It took parenthood for me to understand the struggles my parents went through to raise my siblings and me. For too long, I mythized my dad and ran from the memories of my mom; I put the former on a pedestal and the latter I observed from a distance unable to understand her pains and incapable of making her smile once her mom passed. I never questioned their love, in fact, I thought they gave too much and neglected themselves in the process.
When I was a child, I used to beg my parents to go out on date nights and to have a life of their own apart from being caregivers to four kids. They never took my advice; my dad was too busy working all the time and my mom was trying her hardest to tend to us while battling crippling depression. Two souls united by love eventually became co-dependent, instead of healing apart, they echoed each others wounds only to let traumas reverberate into their hearts.
I was too young to discern their struggles, I wanted them to be like other parents who took time to find joys in the midst of raising children. So busy making them superheroes and being disappointed each time they did not meet those lofty standards, I let disappointment lead me to countless bouts of depression. It's only now, 20 years after my dad passed away from lung cancer and almost a year after my mom took her last breath alone in the ICU as she succumbed to the ravages of Covid-19, that I understand their stories through nuance instead of distilling their narratives as a disenchanted son...continued...
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teodroseIII
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