Dear sweet reader,
Love in my family was displayed in many ways, but few and far between were in healthy forms. Emotional needs came second to business, to their own pursuits, to the Christian God. My examples for what a healthy relationship looked like was near non-existent, and my brother and I grew up with the quick understanding that freely expressing our thoughts or feelings were to expose ourselves to abandonment, shaming, or an attack or a criticism on our character. Conflict in our household was dealt with carefully, navigating our Mum and her mood swings, finding no solace in our Dad’s rose-coloured lenses that he never took off.
Love seemed to have a lot of hoops and strings and terms and conditions. Love was threatening to run the car off the road because I grew an opinion independently. Love was declaring I couldn’t truly love her, if I wanted to keep my friendships or diary private because she needed to know and control every inch about me. It reduced my pride in school achievements to God enabling it to happen, not my own skill. It claimed my teenaged headstrong statements was because my father was white and therefore, had no weight because he was a cheater. A Western liar and cheater. Any of my behaviours that symbolised a need for autonomy or independence or privacy was immediately thrown back at me as deep flaws in my very character, things I needed to change and abandon.
So for a very long time, I abandoned myself just as my parents had done to me in different ways. I loathed my skin and heart and needs. By the time I met my partner-now-wife, I had tried unsuccessfully uncoupling from my Mum but the depth of her hooks felt terminal, felt permanent. Guilt drew me close for a long time, perhaps the oldest card my Mum could draw upon to summon her children who, without hesitation, would swoop in and drop to our knees, yearning to support, to feel her warmth once more because as quickly as she gave love, she withdrew it. Blink, and there was nothing but a chill.
If my own flesh required I abandon myself, I was sure that no one could possibly love me, let alone like me with the opinions, the silliness, the quirks I brought with me — But, I’ve been married for a week now.
My past selves would not believe the person I am today, that I am alive and breathing and experiencing a healthy, great love in a partner, that I have allowed myself to be known, to be loved. There is, at moments, a tinge of that old familiar guilt, as I sit in my home, plants lining the walls and tables with green tendrils, our fridge face littered with experiences and joyous occasion, with peace making itself central at home here; and I am not sure how to reconcile the safety, the nurtured compassion and connections in my relationships, the pride in my life with the one who sits outside of it.
The only solace I think I’ve found in grieving a living person, who refuses to acknowledge how lovely I am as their child, and the life and connections I have developed on my own, is that life is short and she has put herself on the outside time and time again. She has every opportunity to repair what has broken between us.
It turns out that conflict isn’t terminal. People that love you, also like you; and they want the best for the relationship, they want the conflict to be resolved. The win is healing. That in the deepest, darkest conflict there is still love, compassion and accountability, a willingness to learn and reflect. Conflict is no longer the preface of punishment, a back hand to the lip if I expressed myself too freely. And an absence of punishment is the freedom of expression.
In my relationship with my wife, I can say how I feel, what I think and meet my needs without fear of shame, abandonment or punishment. Love feels differently to when I was younger.
I no longer sit on the outside of my life anymore.
Love, Mimpi xx