The Apple

A few weeks ago, I was talking on the phone with my dad. He was telling me how disappointed he was that my brother and I both live so far away from home. Little does he know that home is precisely where I live but of course, he meant by that to live in the same city as my parents. He could not understand why both his children had chosen to move far away and keep contact to a bare minimum, if at all.

How he could even remotely be surprised by such a fact is beyond me. Are we not invariably similar to our parents? Don’t they say that the apple never falls far from the tree? I mean we got our family values from them.

As a child, I understood that my dad had to work, and that his work took him away from home. Still, he was not home. Sporadically he would spent a few days with us, but most of the time, he was away. To us, he was doing something, somewhere, with other people whom we didn’t know. My dad certainly had both advantages and disadvantages in this situation. He could only call home when he reached a port, but then again, much depended on the time of day, on his workload or mental disposition at the time. I don’t believe for a moment that my father ever forced himself upon calling us when he was tired, irritated, in a bad mood or in great need of sleep or further time off for himself. He chose the periods of interactions between us all depending on his own needs. I remember times when my mother would wake us up in the middle of the night because my dad wanted to say hello to us. Was it really for our own good? Doubtful. When my father was home, there was the discomfort of having a clumsy and irritable – stranger – giving orders and making new rules, which added confusion to our already miserable lives. When he would come home, he’d be bringing bags of toys and goodies and later on money, becoming an instant favorite to my mother’s great damn, and as we were slowly adjusting to his presence, he would leave again.

So what did my father instill in us? That nothing last more than a few days? That unless it is fun, fun, fun, there is no point in doing it? That continuity is but an abstract concept? That love is something you must earn? That a family is these people you think about but never get to spend real time with? That when love and affection comes your way, you’d better be in a good mood or the connection might get cut off? Or simply that it’s still easier to stay on the outside and avoid being hurt altogether? I wonder how he expected us/me to be so utterly different from him? Because he is getting older and he would like to be surrounded by his loved ones, not to be left to feel so alone? I know the feeling.

My mother on the other hand, was a paranoid narcissist with a deep inferiority complex. She did what her duty required by getting married and having children but she resented the world for it. In her mind, everything rotated around her, everything was about her, and you were either on her side or against her. If you were deemed to be on the wrong side, you were never to be forgiven. Her memory to this day is perfect and perfectly adaptable to her needs. I can spend fifteen minutes on the phone with her and be reminded of every ones of my failing moments. She has innocence in her scorn and disdain. It always takes a few seconds to realize the full atrocity of her speech. She lives in a world of appearances. As long as we looked normal and acted accordingly, the rest mattered not. That her children may be emotionally crippled, that her husband may be totally disengaged, that her family be but a farce had nothing to do with her. She was so utterly terrified at the idea that others might have to come first from time to time, that when my parents divorced, she refused alimony; she could not bare the thought of having to spend that money on us. Instead, we were left to deal directly with my father who, of course, was never nearby when we needed him. There was simply no room for us. Not in her life, not in her heart, not in her house. A few years ago, my mother started complaining of solitude. She felt neglected by her ungrateful children, we had responsibilities towards her and she demanded we moved nearby to fulfill them. As you can imagine, it is downright out of the question. After several months of gentle persuasion, she eventually got a cat. She went to a local shelter and took an older one whose previous owner had recently passed away. She kept it almost three weeks and brought it back. She was berserk. The cat had the unfortunate misconception that it was all right to roam around the house. Freewill had been that poor cat’s downfall. A few months later, I went to visit her. She had bought a stuffed cat. It sat motionless on a designated chair. She even bought a stuffed child which was standing against a wall; back facing her and rubbing its eyes as if it had cried. She felt surrounded, she was contented.

As you can imagine, my mother’s legacy was no more glorious than my father’s. The mere fact that we made it both alive is a miracle in itself. That we chose to never have anything to do with one another, quite predictable. How could my parents believe for a moment that they could sow emotional aloofness, neglect, indifference and think that when the time comes, they would harvest love and affection?

Sadly enough, we all have to live with the choices we made.