Today, in a wedding ceremony, which was the time for the new couple to deliver their speech of bliss, I am deeply impressed by what the bride said, “I gave born in a family of love. I thanks to my parents who love me no matter who I am and what I have done. They don’t judge me by my mistakes and allow me to try, to make things wrong….”
I still remember when I was six to seven years old perhaps, that my mum was watching a documentary about mental retard, and she said all those people don’t worth a life because they are burdens to the normals. They can’t go to toilet themselves, they can’t even eat drink speak themselves and always need to be taken care of. I turned to her, with my little puzzled head a little on one side, and ponder with myself, me, as a daughter of her, if unluckily got an accident or else I lose all my normality and being a mutt, will you still love me? Or if I am born with all those defects, am I able to live to my age?
Maybe my mom was just joking at that moment. But from my very beginning of life, I seldom feel the complete love from my parents, even though I know they DO love me. They use their way to love, tight clasp of my specialty, forbidding me to do this and that, urging me to study and scaring me with cliché remarks, if you do this or that you would be a useless beggar on the street in the future blah blah blah. I never forget the time whenever my exam papers or my dictation books were released how terrified I was, because I was afraid of being punished by my parents. But I had been working hard, I never recede, I never take a nap at school, why I still need to pursue excellence, perfection, but not just being who I am?
After the ceremony I met a friend, long time no seen. We talked about our work and family. He has similar family background with me, but much worse, that everybody in his family are in fight, both physically and mentally, and he loses sleep always, can’t work and study properly. His spiel of sorrow and anger about his family nearly flooded me in our conversation, but I still stood there, because I sensed his loneliness. He deeply needed someone to talk and share with. I may not be a good listener but I do try, opened up my mind to carry his blue. I feel pity with him. Man in this brilliant age should be shone with youthfulness and hope, but bitterness keep shut up in a case like a rare fiddle and accelerating. I haven’t told him anything of my family and tried to comfort him with my fragmentary words. He asked me, am I too weak? Why am I so easily affected by my family? I don’t know how to answer but just shout in mind, me the same! Me the same! Family is a lifelong burden that you could never get rid of, and hidden in your every drop of sweat, every flow of blood. I dare not to tell him my stories. Mutual pity is not a good thing for patients.
Happy or sad, bliss or curse, that’s not something in our hands. We are nothing in front of fate.