Snippets and Stories: (R) Unsaid

Some things were better left unsaid.

What point was there in dredging up such thoughts? Best leave the sword buried lest you hurt yourself or others digging it back up.

Inconsolable, for there's nothing to be gained from it, nothing that could be said that would amend.

The thoughts swirl in my mind and in the end I talk to myself, for there isn't really anyone else to talk to. Or whom I'd want to speak with.

Though we all judge, there is but one who wouldn't be so quick to serve persecution for the simple thoughts.

When my Father left, we lost the supporting pillar that held up the Family. Though my Mother was able to sustain us for a period afterwards, the meager wage of an instructor, particularly one that hadn't been established, made things difficult.

My Father hadn't been pleased that my Mother was working during their marriage and had discouraged it, believing that someone needed to care for the children. And as he labored morning and night to provide, he desired for us a presence of Family for what he himself could not. That coupled with being born of a more traditional era and upbringing, he took his role as the provider very seriously.

Given how most would deem this misogynistic, I feel the need to add in that at the very least my Family was present.

His absence wasn't particularly noticeable either. At every opportunity my Mother and Father both, would take us out, be it to the local park, a hiking trail, a museum, or just to wander and take in the sights. It was fun and the Times full of merriment and laughter, coupled with the usual sibling bickering, of course.

He was a doting and loving man who much like my Mother, spoiled us with a rich environment and the means to explore our interests, while not compromising nor putting us above proper etiquette, manners, and sophistication. More importantly perhaps, is that they upheld us to them like the ideal and responsible parent should.

Unlike most modern families that shirk the responsibility of upbringing to that of educational institutions, are quick to blame everything and everyone else, or simply choose to be absent, so involved with their own lives and enabling the bigoted conceit so prevalent.

Downright wretched and disdainful are the Families that can't even raise a child properly. Irresponsible, ignorant, crude, and unfit for the rights they oft feel so entitled to.

Amusingly enough to most familiar with certain stereotypes, neither of my parents prized academic standing so severely as most. Certainly, they emphasized how very crucial education is, and provided us with the heavy hand children needed prior to maturation and a strong grip of self-control amongst other things, but a B wasn't the end of the world.

We all loved learning. There was so much to see, so much we didn't understand, didn't know.

They did their best to lay the world in front of us, an oyster to be pried open, though of our own efforts. They would give us the oyster, we would pry it open. And when we grew strong enough, old enough, we would seek our own much the same.

Yes, I lived a very privileged life. Something that will keep the well of my gratitude from ever running dry, and if anything overflowing.

But I digress.

In short, we were sent away. She couldn't provide for all three of us with her meager salary, and with so many loose ends to sort out.

Though the arrangements of the divorce were never made known to me, it was no secret that my Father refused to allow her even a cent of his coin, for they parted on bitter terms.

As things were, it was just too much for a now single-mother to feed, cloth, and keep a roof over three children without an established and regular employment.

It was.

More than difficult for her.

In this lifetime and the next I'll never be able to repay the dedication, love, and care she poured into us. If I grow up to be even half the person she was, I would hold my head proud.

With my younger sibling, we were told one day that we would be leaving. To live elsewhere.

We nodded, packed our bags, bid our farewells to our Mother and elder sibling, and boarded the plane.

The place we would call home was a strange place full of an oppressing desperation and of languages I could little grasp.

It was dirty, crowded, and inhospitable. People were guarded and wary, keeping well to themselves. The air heavily polluted, and one afternoon we watched, bemused by entire sky that seemed as if put under a red filter. Not a sunset red, but an eerie red sheen born of an abundance of contaminants, as we later learned.

There we would struggle, ever vulnerable to an ever looming sense of inevitability and despair, of a country that would perpetually struggle like a fish swimming upstream, but seeking to accomplish its final duty and meet its end.

Nothing would get better here.

It was suffocating.

But my Mother was strong. Is strong.

One day I was told that I was to return.

My Father and younger sibling bid farewell, and disappeared as the line moved and I was pushed through customs and into the lobby to board the next plane.

Nothing was recognizable. Familiar perhaps, but out of place.

Where were they taking me?

My Mother and older sibling took me to this strange place with nights that were frigid to my tropical climate accustomed self.

Slowly I fell into the pace of things. A new place, a new course, people who came and went. Not that that, or anything else was particularly exciting. Just kind of happened without notice, and I walked through Life feeling as if I were asleep on my feet.

There was a haze in my mind, a dull blanketing fog that children oft had. Everything was new and strange, and therefore; while they didn't know what to expect, nothing was quite so surprising.

Things were constantly changing, but a part of me didn't notice them. Aware of them, but it didn't quite feel like change.

A part of me didn't care.

I just wanted to leave.

The haze grew thicker.

She left for college and I, her junior by three years, would follow.

A  couple of years passed by, my Brother too returned.

I waited.

But I knew my Father wouldn't return.

Couldn't.

The justice system had deemed, during their divorce, that a crime had been committed.

He didn't have full citizenship.

And it was the nail on the coffin.

He could never come back.

My Mother spat out that he brought it upon myself. She had no Time for such silly and idle thoughts, the stress and whatnot. She had her children to think about. Mayhaps the occasional talk with my extended maternal family, but nothing more. Though we knew better than to bring it up, her Heart would never let go of the resentment for my Father. Yet despite how deeply she loathed his presence, be it with or without, she never abhorred us for carrying his blood. Even when my Brother became unruly, impulsive and with temper flaring, and spitting pure venom. Though she unsurprisingly disapproved of his ill temperament, never once did she bring our blood into this. Never once did she call us our father's child, though circumstances being what they were, it would've been so easy to.

My Sister hated my Mother for driving my Father away, angry that they allowed our Family was split. It would be many years before my Sister would reluctantly come to a understanding with my Mother. Her bitterness would change her, for better or worse. Where she was meek before, soft spoken and shy, she was bold, proactive, determined, and headstrong to a fault. The self same grudges would see that though she longed to reconnect with her Family, she would continue to resent them and instead run far away as she strove for independence. It wouldn't be until a nice man by the name of Gin stepped into her life, and with it, the light.

My Brother resented my Mother for having sent us away. Resented my Father for his stern nature and strict treatment. The joyful jester he once was became muted, taken over by a dark brooding temperamental storm that flashed at the slightest buzz. Like the high altitude climates, he changed all to easily and clear skies easily gave way to angry dark clouds and lightning. He is now cynical and irritable, though on occasion I see the child still in his Heart. He talks and confides in me. Perhaps because I questioned him the least.

I didn't know what to think. So I didn't.

Not to say I didn't give my fair share, and then some, of grief and tantrums. Rest assured, any member of the Family, distant or not, could attest to that.

But what to make of it all.

Certainly, I wanted my Father back, but I knew he couldn't return. No amount of crying would bring him back, and I accepted our system for what it was. It was just how things were.

My Mother took care of us the best she could. As did my Father.

I love them both. I'm not sure what to think about what transpired.

I can't tell them how to live their life, asking them to be together and unhappy was just selfish. Blaming them for separating and tearing our Family apart wasn't much better.

I don't particularly miss my Father.

I don't particularly miss my Mother.

I don't particularly miss my siblings.

Nor do I care much for the company of my Family.

And yet.

Sometimes things well up. Sometimes I think, the haze clears up just a little, and tears well up in my eyes.

Because I'm not sure what to think. Or maybe I'm just scared to, though it doesn't particularly feel so.

I'm not sure what I think or feel.

Everything feels dampened, and a bit far away. Almost irrelevant, though I know it not to be.

I love them all.

The only thing I do know is that I shouldn't be crying. Tears change nothing.

I don't feel like anyone has hurt me. But somewhere inside some stupid part of me feels hurt. Slighted? How conceited. The thought alone makes me scoff.

I'm not sure. If anything it's the hurt itself that hurts the most, if that at all makes sense.

It shouldn't be hurting.

Shouldn't, but am.

Even now, though I still fear the dark well into adulthood, I still can't sleep at night with any lights on, irrationally so, in particular the slanted beam seeping in under the door.

Their voices I can barely recall, yet a faint memory persists. Someday I'll leave that toy room behind, and the specters that watched over me when things got rough and I would hide to weather the storm.

Neskyii holds flats of the cardboard box for me. Inside it's uncomfortable, cramped, and musty, but secure in its emptiness, if only in the mind.