I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. I know I’m way better than this. But each time I do look back to see how far I’ve managed to come from where I was, all I see is a fragile trail of broken promises, mistakes and errors, of what used to be. Like some jarring discord of a melody played out-of-tune, looking back serves as nothing but a reminder that this was something that’s going to be a perpetual part of me for the rest of my life. What scares me most though is how I myself have the sinking feeling that it may just, after all, become an integral part of me that’s never going away.
My pathetic situation reminds me a lot of the little porcelain vase Mum keeps on the high shelf to keep May from reaching. Only in my case, I see the delicate little thing with its paper-thin neck shattered to a million and one bits on the floor, instead of it standing safe and snug, hidden away from an eleven-year-old’s hands on the little pedestal that Mum has erected for it.
To explain my sudden melancholic note, today marks the fourth year since I’ve been battling it. It’s been four long years yet I’m still not any better. It’s not like I didn’t try. I did, I truly did, with every single fibre of my being. I want, more than anything else in the world, to be able to say something and sincerely mean it without the slightest hint of pretense. You don’t know what’s it like to smile and say something to your Mum only to feel the complete opposite inside. To string together words that you don’t mean, fabrications after lies after shams. To trump up stories so shamelessly like that to someone you love so much, you have no idea the anguish and turmoil that boils within you with each word that leaves your lips.
The solution to ending the way I feel right now is, unfortunately, excruciatingly obvious.
But just like everything that has to do with Mum, it is something easier said than done. I don’t like it when I hurt her. I don’t like it when I make her cry. Ironically, it’s the one thing I seem to make her do more than anything else.
Four years, eighteen hours, 25 minutes, and still counting.
One day, I will get over it. One day, I will rise from these cloudy waters victorious and triumphant, back in total control of my own life.
But till then, I just hope Mum never finds out.