Yes, I begin to think that it is a mistake of coming back. A huge mistake.
From head to toe, I was criticized and directed, with a good intention of “becoming better” and the unreachable aim of “perfection.”
“What we have indicated and asked you are for your own good and desire for you to become a better person…”
“It was you that was the last straw of all stress that has laid on your sister’s collapse…”
“You need to be on time to class so and be punctual about the everything…”
“You have too much facial expression that wrinkles your face, makes you older and appears to be a low-life creature…”
The whole night, I listened to these criticism which are said to be for my own goodness. But who gives a shXt about my pressure. (No, you shouldn’t express your anger in everything, not even in your writing.)
I have pressure to be in face with their expectation and wish for.
I have got pressure to be home.
It’s always like this.
On the very first day or night of returning home, a fight begins and lasts for a couple of days until next fight.
Fight about what?
Oh, trust me! There are a lot to be fuss about: my dress, the way I look, the way I talk, the words I use, the never-enough demure that I wear on my face, the friends I keep, those guys I used to date, the way I react to things, my study, my luggage and etc and etc and etc and etc and then zigma etc.
I could have come up and persuaded a hundred reasons not to return home, the top ten for instance:
1. Every homecoming ends up fighting and holding grudges with one another.
2. They do not ever listen to me, accept my perspectives on various matters.
3. I am always the one that is the target of all bad things and all bad aura at home.
4. I can never express my emotions and how I really feel; I cannot, however, sit silently and just smile with acquiesce, either.
5. I have to be in the position of listening to the lectures which seem to be endless and always brutal personality error-pickings.
6. There are always a lot to cope with: being showed off my so-called achievement of being successful (of course with the consent of social norms) as if I am a showpiece, being called to do this and that, enduring the way she criticizes me and my beloved grandmother (who she is supposed to love and show her filial piety), listening to the seemingly endless expectations, wishes and regrets for what I have not done, what I could be doing and what I could have done, and listening to who else’s son or daughter (singular or plurals) has achieved what and earned what and be somebody whereas I am nothing, not even a small potato.
7. Different philosophy of life is now allowed in this house; any disobedience is regarded as a proof of ignorance, pride, unreasoning, unwisdom and caprice.
8. Better not to speak any languages that others would take them as a usage of criticizing and showing the power over somebody.
9. Cannot watch too much television because I am a “scholar-to-be” but never leave the table too soon to join the books because it would be not merely disrespect to them but an evidence of not paying attention to them.
10. Every night at home ends up like a long journey into night with a candle in the wind. I either cry myself to sleep because I was criticized or judged by every aspect about me or worry about tomorrow: another grudge, another fight, or another aspect that is to be found fault against. Some nights, I even wish that I were never born or I were dead since the attempt suicide in the third year of senior high.
I don’t want myself to sound like full of hatred or grumbles. But the truth is, every years, this is not a family reunion to me, but a task, a trial, a time of bafflement, frustration and pressure for me. If I do survive these few days (which I usually tend to limit the number of staying at home to a very small digit), I could survive everything and I can laugh out to the world till the next time I return home to pretend that I enjoy some embrace of family reunion.