A sensitive, tender, and painful point for me, has to be my mother.
Mak.
Always sacrificing herself for others, always thinking about other, always in a rush to somewhere or something, always complaining about her tired bones but never sparing a good moment to rest, always wanting to do more and more,
while I wait beside her, behind her, out of her radar, watching her morph into a saint, a figure, someone's daughter, someone's niece, someone's sister, someone's aunt, someone...
who is also, the soul whom I call, mak.
Mak, I don't understand you, and until now, you probably still don't understand me.
You, who have always done her best to tend for me despite everything, the way a loving mother does, you're always striving to give me more and more. But you see, in my eyes, how could I ever receive enough of you, when so much of you is always for others first.
Me; second, third, fourth, last, wherever I stand at a given time, as painful as it is to admit, I wonder if I was ever truly and honestly, first for you.
I was a sensitive child who was always on the move, uprooted from one city to the next, one school to the next, busy but good-hearted parents, kind but much much older siblings who had their own lives, a disabled brother above me who require much attention, a grandmother who carries poison in her poise, an uncle who brought calamities wherever he goes, and I was just, a young sensitive child.
I listened. I tried to understand people you told me to understand. In your eyes, no one is truly at fault. Everyone had their own demons to fight. So dear child, sabar. Try to understand them,
And mak, try I did.
But growing up, I carried too much with me. All the things I kept to myself, at the ripe age of 13, with cracks starting to form at 11, I couldn't bear the weight anymore. I was young and sensitive. I didn't know how to process nor carry the load that was meant for adults to carry.
Blame. Do I blame you? No, you were part of a generational trauma that shackled your hands and feet to the commitments you signed up for.
You had your reasons, and none were bad. Your actions were not made in vacuum, but a byproduct of the responsibilities that comes with a broken family, and the expectations your generation imposed on a singular person.
You sacrificed so much, and to this day, you are still doing to much. I'm afraid one day, you will shatter and in a split second, disappear forever.
Mak, loving you, I have no idea how to. Social media can never understand our complex dynamic. You whom I don't understand, and I, whom you don't understand.
Who's to say we haven't tried to love, the way one was supposed to love in a mother-child relationship.
But at this point, I'm tired.
The years of self-sacrifice has turned you into a formidable, unmovable mountain. We have moved too far from the 'emotional connection' train despite best efforts, and I am now 27, married, adult, and I no longer have to fend for myself inside the enclosure we used to call 'home'.
I can live on my own now, and everyday, I take a new step towards recovery, towards a healthier future for myself, for my kin, for everyone around me.
Mak, I love you but, I think it's best if we maintain this distance. Boundary, as they call it. I have learnt, ever since I move out to live alone a few years ago, distance is healthier for us. There are things I no longer ask nor say, to protect our peace.
Things weren't always murky in that house, in our family dynamic, but the ghost of the past still lives in the present. Stepping away is my only choice.
Mak, I love you and I want to give the world to you.
I want to have hearty meals with you, I want to go on vacations with you, I want to chat amiably with you,
but I don't think you know, how difficult it is do these things with you, without my heart breaking every single time because there will always be something more important for you.
And I, will probably always be somewhere in your heart, but capable enough to live on my own.
I thought long and hard, and maybe, the way it is now is the best. You will always be my first love, my mother, my heart and soul; and for that, it hurts to see you breaking down due to the years of self-sacrifice, and it hurts to not be able to help, to soothe, to carry some of your weight.
But I, I made the choice to not continue your legacy of self-sacrifice.
I'm sorry.
I love you mak. I truly do. I keep praying to Allah, please give my mother the best rest in heaven, please give her everything she wants and needs in heaven, please love her and grant her all the pleasures in life, please Allah, please grant this wish of mine. Because at least, a granted dua is what I can give to a mother who after all, raised me to become who I am now.
A happy ending is perhaps, subjective.
Maybe what we have now, is good enough.
Not standard-friendly, but good enough.
Our lives whom social media can never define.
Mak, my formidable unmovable mountain.
A piece of my heart and soul, a tender crucial point in my life.
