But then, I couldn't do it and the more, I thought about why, I understood: before I count those blessings (plenty plenty) I feel, I have to do justice to pain, a feeling I never acknowledged properly. My childhood hurt, and I didn't admit it. Which has led to an entire life, that hurts at times, when it should'nt, even with all those blessings. So I guess, I have to write about the pain a little bit.
Its funny, how you hide facts before your own consciousness. I probably knew all along, that we were an unhappy family, but I didnt know any other, so I tried to pretend, this harshness was tenderness and the fights were love and the insults were declarations of admiration. I pretended, the masks, behind which love was hidden, did not matter to me. Even today, when somebody is really mean to me, I might still think, he likes me deep down and is just too shy to show his true feelings, which he hides behind a mask. I never learned properly, to decipher feelings. Like learning a new language, it does get harder, when you get older, but it is never impossible and never too late, to start the learning process.
My parents fought all the time. I never saw them kiss or hug, not once in my entire life. I didn't know, there was such a thing like hugging and kissing parents.
Instead I was told by my mom, what a bastard my father was and my father just never talked about my mom, he just closed his eyes, when she entered the room and left. I never saw them interact besides the fighting.
I loved my father most of all – he was my favourite person in the world. But he drank too much. And sometimes he disappeared. He was gone for days and we would look for him everywhere and each time, we thought, he had killed himself and we might find his corpse somewhere in the woods. But he always returned and pretended, nothing out of the ordinary had happened - until the last time, when he didn’t return.
They found him far away from home. He sat in his car, dead, in a parking lot. The main feeling I remember expressed over that traumatic incident was my aunts' shame to go into the village. People would certainly talk about us. She felt embarrassed.
I also remember feeling completely unfree: I now was the daughter of the suicide, which kind of defined me and my opportunities for happiness.
When I return to my home today, most people are dead, but new people have been born, it still shocks me to see, how they treat each other. Another harsh generation. Their hugs are always almost brutal, and their compliments resemble insults. They all hurt and they could never admit it. It would ruin their lives.