2011-05-18 - 7:46 p.m.
I'm not sure where to start, but I'll begin anyway.
It's report card week. Everybody's busy. So am I. Still, I manage to read something else everyday. (I'm finishing Beverly Barton's "Killing Her Softly".) I even bought a colleague's first novel called "Forgiven". It'll have to wait.
Mom's read some of my most recent poems - in English and also in native language - and thought they were very good. (No, I'm sure she wasn't saying all that just because I'm her daughter.:P Mom compliments her kids when they really do deserve it.)
She wants me to gather them all, so that she could ask her poet friend Aunt Dani to help me with the publishing. Aunt Dani has had her first anthology published some years ago. (And yes, Mom and I attended the launching.:D)
"You're a realist," Mom told me. "Even if the topic is really, really sad - you try not to make it too sappy."
Maybe it's because you've finally seen this side of me, Ma.:) Most of my friends around who read my works just don't get it. They think I'm not being positive about life, when all I write is about reality. The reality I see, that is.
Well, we can't expect the whole world to always understand us, that is.*shrugs*
"You've always been like that since you were a child," she went on quietly, almost nostalgic. "You can never really lie, because you're always the most expressive - even when you're quiet, thinking that nobody notices you and how you feel that much."
Oh, God...:(
"You used to draw a lot, although you still express your feelings through writing."
I'm so sorry, Mommy...:'-(
"Is that normal, Ma?"
She looked at me as if I'd just asked her if cats should've been born with wings.
"Not only normal, that's also healthy," she assured me. "A lot of other people choose to get angry and hurt other people...or themselves. They do unhealthy stuff."
But I hurt my best friend with that too, Mommy, I'd wanted to tell her that. Was that still healthy?:( I didn't mean to, but I had. Although we're pretty much okay now, that still haunts me sometimes.
"Heartbreak sucks, Ma," I simply told her. "I hate it."
And I never want to have to deal with it anymore.:( Enough is enough. No more, God. No more, please.
"But you've dealt with it well."
Really? Was she glad that I've never been the type like my sister, who has always come to her crying for days and skipping work? Some people can say that's because I'm tougher that her, but repressed emotions also have side-effects. It can be dangerous too.
And I don't feel like changing that habit now. I don't know why. Maybe I'm no longer a ten-year-old who can cry to her mother about some naughty boy in school who makes fun of her. Or an antsy teen who wonders why that guy chooses that popular, pretty but mean girl instead of her. I've never been any of that. I've been too...different.
And I'm almost 30 now, for God's sake. I just can't do that.
"Do you know why I wrote those, Ma?"
"I think I do. I always have, although you've never told me."
"Heartbreak sucks," I repeated, before quietly adding, and I can't cry openly about it as much as I should. "Heartbreak sucks and I'm sick of it. I want my writings to represent the broken hearts."
And I don't care if people find that...sappy. People deal with things differently. This is what I do.
This is my way.
The Author/SBF/QB
