Everyday, I look in confusion and distraught at the crayon scribbles escaping from where your mouth should be. I try to make sense of them somehow, but the lines never connect; the pieces won’t fit together.
Perhaps I tend to ignore them.
To tell you the truth, I recognize and hear the monsters spewing your mouth, but I block them out.
“Have you considered what universities you’re applying to yet?”
“Have you figured out a major?”
“You know, your cousin got into this university for this major. I think you should try it out. It gives good money.”
Sometimes, at the dinner table, looking down at my rice plate and solemnly eating grain by grain, you would ask me these questions over and over again.
Most times, it would be in the car, interrupting the comforting silence.
Rarely, it would be at family reunions, in the midst of heated conversations that flow through one ear and through another.
I would tell you that I’m tired, and you would throw yourself in a rage, demanding to see my report card, telling me that I need to figure it out now or never. It would send me into a flurry of every emotionally tolling feeling. Guilt, shame, and a constant spiral of existential questions.
“You’re always lazy. Always napping. I never see you do any work.”
“Every time I see you in front of that damn computer.”
“To be honest, I don’t really care anymore if you want to throw your life away. It’s your choice, not mine.”
Do you know that the disheartening things coming out of your mouth force themselves into the depths of my consciousness?
It’s like a blur, really. To be honest, I don’t remember an actual conversation we’ve ever had.
No conversation about my hobbies—no conversations on how I’m doing.
It all feels like a terrible dream.
One thing I’ve always longed for in life was erasure of the scribbles. I want validation. I want to be appreciated for my efforts, no matter how many naps I have to go through to get past each day because I am constantly tired. When I do immerse myself in stupid past times to cope with the fact that,
I am never enough for you.
Should I have continued my piano lessons? My swimming lessons? Martial arts?
Should I have not thrown out and gave up on the things I used to do to satisfy your expectations?
The 89.7 grade average was never enough because it wasn’t a 90.
The hours I work in a high intensity environment are never enough, because I should be focusing more on my studies.
The dusty trophies ageing on the shelves were never once picked up and cleaned, because they didn’t say first place.
The honour roll certificate stays crumpled up in a drawer, its whereabouts forgotten.
You have never once celebrated my accomplishments. You would only tell me that my efforts weren’t worthy enough for your reputation.
When I voice out that I am saddened by your words, I am met only with a head shake. Your body turning away from me.
Your approval is in a place where my hands can’t reach, and my eyes can’t see.
Tell me; am I worthy enough of a son for you to brag about?
Your mouth is still grey scribbles, and as hopeless as it sounds, I await day by day until it might paints the lower half of your face.