To Be or Not to Be

I was raised by books

Monday: When I felt scared or hurt, how did a parent address my emotions?

I have always avoided thinking of my childhood in detail, because it normally brings out a lot of pain, so much that it physically hurts.

My parents were almost never around. My mother was a teacher in a remote village, leaving early in the morning and coming home around six p.m.. My father was a construction engineer and his assignments were usually far away, so we’d see him every other weekend, or every weekend, depending on the distance. His return was dreaded, not dearly anticipated, and because he passed away eighteen years ago and you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, I won’t say much more.

I was sort of handed my one-year-old brother at age five. That’s when I became a parent and my hurt or fears as a child turned into even more irrelevant. I don’t remember them much. I couldn’t afford being hurt or scared. There was a wide-eyed little one who depended on me. I hid my bruises, didn’t talk much, never smiled, cried a lot at night. The most tender memories I have of my mother revolve around my being severely sick, when she knew and came with tea to take my temperature and touch my forehead.

There were no hugs, kisses, or I love yous in my eighteen years of living with my parents. I remember an awkward goodbye hug when I left for university. To say that my parents did not show emotion is an understatement. They did show their anger, frustration, bad temper and lack of empathy with every chance they’d got. I’ve always been in the search of surrogate families and adopted myself into the families of my friends as a result.

I have stripped my parents of their title at some point in time, by correcting them, well, mostly my mother, because my father was not around, saying that I was raised by books. Which is entirely true. Books comforted me when I was most in need, they told me that I can, to hang in there, my time will come. Others more unfortunate had made it very far and so will I if I apply myself to it.

I’m not seeking pity or revenge with this article. Had I grown into a loving family I would not have looked for better, not this arduously anyhow. Had I received suffocating love and kindness I would not have appreciated them so much in others and tried so intently to give them myself and make sure they’re received with an open heart. My father, long buried, has been long forgiven. My only regret being for his wasted life as a person and as a parent. My mother, living still where I left her a few decades ago, comes to visit every now and then and I’d like to think we’ve sorted out the whys of her lacking so much as a parent. She has improved a lot and at least is giving me the impression that she tries.

My relationship with my parents is a big buzzing sound in my head each time I’m inclined to act like them. A giant stop or no screaming at me. I’m grateful for that, as a guiding scenario for how not to behave.

Copyright © 2021 by Georgiana Petec. All rights reserved.

Thank you so much 𝘋𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘢 𝘊. for the amazing writing prompts and the constant care that shines from them.