It’s Saturday. I need to vacuum and mop the floor, hang my clothes out to dry, spray my cabinets white so that it doesn’t stand out a shade of ugly brown among the others, print my logs for internship, bath my dog, bake a cheesecake, see the doctor, and many many more.
I’ve however been laying here on my bean bag for four hours in front of the television watching Saturday morning cartoons and drinking coffee and dipping crackers into it while catching up on blogs and people I have not stalked for the past week. Multitasking at its best.
SO, rather than not getting anything done at all, I shall write about something I have been waiting to say for the past week but could not find time to – Rebellion. Wesak Day recently passed and I was reminded of the 15 year old me who rode on my mountain bike at 5am from Hui Sing Garden all the way down town and came home at 6am, that Wesak Morning, in the name of rebellion (Mom if you ever read this, I won’t ever do that again because I can now drive =P)
I must admit I wasn’t an easy kid to handle. Rebellion came early for me. My parents weren’t around due to their career commitments when I was at the period of transitioning from kid to teen. I was left with lots of time by my own to do my own things and think my own thoughts.
I thought Kancils with tinted black windows and loud exhausts pipes were cool. I thought being able to go clubbing was cool. I thought being able to go out till late at night was cool. I dreamt of running away. I dreamt of love, I dreamt of boys. I dreamt of independence. I sneaked out at night and got caught. I thought my mother was a control freak and I thought my father did not care. I thought of some people as my everything and thought of them as a reason I woke up each day. Sometimes I wanted to die. I didn’t talk to anyone at home. I locked my room doors and drew the curtains and scribbled my feelings on my bedroom walls. At one point, my mother got so angry with me she swung an axe at my bedroom door. The marks are still there. My relationship with my parents was a love-hate thing. I knew I loved them, but I hated how my mother forced me to eat, how my dad would not let me out, how she threatened me, and how she asked me to turn off my CD player as it played Eminem coz she thought it was bad influence. Lol . We couldn’t connect, at all. One day, my father even asked me if I was on drugs. And FYI, I never touched anything of that sort. I called my mom domineering and thought my dad was fit to be a dad.
And now, approximately eight years later, I sometimes sit back and think about those times. Nope, I don’t regret being a rebel. All that fighting and tears and time thinking to myself and writing in my diaries (which I now read and feel embarrassed of) have somehow built who I am today and led to me finding myself in some way. Those years were my best years with my best friends, who understood me when I thought no one would. Who covered for me, who hopped onto the emotion rollercoaster for me, who looked out for me.
But if I did have a regret, then it would be the hurt I inflicted on my parents. Imagine their worry of what I was turning into those days. And I am pretty sure I made my mother cry.
If I had something to say to my then 14/15/16 year old self, it would be that no matter what, mom and dad are the ones that will stick by you when you go out and come home coated in shit (and still give you pocket money). They may not understand, so do be patient. But they are those that will never ever EVER abandon you, unlike the people who came and left in your then rebel of a life, whom you thought so highly of. Remember how your dad sold his stuff to buy you S-26 as a baby. Remember how your mother brought you up without a husband by her side and taught you everything you knew.
Thing I’m saying is, at that moment of being a rebel, not everyone you think is important, is REALLY important. And no one will ever be more important that mom and dad, coz one day, when all the ‘important’ people are gone, you’ll realize that mom and dad are still there for you despite all that shit you put them through. Like driving you to your PMR and SPM and STPM exams, pay for your education, accompany you to JPA Scholarship interviews which you fail then comfort you, give you moral support on your job, accompany you to University on your first day, bring you home from KL when you get Dengue and look after you, and well, you get what I mean.
Sometimes I think that me starting to rebel so early is a good thing. At least I didn’t own a driving license to terrorize Kuching drivers, or go out drinking alcohol because I was still underage, or leave home as I was not financially independent. I am thankful my mother laid all the foundation in me regarding the importance of an education. If not, i might have dropped out of school and went on to work with merely a PMR qualification. I’m glad I no longer need to rebel, because now my parents do not care what music I play and mom even gives me the car keys when say I’m going out for supper at 11pm. Dad on the other hand is a different case lah, owh well, always daddy’s lil girl =)
When I think of my kids in future, I sometimes shudder to think that karma would bite me in the ass and my daughter would be like I was.