My mother, who is also registered for some time on Facebook - we have a few friends in common - bed time to time the texts I published here or elsewhere. Not all, of course. We must admit that I am extremely prolific, and the topics that interest me are not always necessarily the ones we have in common. It is almost always too thick, too long, too convoluted as she likes to repeat myself. She also said that I complain too often myself of my existence of hazards, from my past or present suffering of my emotional as she likes to repeat myself too. This does not mean she does not appreciate the topics I discuss the themes that are dear to me. But, as I have explained in a previous text, my mother is a very down to earth, for whom materialism, financial necessities, everyday problems, take precedence over any other consideration philosophical, spiritual or on moral suffering, psychological, etc. It is often that it upsets me, it shakes me, that I exceed my difficulties, hardships that life dealt me since I was child. And God knows that I, like all of my family have gone through many storms have taken down those less strong morally and psychologically; that would have led some to madness or suicide. For what I refer here regularly in my memories, my personal thoughts about my own history, my experience, is a drop compared to all the events we have all faced in my family. Nevertheless, little by little, I slowly opened to all this by putting it in writing. And it makes me a lot of good, though may say. Its a way for me - at least partially - to free myself from my demons, to free me from my past or present sufferings. I know this is not enough, I have a big job to do inside. But it comforts me; as if I deposited some of the burden installed from decades sometimes on my shoulders on the floor. And that this simple gesture helped me regain strength before returning to the heart of this fierce battle, ruthless relentless, continuous, what my daily struggle for survival in a world that never made me no gifts. I am fully aware that I am not the most miserable man in the world. There is still more unfortunate than itself; a person who has faced more trials or misfortunes than oneself. I have a beautiful apartment; I have a regular income; I am passionate about a lot of subjects; I am intelligent, cultivated; I have a family who loves me and I love. Deny that I am more favored than others would be an aberration. This would be guilty of myself, selfish, monstrous. When we see all the misery that exists around us, poverty, disease, death, war, so on, what audacity to complain about his little personal problems, so insignificant face of so much misery and suffering .dropoff window Unlike me, my mother does not have such a heightened sensitivity than mine. It is sensitive in his way. But she shows very little; almost never done. In my family, show his sensitivity, crying, complaining trials that life deals you, is considered a weakness. And we must not show weakness; we must move forward no matter what, when meme is depleted, exhausted, scared, hurt. These considerations are handicaps that it is essential to overcome, meme if we are not prepared for it, meme if we do not know how. My mother never realized, I think - is it you can understand the iy to admit? - Is that in this area, as in many others, we are not all equal. Some people manage to overcome their sensitivity, their pain, their past, their wounds, to move forward; others less; others not at all. Some people are strong in some aspects of their personality to progress. By cons, for other aspects of it, they are unable to find the means and ways of overcoming obstacles before them. For my mother, who want to can, its as simple as that. As to me, I belong also to the latter category. As much as Im able to endure some form of legal or physical pain, as many other paralyzes me terrified me, make me unable to respond or find adequate solutions to stop it. Thus, I can not help it; Im making all the effort that I am able to change, evolve in the sense that my mother would follow me, I can not turn the person Im deeply. My past, my experience, my personality, my dreams, my hopes, my wounds, my joys, my victories and my defeats, have made me the person in their own right as I am today. I am sure that we can move on a number of points; but turn completely is impossible. Also, my mother never understood is that each of the texts I published here or elsewhere - this also - is only a witness. These testimonials highlighting certain aspects of my personality, my past, my ambitions, my feelings, my desires, etc. It is also testimony recounting tiny fragments of my life and how I lived them when they occurred, and the impact they had on what has flowed up to sometimes today. Since my teenage years, Ive never stopped writing. As much pleasure as necessary. Pleasure, when my boundless imagination, when my book knowledge in a particular field, give me the opportunity to create fantastic stories tinted History, Myths, Legends. When they allow me to invent fantastic stories which, as I write Myth joined history, there is a magic moment when the Reality exists only to be swept away by the Breath of a Legendary epic . This sentence alone sums up the multiple Knowledge, Imaginary, perceptions, fragments of my personality, of my past and present experiences, countless literary and cinematic sources, which are mine. She mentioned how I enriched daily by new contributions, through works that particularly and profoundly affected me. As needed, because having in front of me little - or not - people who care about how I feel, my fears and my darkest fears and deepest of my visible and invisible scars, present or past, I soon felt the vital need to describe them, dissect them, to try to understand or apprehend them, to tame them in this way. And the trials have accumulated over the suffering, the stages of my life were hard, have left their imprint sour my body and in my mind, the more need has increased. And today, more than ever, it has become a necessity as fundamental as eating, sleeping, or drinking, for example. Unfortunately for me, although my mother has worked hard over the years to try to understand me, accept me as I am, she always extremely difficult to understand this extreme sensitivity that is mine. This urge to take refuge in a world that belongs only to me, where I can express myself freely without being judged, looked like a different man who is struggling to integrate into the everyday which I feel prisoner usually when I am with family. I know that my family members are not aware that it is a way of working that exceeds. And this lack of understanding, this gap gives me great suffering. While I would like to share all that I am, all that I know what I like, what I found in my texts in particular, I often feel isolated, misunderstood. This has nothing to do with the love they have for me, or that I have for them. For I do not know if she knows, if she feels if she is aware as fundamentally as I will wish to pass it by my words, but I love him from the bottom of my heart and my soul. I am lost, I will feel abandoned. It would tear me another piece of my heart died with the death of my little brother Aymeric. All I would like is that she is proud of me as it is for all other members of our family; or, in any case, it shows. This is my family realizes how hard I try to do every day to try to meet the best of my ability and my possibilities. So even if I do not consider myself the most unfortunate of the world, far from it, this fracture, essential, rooted deep in my personality, gnaws at me, and sometimes destroys me. The fact that we must constantly hide his moods, sufferings, fears, accentuates this sense of loneliness. It also emphasizes the need to hide behind my computer. Because its the only way I have always to unload everything I can not share the reality with the people around me. This is not ideal, I agree. It would be far better to verbalize what I write in my most personal stories. But, as I have already specified, it is impossible. My family is intolerant towards those who show they are suffering, do the talking. This drunk my mother, and she flees this stuff. Moreover, because my grandmother lives with her, and it is important not to bother with the psychological peccadilloes with moods to which it gives little to importance. Grandma is old, you see, it keeps you from repeating myself. And your moods tire us. We, that is to enjoy the joy and the joy of being together, around a good meals, talking about things that grandma understands and loves. This is not to hear you complain and whine. . In fact, I take refuge in the office, with my computer, I write a lot, when I talk with people on Facebook with whom I can communicate and accept the man I am in all its complexity and multiplicity. And every family meal becomes a chore when I did not have my place, since this should be a time of joy and happiness shared systematically into monopolizing the conversation with a few. Moreover, for the little time I have the opportunity to speak, I feel like an intruder, an intruder whose words ring in a vacuum. I feel that no one hears what I say, and they have one desire is shut me to let them return to their opinions or regular dialogues; repeated and REMACHES for years on the same themes. I am also deeply, viscerally, convinced that if this monopoly did not exist, I could speak more freely, topics that are important to me, which I could go and exchange, I would not be also reluctant to part with a good heart these family gatherings. Because every time I had the opportunity to just put myself forward to reveal any less my interests, my passions, etc., people pass when I am family, ceux- it saw in me someone they did not know, they did not know existed, since it is not customary to home to highlight what I hide for so long in me. This is all the more unfair that these same people are often therefore interested in these aspects of my personality, of my passions, usually muzzled. My mother was educated in the idea that it is normal to submit to his elders, not to upset or contradict them. It is exceptional that it intervene with respect to my grandmother. And, as it has this attitude toward it, my mother finds it normal that I do the same. Although I have forty-five years now, every time I tried to rid myself any less of this straitjacket that stifles me, every time I tried to raise the voice for voice my opinion or that I was not agreed on one point or another, my mother put in my place. It does not accept that I can upset the established order. Thats when tears. Then it was my grandmother who starts crying saying she is a burden, it no longer serves nothing. Now, as my grandmother is financially easy and it pays a lot to my mother - or me - it feels natural that we submitted without complaint at its discretion. I think love, tenderness, attention, etc., can not be bought. Whether one is generous to his family is commendable. But that we have this gesture thinking that in this way, we can direct each according to his will, is intolerable, unbearable. It is generous because we want to please the other, without expecting anything in return. Of course, we must not be ungrateful. We must show respect for the person who is generous to us. We must thank her warmly. But this has nothing to do with the love that is expected from one or the other. But since we were kids, it is this principle which was partly built the relationship we have all met with our grandparents; and now with my grandmother. My mother is a prisoner of the system, and if she had the audacity to speak out against this diktat, she knows very well that the financial windfall which it is beneficial disappear; which greatly handicap in his daily life, materially speaking. I am a prisoner because my mother educated me that I always keep in mind that I am indebted for life to all that my grandparents brought us materially. And submit to them is a lesser evil. And that, in fact, my moods, I must not show so as not to annoy my elders. But as the years go by, this operating system is increasingly heavy. It is a burden, a yoke which I am a prisoner, and I did manage to release me that putting it not written, and sharing my innermost thoughts, heavier, here or elsewhere. My mother was certainly not aware of this weight on my shoulders for so many years. I do not blame him, of course. It is very difficult to challenge a way of working that has been instilled in us since our childhood. It was built as well, she is accommodated, she found an equilibrium shape certainly since my grandmother lives with her. Other family members are also accustomed to it; they do not suffer as intensely as I have to bow to the demands of my grandmother, and by extension, my mother. But Im not like them. My feelings, which I can not rid myself and that is exacerbated, now becomes moral torture. On one hand, I would like to correspond to the image that is expected of me because Im high, respectful, open. Because, quite simply, I love and accept them as they are, with their qualities and defects, with their differences and their personalities. On the other hand, I suffer from this situation that has existed for decades, and that hurts me deeply; without having truly aware of the damage that this approach has resulted in me. Because I do not know how to behave, I sometimes feel like a stranger in my own family. What Im deep in my heart and my soul whenever challenged, involved, during our family gatherings. I repeat, I am not the most miserable man in the world, far from it. I do not wish that it be understood as a complaint, how to pour on my misfortunes - although I do know that if my mothers bed, so she will perceive it -. But can you be objective when it is personally concerned by text whatsoever? I do not think so. We always have different attitudes when it is others who are described arrested. When it comes to us, we are necessarily biased. Myself, I admit, thinking of all that I have to disclose, I wonder: I say, youre not going too far Ought you prove all this Is not you going? hurting the people you love most in the world? I am afraid, because it is not the purpose of this story. I was almost in tears thinking about it because I do not want to hurt, or my mother, or my grandmother, or anyone else for that matter. But, I also think that my mother, if she loves me deeply that I love, understand; she realized that my moods are not mere complaint of a man who made the unfortunate, when there are so many others that are longer than him. We are all different, we all react differently to events, tests, given our past, our present and our future. We are not all equal before the harshness of life, about the behavior of a particular person, whether or not we be close. There are things that mark us with a hot iron for life. Me there are a lot of things that are etched forever in my soul and I can not free myself. I expect only understanding, tolerance, openness, and above all, using the part of the mother without which, today, I am nothing ...
Posted on: Wed, 10 Dec 2014 13:35:18 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015