One here. One there.
Put together, you made two.
You wanted to multiply and so, made me.
The count was up to three.
My birth was your personal festival. That day a joyous celebration of your union. You were happy you’d made me with love and care. We were now a family.
You nurtured and protected me, every step of the way. You lead by example. Your undivided attention and constant companionship marked my childhood days. The rusty pictures corroborate my tale.
You were also strict when needed. You understood well that discipline was a virtue. You kept me in line and caught me when I stumbled and fell. You were by my side, awake on agonizing nights and asleep on blissful days.
You perched me on your shoulders one fine day and asked if my line of sight was clear. When I nodded in the affirmative, you became hopeful of a better future for me. I could see over the wall that had blocked your view and crushed your dreams, and that had made you happy.
However, today, we find ourselves at a crossroad.
I know I stand tall on your shoulders. It's let me look at a world that you didn't see, that you haven't known. But, why now, that I am a strong-willed, self-aware being do you fear me leaving you behind and entering this world all alone?
I can not not see what you can't. Because today, I see what you don’t and you see what I haven’t. I can not stoop down to mediocrity when it was you, who from the very beginning, had raised me to be beyond the ordinary.
If you don't understand now, the language I speak, the books I read, the music I groove to or the no-milk, no-sugar coffee I wake up to each morning, then do not create a fuss about it. This hue and cry will do nobody any good.
You supported me all along and continue to do so, but I know now that you'd never understood me though.
You've tried. You try. I think so. I wonder. But I don't hope for it. Because hope is pain in disguise. Hope bleeds eternal misery, I'd read somewhere a long time ago. And no, I do not think hope is a good thing so do not even bother to quote The Shawshank Redemption to me. My hope(s), like my inner self, has been long dead.
They say home is where all your attempts to escape cease. Well, that helps make sense of it all. No wonder why my feet are always on the move. You know why I never miss a chance to let my love known for the years that I lived away from you? And how I can not wait to leave again? It is because I am exhausted and bone-dead tired from being trapped in a place I am forever, every second wanting to escape from. I am not home. My attempts to escape do not die here. They take birth here.
You want me to smile more and fight less. I don't get it. Do you want me to pretend? Why is it that I am smart outside but not when I am around and with you? Individualism is not a fancy word. I know you always ask me to leave my soiled shoes at the door, outside of the house. But my identity, my sense of self, isn't something I can leave at the door before walking back into the house. Don't you see that that's simply not possible? That is a bargain I could never make. Ever. I know you've taught me better to not give up myself for a stranger.
You claim you've made me who I am, what I am today. Fine. So why does it feel like you are less proud and more afraid of me? Do you not like what you see?
Is it because I am not ordinary like you? Is it because you think that I think you are mediocre? Is it because I did succeed in achieving all that you'd wanted me to and then some more? Did I surprise you? The not-good kind of surprise?
Are you happy that I surpassed your expectations or jealous about it? Tell me, did you ever want me to succeed or were you merely setting me up to fall each time you lay out a challenge for me? Was I supposed to crumble and perish under your passed-down dreams? Did I do you wrong? Or did I do right by you?
You and I both believed, for the longest time, that we were on the same page. But today's reality offers a different picture; I'd been reading from a different book altogether all this while.
You do not know who I am. Hell, you never acknowledged that I was my own person.
You do not know what drives me or what ticks me. Hell, you do not know when I discovered the notions of ambition and passion.
You do not what my fears are. Hell, you do not know if I have any.
You do not know who I have loved and how I have loved. Hell, you do not know if I’ve ever loved at all.
You do not know why I cry. Hell, you do not know when I cry. When I've cried. And why.
You do not know what makes me laugh, what makes me smile. Hell, you do not know the last time when I did laugh, did smile.
You do not know what I think, and how I feel when I look in the mirror. Hell, you do not know when I began to question and despise that reflection.
You do not know when I began to turn to friends first, and family second, in moments of both joy and sorrow. Hell, you do not know when my friends became my extended family. Or how. Or why.
You do not know why I love the dark. Hell, you do not know when I began to romance the morbid, uglier face of life.
You do not know what my insecurities are or where they spur from, or any account of personal failure. Hell, you do not know if any of those even exist.
You do not know that I do not believe you when you say I am beautiful. Hell, you do not know what worth your words carried when I was a young child. You should have been a little more careful, a little more considerate.
You do not know when I’d shut myself and hide behind closed doors, the cold bathroom floor more inviting than your warm arms. Hell, you do not know how much I want to be held.
You do not know that I hate it when you speak of me in public. Hell, you do not know how I have always despised being paraded around, spoken of like a piece of news amongst your friends.
But I am done being your trophy child.
I do not blame you. I hold nothing against you. I forgive you. But I can not forget all the gut wrenching and soul crushing pain you've caused me.
For all the good that stemmed from your words and actions, thank you. But for all the bad that tagged along with it, which you never recognized or acknowledged, I do hold you accountable.
So please, for the love of God you so dearly believe in, spare me now.