Letters to my mother.
I want my own home
If you had not grown up feeling unsafe at home, you would never understand the yearning for my own home.
A place to do what I want: leave some dishes unwashed, not wipe the table when it has some crumbs, drink cold water when I want to, hang up some fairy lights because I love Tumblr-core, have giant stuffed toys in my room, or even have a cat or 2 to call my own.
A place where you won’t be telling me why I am like this, why I am not good enough, why I would never lose weight no matter what I do, how I should not cause trouble for you, how I am not a good daughter, how I am stingy with my money towards you, and why I am so unappreciative/unfilial/stupid.
If I had a place of my own, I would not have to sit at a void deck to eat my favorite acai, I would not have to walk aimlessly at the mall just to pass time if I ended work a bit too early, and I would not have to seek solace in community spaces or hang out at my friends’ places or head out of my house to do work on WFH days.
If I had a place of my own, I could walk out of my room without having to pretend that I don’t see you so that you don’t have to make a comment about how I look/what I do/what I didn’t do. I would not have to take a deep breath to brace myself for whatever is to come next.
If I had a place of my own, then I would not have to sit at the void deck listening to melancholy music while looking at the rows of flats opposite me, wishing I was in one as I typed this out on my phone.
You would not understand, and it’s okay.
