An update of sorts
I often oscillate between writing this post and not writing it. On one hand, I want to show the world that I am alive, that my absence has perfectly good reasons, that I simply do not pull houdinis. The other proverbial hand, however, weighs heavy with pride, with laziness, with that drilled in condition to not air dirty laundry in public, with not wanting sympathy or pity, and probably with the dilemma of not knowing where to start.
I guess though, that we could start with my dad.
My dad has never really understood the concept of being a husband, or a father, or love, for that matter. To him, love is the duty providing shelter, food, and for the children, an good education. Going beyond that has never occurred to him, and if it has, he's never really acted upon the impulse. And he's really narrow on those duties. Nothing more is done, and I mean nothing. Illnesses are often a figment of the vivid imagination, doctors are inept and thus their prescribed medicines are too, and things like physiotherapy are completely unnecessary unless you've suffered a paralysis or worse. Empathy and sympathy are horrific conspiracies, completely non-existant. Moral support and compliments are for the weak, the dying, and for people who are not family. And the pain and suffering his side of the family has caused, if I ever testify, will leave people reporting them to every authority there is. It is irony that one of the three men alive whom I would give my life for, who I do so many things for that to count would take me not hours but days, tells me that my worth is zero, that I could go die, that I am a disgrace who has never given him any respect, that I am ugly in every aspect of the word. Much more than this, I will not say, because he is my father, and I still, because of what only god knows, I still love him.
In the past ~12 months, three of my grandparents passed away, my maternal grandmother, and my paternal grandmother and grandfather (in that order). I learnt that my dad, who has never known how to express love, has no idea how to express grief either. He did not shed a single tear in front of us, bottled up all his sadness, and took it out on us in the form of pure rage. For a person who was already angry all of the time, this change meant that even the few happy moments we got were now snatched away.
To say that the past ~12 months of my life have been a struggle would be an understatement.
The only reasons why I have refrained from committing suicide is because it is forbidden in my religion, and that I cannot bear to cause my mother and siblings any more pain than what they are already bearing.
Finally, my mother, who has been coping with this shit even longer than I have, broke. In the literal sense. The pain and misery heaped on her finally took it's toll, and her back was sprained severely. We had to call an ambulance, we had to listen to her screams of sheer agony. I can do many things, I realised, but I cannot see my mother in pain. Something inside me breaks, and I die slowly.
Now, I am in charge of the house, my mother in pain, father at his own father's traditional funeral events in another country. Add to this the full course load of a 4th year uni student, and my own shattered mind and body, and what you get is exhaustion.
At this point, I have realised, I am not angry. I am simply tired. So so tired. Sad and exhausted. Simply done. I look at all the things I love which I have no time for, all my commitments and hobbies that I have pushed away, and I cry more.
I am simply at a loss with what to do.
I am not giving up just yet. I will finish whatever I started, because I want to make my mother proud, to show her that her love and effort bore fruit.
I was never going to write this, ever, or tell it to anyone. My mother taught me to write down all the good things which have happened in my life, or that I have done, but never the bad ones, because what use is re-opening closed wounds? But I can never be as strong as my mother, and I have had to tell someone. This livejournal here, then, struck me as the perfect medium. Enough people (especially the ones I am close to) know of this place to read and understand what I am going through, and none of the people for whom I would have to put on a brave face and smile as if everything were normal do.
As I said before, I hate sob stories, and especially the pity that comes with it. If I were to be accused of any of the seven deadly sins, I would be counted guilty for pride (probably followed closely by gluttony). Thus, if anything, simply pray for me. I require nothing less, nothing more.