when I was 10-year old. I was fascinated by this perfectly formed tiny body. I spent my free time with him. Soon I was able to change his diapers and make milk for him. I would buy him tiny shoes and cute, tiny t-shirts with the pocket money I’d saved up. Suddenly there was a difference in my life. I had a real life doll to play with.

Before I knew what had hit I became more his mother than his real mother. I wouldn’t have minded so much even when I was practically tied to the tiny bundle of joy. There were times when I was disappointed that I wasn’t allowed to go out because I had to stay back to baby-sit him.

One day, my few months old baby brother fell sick and I accompanied my mother and him to the clinic. I remember the waiting area was crowded because everywhere I turned my face I would see someone and some people had to stand.

So when my brother sneezed, my mother turned to me and gave me a slap. Why? In some part of her twisted mind she blamed me for his illness. She caused quite a stir in the clinic. A slap wasn’t the only embarrassment I received I was further humiliated by her verbal attack. I was desperately ashamed, it was one of those occasions when I wished for the ground to open up and swallow me.

I had never been embarrassed about the way my parents looked as they looked presentable. But it was my mother’s unpredictable behavior which embarrassed and pained me and the awkwardness between my father and me that saddened me. It hurt that we didn’t have a normal father and daughter relationship.

On hindsight, my mother wasn’t quite the monster in the sense she had never inflicted serious injuries on anyone of us. At least no broken bones or concussion, no stitching and taping and these things have been happening to most unfortunate abused children. Some didn’t live to tell. Some were too young to understand they had done nothing to deserve such horrendous pains in their very short lives. To these suffering children death was a welcoming one.

In those days, without the help of hindsight to see the larger picture, I had felt the hurts and injustices that had fallen on me. At that moment in time, my every unhappy thought had been centered on my own suffering. I had never really spared a thought that my sisters were my fellow sufferers too.

My sisters and I have talked about our experiences. We always felt so ashamed about them but now we don’t. We used to wonder why we couldn’t have had a mother like the kind neighbor who lived across us. Back then, we were so ignorant that we didn’t know that there have been even worst parents in comparison to ours.

I should thank my mother, mainly because of her I’ve tried not to make the same mistakes she’d made. With my children, I would never reprimand them in public. I would make it a point to have a one-on-one talk. Making a scene isn’t my cup of tea. I am no pushover but I have a more dignified way of dealing with my problems. Though I had an unhappy childhood and a few unhappy episodes I wouldn’t want them to revisit on my children through my own actions.