it has been seventeen years. and i am already cooled. hardened.
i come from a dysfunctional home. house. for me. at least. it seems to be functional for every one else in it. i dont understand how i can be leading such a double life. home just means 'non-school' to me. none of the warm home sweet home fuzzy sensations that are supposed to accompany that word. at 'home', i am just a sullen, savage beast of some sort. huddling in my own preoccupations and opaque to all outsiders. all are outsiders in this beast cell.
you say i am quiet. and uncommunicative. but the inside of the car is dark. and you don't see my tears. and im glad you dont. you never did. you happens to be collective. if there was one person in this cell i could love genuinely- it wouldn't be this hard. you say i am quiet. of course, you don't know i like to sing. or if i can. but in here i only sing to myself, in the dark confines of my own room cage. in case you hear me, and think i am happy. and are mistaken.
you were the first and only person who called me a fool. and meant it. i have never forgotten since. people say children remember everything after the age of 7. i was about 9. you never say anything good about me. i am unhygienic, careless, nonchalant, dirty, foul, useless- the way beasts should be. oh, but the people in church come and say nice things about me sometimes. assistant camp comm ah? raffles? then you smile. but only for as long as the warden stands there and thinks you have trained your daughter well. (no, they don't know who she really is. I do.)
you have never motivated me. nor been my source of motivation. what incentives came in the form of money. like bone bait for a dog. and even that ended in primary six. or was it lower sec. i don't remember. you have never said 'well done.' in all my eleven years of schooling i have not heard a question like 'how was school?' or 'how was your day'. or 'how are you'. the last one being the most insignificant, i suppose. you just bask, in the golden reflected glory of raffles, whatever that means. but i shrink in it. shrink from the false impressions that word has on outsiders. (they are outsiders. but they know it. you are just intruding.) impressions that i have a solid warm platform that pushes me to higher heights. no, occasionally i peer through the grilles, hang on there and snatch a certificate. no rope is provided. much less a mattress to pad a fall. but i am human, even if you don't think so. and i fall and crack. and fall to pieces silently, because nothing else is tolerated. you say 'tell us your problems' but if i attempt to, the weighted chain to guide and chasten me is stuffed into my throat. words of isolating wisdom.
you say i am ill-disciplined. and have no concept of time. you who do not know me. you enter my room and rummage my possessions, which i carefully guard from you. still you overturn and tear apart and tread on my brittle dreams. no, not tread. tapdance with stilettos, like bullets of a machine gun.you devour my photographs and say that is my close friend. or friend. and think you know so much about me and can guess my every thought because of your perceptive womanly sixth sense and deadly maternal instinct. ...deadly is right. you complain about my unmade bed, my receipts, my worn clothes, my bags. strewn everywhere to give an impression of a homey, lived in cell. i don't live there. i just wallow. you know what? if you don't like what's in there, DONT GO THERE! stop touching my things stop pushing your way around stop thinking you are oh so divine and lucky me to have you because id much rather have someone else or no one at all.
all i do is a waste of time. trainings, cell meetings, backup practices i used to have, dinners with friends, class gatherings, playing the piano, all you try to snatch away. and here is the irony. the more you try to suck in the more i run away. let me tell you what is a waste of time. coming home like you told me to. cos when i get back i just sit here. you don't say a word. and get annoyed at my silence. you scream at me to do something. like fold the clothes. or hang them. or wash the dishes. or dry them. something you dont want to do and push to us on the pretext that you are overworked. why dont YOU help me with my homework, or my hockey trainings that demand so much, or cell group preparation, or revision for tests, or preparation for acme/ faction. oh and have i told you i am taking five subjects now six with an S paper- just so i can get a scholarship to get out of this place? just so i can let you bask once more. and perhaps please you in some way. if not through my existence in this household.
you superficial bitch. you don't even know hockey is played outdoors, much less the position i play. you don't know my class, my cell group leaders, my subject combination, the names of my close friends. you never liked any of them. except one possibly, cos she's pretty and polite. but still you don't trust them. is that too much to ask? then, what about buying something for them for christmas? their mothers have voluntarily fetched me all the way home even though i dwell 30 minutes from their home. when i ask you to give her a lift you are displeased and drop her off at some roadside without a sincere goodbye. i have received red packets, been brought to lunch, been asked questions (to say the least) and that's better treatment anytime. its not about the material but about their sincerity.
maybe you should read this. but you wouldnt recognise me. you've numbed me so much i'm mute. u think i am. maybe i dont want you to read this. people might think we are good friends.
you. don't say i am angsty. i am just being honest. don't ask me about this. when i cool off further i forget. maybe i pretend to. but i get happier either way. another layer of that rust stingingly seared onto my already hardened crust. don't say i live out double standards. we all have two sides. sometimes i feel i have twenty-six and each is pulling me in a different direction. dont trivialise this as teenage angst. it runs too deep and current to fit into that narrow explanation. too real. just face the facts as they ARE. i'm stuck in a household that looks good on the outside but has cracks that nobody bothers patching up. but i don't want to blow things up. sometimes my finger feels inside the clay vase and i don't feel any chips. or scars. and we are happy, for a while.
disclaimer: 1. i am quite a useless homebody. because of my overused non-home commitments. not excuse.
2. this is fiction. any resemblance to persons dead or alive is purely coincidental.
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