It’s funny that I revert to my old habit—blogging—again after abandoning it for a few months. It reminds me about writing a diary, I enjoyed it a lot, and then neglect it, and then came back with a new excitement to it. There are always stories to tell. I’m not talkative (usually, I let my friends tell me anything, and I don’t say much about myself), but I do love writing.
This time I’m going to contemplate about what I considered as a misfortune. I’ve learned that if I see it through a different glasses, I would find a blessing. However, sometimes my evil side tries to drown me with her negative perspectives; thereby I need to prescribe it in order to remind myself about how lucky I am.
First of all, I
hate money. Let me assure you that I injected every ounce of resentment steaming in my heart into the word
hate. When I was 5 until 10, I had many costly courses. I really enjoyed it despite what other they-thought-they-know-everything-but-hell-actually-they-don’t people said about elementary school students should just play around and have fun with their peers. Hey, I was happy. I didn’t mind about not having pretty schoolbags or cute dresses. I wanted courses, more courses. Years later I realized that those courses were expensive to be afforded by my family, but my old woman knew that they worth much more than buying a new carpet or even a magic jar. My good grades were her only relief (even though I don’t think my grades were good enough).
Things were heading south as my old man started locking himself in his puny world. I can’t say I enjoyed my teenage life. College years were worse. The old man was practically unproductive. There was no income. Who in their right mind would not try their best when they have two kids under 20 and two kids under 10? Well, my old man would.
When I was 19, I was compelled to be independent. Yes, I knew that it’s already time. In France, it is legal for parents to evict their own children over 18 years old (I am sure it is fine to be done in Indonesia too since there is no law about it). Moreover, some of my friends had become independent one or two years earlier. Well, the difference was their old men also tried their best or have passed away. What happened to me was my old man said nothing, asked nothing. He’s healthy and he got some skill. But he did almost nothing. I’ve long considered him as NOT EXIST. Later I found that it is much better than having a brutal or dictatorial old man.
Many of my friends expressed their envy to my capability to stand on my own feet. They thought that working and having their own money is a very good thing. Well, it is good if the financial condition of your family is safe as houses, and hence the money you earn will be purely spent on amusements. It is good if you can work without worrying about whether you will be able to survive until next month, next week, or even tomorrow.
It was really hard for me to see my condition as a gift. At the very least, recently I can see that independency entails freedom. By being unable to support me financially, my parents lose their power to interfere with any aspect of my life. I remember that when I was young, I afraid someday my parents would get mad and kick me out of the house. Indeed, presumably now my old woman is afraid of pissing me off, and my old man knows that we have no word for each other. I think she knows that I am defensive, and that I am ready to leave everything behind once I feel that enough is enough.
I heard that some of my friends in their 20s are still grounded by their parents. That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Tell me, are you 20 or 12? Even some of them are still curtailed about night hours, going-outs, school choices, etc. In my perspective, once you get 20, parents can only tell you what they think is good for you. They have no right to restrict you at all. You are an adult. You have your own life to carry on.
I’m aware that challenges lay ahead, and I have no one to rely on. Nevertheless, I think it’s wonderful because my future triumphs will solely be mine. No one will associate them with anyone but me. You can argue with me, pals, but this is how I live my life.
Years ago, in early 2007, I had a freelance work on a book about a girl
fought her way out of depression. That was my first time confronting this
issue. I learned about depression from her stories, and I remember thinking I can relate to her struggle to some extent. But back then I didn’t consider the possibility seriously,
perhaps because I wasn’t losing myself, perhaps because I still can handle it.
