being a parent of three ·
13 June 04

I’m losing it.

Living in this forsaken household, within which is a poor example of a nuclear family. My mother has been in an English speaking country for the majority of her life, yet her English is broken and terrible. My step-father is just a form of offence for me. Indicating that the only reason he married my mother was to get into the country – of course all is forgiven and forgotten when it needs to be. Then there is my half-brother.

I was in a reasonably distraught and manic mood. Had I a knife in my hand, I would have punctured that into someone’s neck had they been next to me. My hands were….shaking, the blood vessels pumping furiously, trying to keep my fingers going – “keep typing!” they whispered, “You need to get this out of your system. If you don’t type, you’ll go insane” They were right, of course, and it was unfortunate my half-brother bothered me when he did. He is only 7. I blasted him momentarily with a loud “go away” It must’ve shattered his delicate heart. I am probably the only person that doesn’t shout at him. Hell, I shattered my own heart – I was becoming what I had endured all my life: hatred.

Continuing to write my bleak construction, for no one’s interest but my own, and perhaps to amuse others with my ridiculous and amusing self pity, I ignored many things that happened in those few hours. Completing my writing, unhappy with the result, I posted it.

He explained how his mother, my mother, had shouted at him for not learning his words properly for the spelling test

I heard the thumping of feet on the stairs, making their way towards my door. I ignored it as I wrote to my friend on a chat program – I loathe such forms of communication, but was I to speak my mind, I would just go insane. The kid ran in, picking up a tissue, smiling, and eyes welled with tears. It killed me, to see a child that way. It killed me because I knew the cause of this, the same cause that had made me feel the same way my entire life.

“What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying. I’m happy”
“Why are you crying? You can tell me.”
“I’m not crying, I’m telling you!”
“Please; will you tell me why you’re crying?”

At this point I brought out my arm and he ran into me, I embraced him, and his tears poured out like a river bursting through a dam. I held him tight; stroking his head with my hand, telling him it was “ok”, and “don’t worry”. What lies I had impressed upon him. Incoherent at first, he was now calmer. He explained how his mother, my mother, had shouted at him for not learning his words properly for the spelling test. Yes mother, the same fear you brought me up with, the same fear you taught me to live with, that very same fear that made me hate you will help this young soul grow into a loving person.

I got him to wash his face, and to come down when he was ready to continue learning. I was going to tell my mother, “If you upset him again, I will kill you without hesitation”. Instead I chose the more diplomatic route, “Either teach him something, or don’t – but you will not upset him anymore than you have done”. My step-father had just come home from work, I didn’t even shake hands with him as he had just sat there and laughed as his son cried. Typical behaviour with an ingrate society.

It’s difficult being a parent to three kids. It drains you; it kills you and numbs you.