EPTSometimes, I think about things that get me depressed. Even though it's not healthy, it is inevitable that one will face the harshness of reality one day or another. Therefore, I consider my thoughts as a way of bracing myself, preparing myself for the impact.
So, what you are about to read has not happened yet, but it will. I know it will. Some parts are true, some parts are metaphorical. I'm sure that my thoughts and feelings have been expressed properly though. The feelings that I have tried to express through the text below are completely genuine.
My father started dying on 5 February, 1965. He died playing soccer, which was his favourite sport. He died cheering on his heroes with his family. He died falling in love. He died falling out of love. He died falling in love again. He died falling in love once again. He died raising his child. He died getting angry. He died getting happy. He died while being my only parent.
My mother finished her race when I was 10, the year 2007. She left me quite suddenly. She was there for one day, the next, she was absolved from all motherly duties. My father however, was still able to live with her, sharing secrets and memories. I was jealous of their relationship, for when my mother was still around we did not have a relationship of that nature. I would assume that she was the typical tiger mother. Whenever I performed poorly in school, she would abuse me both physically and verbally. I vividly remember an occasion that is not confabulated; we were both on the floor, her hand holding to the hairs at the back of my head tightly, a textbook strewn just a bit further ahead of us, she tried to slam my head onto the marble floor. Fortunately for me my head did not hit the ground, but I was not spared the rod.
My father also died working and serving the community. I can safely assume that in whatever endeavours my father pursued in, it was all about benefiting the most amount of people. The rank or status of a person did not matter to him, everybody that he could help was equal before his eyes. Even me.
I guess that it is quite childish and selfish for me, to want my father to care for me like I was the only thing that mattered, for my mother to have loved me like a regular mother would. Because when I think of it, if I can think about or know despite how my parents have shunned me and yet feel that I don't really need any support from them other than the obvious financial one, they have done their job. They raised me to the point where I don't need them to guide me, where they can simply let go of me and I will swim.
When my father was about to end his journey, he did not attempt to fight. He knew the limits of modern medicine. He left no instruction on how he wished to be treated, except for one thing. His body were to be donated to a medical facility to help prospective doctors or just medical students learn more about anatomy. Despite all the poking and prodding, he will keep his story with him. What I knew of his childhood was only that he was a hard working student and loved soccer. He will keep his story about why my mother and him never wore a ring.
He will leave without hearing, "I love you.", from his only child, perhaps what he felt that could be a chance at a completely new life.
