This isn’t about my parents. This isn’t about their failed relationship or a broken family. It’s about their daughter, who takes after both her mother and her father.
I am soft, sensitive like my father, yet I am still tough, a strength I got from my mother. Sometimes I’m told that I’m the spitting image of my dad. I can’t pinpoint an exact feature that mirrors him, I never could, but it was my all-around appearance that reflected his. I see a lot of my mother in my eyes: a shape that wasn’t almond or round that was under a thick, low arched brow.
You know all that they say about opposites attracting each other? My parents started off that way. A trait that he missed was always something she had, and together they placed jigsaw pieces down on the table to complete the puzzle. But what happens when chemistry is thrown aside and puzzles are put away and you come to realize that all the science in the world couldn’t explain why you’d grown to hate everything you fell in love with.
They both had something that the other was missing. That missing piece is what drove them apart in the end. But then there’s me, my mother and my father’s daughter. I am the puzzle that they put together and I carry all of those traits with me.
What happens if I start to despise the person they made me into?
I always knew who I was. Sometimes, it feels like I’ve always been the same person. I was aware of the contradictions of my being, but I chose to ignore it—or at least half of it. Both of my parents have their fair share of admirable traits. My father is a charming man. I remember when he’d pick me up from my babysitter and we’d walk home together. He’d always stop to say hello to someone and ask them about their life. I remember wanting to be like that. The first hardworking person I ever met was my mother. She’d spend all day taking care of children, working until her bones ached and continuing on even after that. When you’re young, there are some things you just don’t realize, but I understood at six years old what a mother’s sacrifice was. I strived to be that kind of woman.
While I claimed the characteristics that I wanted to have, I denied the ones that I didn’t—even though they were already in me. My father is an emotionally driven man and I am the same way. He was the one who taught me that hearts were meant to be worn on your sleeve. I didn’t see the problem with being “so sensitive.” I saw it as being in tune with my own self, and I saw beauty in it. But there were days when he’d use those emotions to justify something that he’d clearly done wrong or avoid taking responsibility for his actions. It was easier for him to cry than apologize; I’d never seen something uglier.
At the same time, no one guards their heart as much as my mother does. Even after knowing her my whole life, I still try to pry in, get her to open up to me. Truth be told, she is a stubborn, reserved woman. It’s strange seeing the way I act around my parents. When I’m with my father, I am my mother blocking him out and building up a wall as he tries with his best efforts to tear it down. With my mother, I am my father desperately trying to get to her, to no avail.
I had this misconception that if I ignored the parts of myself that I didn’t like, they would automatically go away. I spent a long time lying about who I was for the sake of who I wanted to be perceived as. There’s nothing wrong with striving to improve yourself, but there is a problem when you neglect who you are. I wanted to be a kind person and I wanted to have a good heart, but in the process of being that person to everyone else, I constantly fought with myself. I wondered if this was what my parents went through: the moment where you’re fighting fire with ice and get nothing but burnt and frostbitten in the end.
Here’s the thing. I didn’t realize it gradually; instead, it all came crashing down like a tidal wave. I do not hate the person that I am. I couldn’t hate the person that I am. It’s true that I take after both parents, who are very different. But I am the piece they put together. No matter how odd it may seem, or how conflicting it may be, it’s just right. While I’m my mother and my father’s daughter, I will always be my own person before anything. I feel the most like myself when I openly embrace every part of who I am—the softness and the rough edges, the tranquility and the frustration, the loud and the quiet. What is the point of fighting with yourself when you’re on both sides?