My house in Jakarta is located in one of those homey areas, where families still gather on the weekends for football matches and everybody knows everybody else because the walls are so thin and the fences are so low.
So with the cheers from the crowd watching the football match on the field opposite our residence, proudly sporting my BINGO shirt, and glowing with shameless post-orgasmic joy, I walk into my own house.
It only took 30-minutes, from the moment I waltz myself in, for the house to tremble in rage and find me
The front gate swings open and slams closed to these:
“YOU’RE GOING BACK TO JEDDAH WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT!”
“NOT UNTIL ONE OF US IS DEAD, MAMA!”
Peachy, ain’t it?
***
Every household has its methods of disaster management.
GH2 had its quirks. RmhTbt has its shakes. And I have mine:
GH2 had its quirks. RmhTbt has its shakes. And I have mine:
- Tell everyone that you’re pissed, thus are prone to induce even more harm to yourself. The sooner someone accompanies you, the less harm you may induce.
- Procure one or all of the following: something sweet, something to read, something to write on.
- Sit somewhere safe, and shut up until your brain regains its normal temperature, your face and eyes its normal color, and smoke stops from coming out of your ears.
TIP: Repeating Goosfrabaaaa…is only going to remind you of the Anger Management movie and piss you off even more.
***The welcoming ritual between me and mama wouldn’t have occurred if I hadn’t told her that I’m considering switching into Indonesian citizenship, living in Indonesia for the rest of my life, and actually loving it.
The welcoming ritual wouldn’t have occurred if our conversation didn’t reach the more substantial elements of our relationships. So sticking to cooking, sewing, and hair/skin maintenance would have been better topics to tread on carefully.
The welcoming ritual wouldn’t have occurred if I weren’t so desperate to show her of all the things that’s been making me tick and click in the last 5 months in Aceh.
Why do I still tell my mama about things that I know she just can’t understand?
Because I still long for her approval.
Why do I still need my mama’s approval?
Because I don’t really believe in the things that I’m doing is worthwhile.
Why don’t I believe that what I’m doing is worthwhile?
Because I’m doing it out of vengeance.
Why am I vengeful?
Because I’m unable to forgive.
There, the entire purpose of living in Amman, in Aceh, in Jakarta, heavy drinking, highway riding, promiscuity, psychology degree, knowledge and keen sense for power, is just to avenge the people who refused to love me for what I am.
Allow me to rephrase that,
All the explosive decisions I’ve made are just to make up for my inability to really accept and forgive myself the way I am.
Look at it this way, if I really believe in what I’m doing, if I really believe that the purpose of living is for God and self-actualization, heck, I wouldn’t have such hard time trying to convince anyone about anything.
Life really isn’t about proving anything to anyone.
Life’s so much larger than that.
And if I, up until now, still want to prove anything to anyone, myself included, then all the good that I’ve done hasn’t been worthwhile, and all the bad I’ve done hasn’t fulfilled anything but that.
(stuffing out my cigarette, chugging in that last shot of Acehnese coffee, and taking a deep breath)
You know something,
With this much of fresh anger, I’m not ready to forgive my mother.
Not yet.
But I know how to get there.
And I’m writing it down here so that if I forget, someone out there will remind me of it.
I’ll tell you when I do get there; get to the part where I am able to forgive my mother.
By that time, I would have been able to forgive myself, and you, and everyone else.
You’ll see it in the voice that I write with.
Come to think of it, maybe when that happens, I won’t need to write anything here anymore.
And you’ll just have to be happy for me.
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