12/18/11: I teared up listening to this song the other day. It is ironic (or perhaps not ironic at all, and only fitting) that it took leaving home for 4 months to truly understand what my family, and the idea of “home” means to me.
I had never really been that close with my parents, and so at first, being apart from them wasn’t so different for me. I guess after years of rebelling against them, going behind their backs, and having a general disregard for their presence in my life, moving out was almost a nice change. Suddenly, I didn’t have to feel guilty when they’d ask me to have dinner, and I’d have plans already, or when I’d ignore their calls, not wanting to hear their nagging, telling me it was time to go home. No one was there to complain how disorganized my room, and my life are. No one was there to tell me to stop slamming the microwave door so loud, to not wear ripped jeans and to put on another jacket, to stop talking on the phone, to wake up early enough to eat breakfast.
And so I was as taken back as anyone, when a few weeks in, I suddenly found myself wishing they would email more often, maybe even call once in a while. I guess I never really realized it, but over the last few years, as I slowly grew apart from my parents, they grew apart from me too. I taught myself how to be independent, to do things for myself, and my parents, in turn, have learned how to let me take care of myself, to make my own mistakes. I know they love me no less, and maybe even more, but I also wish now I wonder, why had I been in such a rush to grow up? My parents were overbearing and overly protective, but did I really have to be in such a hurry to get away?
I used to always think about all the times my parents made me cry. You’ll never make it through IB, you’ll never get into university, you’ll never be a good Student Council president. You’re not a good daughter, or even a good friend, or good girlfriend. Your hair is too messy, your eye bags are too dark, your arms too skinny and legs too short. All the things they’d say, and all the times I’d burst into tears. Why did they have to be so critical? Why couldn’t they be supportive and encouraging, like parents are supposed to be?
I guess it never really occurred to me that this was their way of protecting me - you can’t fall, if you don’t ever try to fly. I guess in their own way, they didn’t want me to be disappointed, didn’t want me to get hurt. Mom, dad, I wish I could tell you that although you constantly watch as a I am foolish and make mistakes, I wish you could also see that as a result of this, I’m not so weak anymore. I know I fall often, but I also get back up, don’t I? Let me take risks, because I’d rather regret what I tried and failed at, then what I never even had the courage to take a shot at. I can do it, and if I don’t, you can say that you told me so - or you can encourage me to try again, because eventually, I’ll get it.
I also never really thought about how although they rarely showed it, I must have hurt them a lot - wanting to grow up so quickly, wanting to move out, and start another life. I remember them dropping me off at Berkeley - the day my parents left, I had the sudden urge to hug them - something I haven’t done since elementary school. But by the time I’d decided to, they’d already gotten back in the car, and were ready to drive away. I remember wondering if they were happy I was finally out of their hands now. I now realize that, in the same way I’d never admit I missed them, they wouldn’t say it either. It did not mean they wouldn’t miss me, and looking back, I’m sure they did.
Being at college, I’ve realized how lonely living on your own can be - not because no one is around; living in a dorm, there are always people around. But at home, there will always be friends who you can count on no matter what, and when even they’re not there, there will always be your parents. Although in high school, my pride rarely let me call my parents for help, how many times did my dad drive me home, so I wouldn’t have to walk in the rain without an umbrella? How many times did my mom bring lunch to school when I’d forgotten mine? I hope they knew how much I appreciated these small gestures, not only because I didn’t have to ever go soaking wet or hungry, but because it always meant a lot, that they’d do these things, without me even having to ask.
I still remember, when I first started elementary school, I’d tell my parents how much I loved them every night before going to bed. I don’t remember anymore when that stopped, and then when we stopped saying it at all. I don’t remember when it became uncomfortable to even say “I miss you”, or even “Happy Birthday”. I’m not sure if they stopped first, or if I did, but suddenly, affection was awkward, and so we just didn’t bother with it anymore. These days, I want to tell them how much they mean to me, but I don’t know how anymore. The words are weird now, and don’t fit anymore.
It is also possibly ironic and possibly very fitting that I write this as I fly home to Vancouver - my first time going home since I left 4 months ago. I imagine my parents waiting at the terminal, and I wonder what it will be like to suddenly see them again. I wonder if they look the same, or possibly different now, and it occurs to me they must wonder the same about me. What else do they wonder about? They never ask about my life at Berkeley, and so I never share, in the same I don’t ask about their lives back home. But I am curious, and they must be too.
And I know they won’t say it. And so I won’t either. But mom, dad, I missed you guys. I’m sorry for everything I’ve did, and grateful for everything you guys have done.
I love you guys.
Posted on Dec 20th (11:09am), 1 month ago
