In my family, I have always been a daughter who doesn’t talk much to her parents, or maybe sometimes she does, but she never shares her deepest feelings to them. I have always been a genuine introvert, burying myself under piles of books, loving to tell others – Mom, Dad, and Sister – about the world appears on pages.
To me, there have never been a deep family bonding between me and my parents. I love them, and they truly love me. But I would find someone else to talk about my problems.
Perhaps that’s the consequence of being a firstborn who seems to have a mission of being perfect.
My sister was born when I was old enough to understand the world around me. At the age of 8, I was more mature than other peers. I took care of my sister, even though I wasn’t that responsive. I loved seeing her growing up every day. I also saw how she had changed my family, from its root.
She was like a bridge between me and my parents. Our house was filled with joy and laughters. But there was still something missing: sadness we bear have never been discussed about. I never know how to truly talk about my problems and concerns with someone else. I always assume that (1) they will never understand, or (2) I don’t have real problems.
And I was fine with that. To me, the gap between my parents (who are in their forties), me (not fully an adult but not a teenager anymore), and my sister (her age is a one-digit number) is huge, and we cannot avoid that. I was fine with hanging out with friends from dawn to dusk, and I care less about what they feel.
But now when I am at the door of transformation – being a person who is fully in charge of herself, I know what I need. Relationships between people need the part when we all share what we want and the part when we say we love each other. I have never told them these things in my life. Perhaps I did, but only for my own profit.
When I am too far way from them, I then understand what I need.
Just like when there is no Sun here, I miss its warmth.