Immature Me

I am trying so hard not get mad but every time I feel neglected or not love, I easily got irritated. Just insecure would be word, maybe.

Even as a child, I was in an environment where the father favors his sons and unconsciously forgotten the existence of his other daughters, a mother who is busy working, a sister who was branded as the black sheep of the family and brothers I cannot relate with. I’m busy complaining about my family that I am not even evaluating my own shortcomings.

I was told that I was strangling that person to death. I was so dumbstruck when I was told how annoying I was, acting as if I’m a mother who bugs where the hell my child is. Then I withdrew my constant greeting in the morning and was confronted how cold I was. Oh crap! How am I supposed to act then huh?!

Again, I was told by a different person not to strangle his pearly neck, fine then. And then I reflected. Maybe I’m this wicked mother who nags her children and husband to death. Or maybe so, I was this bitchy girl who wanted to have this attention she wasn’t able to get from her family.

I wish I could be perfect for them. A person I know not once told our teacher—which he eventually shared to us—how we people are so busy praying for the right person to come yet we are not praying to be the ideal person first for someone. Then it struck me how I am one of those people who constantly prays for that ideal person to come.

I am so immature. What a shameful word to brand on a person. I wish to have them forever. Then I remember there’s no such thing as forever. What a sad reality.