This summer vacation I learned a fact that truthfully, pretty darn disappointing. The culture here where I live doesn’t really allow much room for negative feelings towards parents, then I guess this makes me a child with a special space reserved under my name in hell.
My parents made a special trip to my Father’s hometown because he needs to take care of his niece and nephews. He somehow knows that his niece — my cousin — had been struggling with her thesis for the past year to the point where she burst down crying whenever the topic came up. This, however, I just found out when we got there and actually talking to her, the night before we went back home. When I asked my father how did he knew about this issue he said he just do. He simply put it as being aware of our family. I stood in amazement, not only for how much he knew but also to how much he did not.
During my college years, I had my difficult times too, from something as stupid as a bad breakup to something that’s still ongoing up to today like my self-esteem issue. I wonder if he has any knowledge of that, of how his daughter was once very anxious she could barely function, of how she hit rock bottom from not being able to find a job, of how his daughter felt like she doesn’t belong anywhere. I’m starting to wonder if he knows me.
I first noticed this when I watched Searching (2018). The lesson was that parents don’t always know their children. Sure thing, I kinda don’t want my parents to know that I’m into poetic erotica and that I want a tattoo. But they don’t even know that I like durian until last month when I convinced them that I do. They don’t know about my passion for words or my fear of dogs, they don’t know that I’m into modern minimalist architecture or that I’m a very art-appreciative person.
I get really sad when the next question came up to my head.
If my parents don’t even know me, then who does?
I even start to doubt if I really do know myself. Maybe it’s my fault, maybe it’s my fault that I have no trademark. I don’t wear the same thing every time — like tote bags maybe, I’m not funny enough to have inside jokes with, maybe it’s my fault that I don’t have anything that people can notice. That my parents can notice.
I’ve always been close with loneliness because I don’t get along with people that easily since I was a child. I’ve always been hateful and negative, crying all the time, and likes to walk home alone, but this? I realized that having no one who knows and understands me is a new level of loneliness and there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s nothing I can really do about it except making myself an anchor, I guess. The way out of almost every issue I have in my life is me, after all, I’m the one who makes them as well. Logical.
So who am I exactly? I’m not my parents, for sure, I don’t dream of marrying someone from the army and live a white picket fence life in the suburbs. I enjoy scrubbing myself with traditional scrub that smells like flowers, I appreciate Indonesian poetry especially the angsty ones, I like to read as much as I like to write, I don’t talk that much unless I trust you that much, I love designer things — by designer things I mean art prints and other things local designer/illustrator makes, I also like local handmade pottery and jewelry industry, I want to make one someday, I really want to be a jewelry designer. That, and an architect but my eyesight is poor and my family is very old fashioned. My hobby is analog photography because it’s what I can afford, my fashion taste is shit because buying clothes was never a thing in my family, I’ve always had issues with self-esteem and attention. And I really don’t know who actually knows me.
I guess that’s why I always want to know what people think about me and how much I care about that. I want to be known for something, I want to be associated with something — or someone if you let me — I want to stop feeling like I don’t belong anywhere because it’s so lonely! (Wow, angst alert)
I feel like no one knows me, now how would my existence matter if no one really knows and understand me? What difference do I make? Well, then I guess I just have to make sure I know myself and I understand myself. I’m the only one who knows what I want and maybe I’m the only one that can fulfill it too. Because, who else? I’ve always counted on myself on my darkest days, what makes it any different now? Sure, for once I need a change of events, but in the end, I only have myself.
I know this topic makes me seem very selfish, well, I am. Now you know me.
