Life Lessons
1/1
There are some people in this world who seem to have everything. Right from birth, they’re handed their every wish and secret desire on a silver platter - no obstacles, no fights. And then there are the people like me. We fight for everything we have, clawing our way out of the darkness of obscurity and repression to reach the taunting light beyond. Things don’t just fall into our laps. We don’t wait for our futures to come to us, but set out to face our destiny head on.
But if there’s one thing we fight hardest for, it’s love. And I’m not just talking about that silly romantic love you see on television on a daily basis. I mean even the simplest, most expected forms of love. When I was little, I couldn’t understand why my friends loved their daddies so much. They’d talk about piggy-back rides and the cuddles that made everything ok as though it was all they needed in the world.
It may have been all they’d ever needed, but it was all I’d ever wanted. My father was as stoic and old-school as can be, and he had no time for ‘childish games’. It’s only now that I’m older that I fully understand the way he thought. For some people, everything’s seen in imagery. They picture the alphabet while reciting it, or rows of numbers as they multiply. Other people work solely in logic and numbers. My father worked in lists. In his head, everything was categorised and listed in order of priority. I wish I could say that my mum and I – his family – were a priority, but I’m not one for lying. As far as he was concerned, work came first. Always.
I know this because it was what he shouted at my mother the day he left. It was loud enough to reach me through the thick pane of glass I was watching him through, alone in my bedroom. Raindrops were cascading down the window. They mingled with the tears that rolled freely down my mom’s cheeks. My dad wasn’t crying. He wasn’t doing anything that demanded any sort of release of emotion.
You. Can’t. Show. Emotion.
When I was little, he didn’t say all that much to me. So when he did talk it tended to stick with me pretty well. It was usually some cynical, bitter comment, but to me, a child desperate for the attention of her father, these comment were gold dust in my hands. What stands out most to me, though, is what he said to me right after he found me listening to him and my mother fight. I was little more than a toddler, so could do nothing to stem the flow of tears as I heard them throw around words that turned the air blue – words I would be scolded for uttering.
He found me on the stairs, clutching my little palms tightly over my ears in a desperate attempt to block out the shouting. His face betrayed no flicker of emotion as he took in my tear-stained cheeks and the wild look in my swollen eyes. Finally, he bent to my level, his face hard and cold. It was granite; immovable in the face of my despair.
“Emotions are for the weak, Sammy. Crying makes you weak, so don’t let me catch you doing it again.”
I never cried again.
But if there’s one thing we fight hardest for, it’s love. And I’m not just talking about that silly romantic love you see on television on a daily basis. I mean even the simplest, most expected forms of love. When I was little, I couldn’t understand why my friends loved their daddies so much. They’d talk about piggy-back rides and the cuddles that made everything ok as though it was all they needed in the world.
It may have been all they’d ever needed, but it was all I’d ever wanted. My father was as stoic and old-school as can be, and he had no time for ‘childish games’. It’s only now that I’m older that I fully understand the way he thought. For some people, everything’s seen in imagery. They picture the alphabet while reciting it, or rows of numbers as they multiply. Other people work solely in logic and numbers. My father worked in lists. In his head, everything was categorised and listed in order of priority. I wish I could say that my mum and I – his family – were a priority, but I’m not one for lying. As far as he was concerned, work came first. Always.
I know this because it was what he shouted at my mother the day he left. It was loud enough to reach me through the thick pane of glass I was watching him through, alone in my bedroom. Raindrops were cascading down the window. They mingled with the tears that rolled freely down my mom’s cheeks. My dad wasn’t crying. He wasn’t doing anything that demanded any sort of release of emotion.
You. Can’t. Show. Emotion.
When I was little, he didn’t say all that much to me. So when he did talk it tended to stick with me pretty well. It was usually some cynical, bitter comment, but to me, a child desperate for the attention of her father, these comment were gold dust in my hands. What stands out most to me, though, is what he said to me right after he found me listening to him and my mother fight. I was little more than a toddler, so could do nothing to stem the flow of tears as I heard them throw around words that turned the air blue – words I would be scolded for uttering.
He found me on the stairs, clutching my little palms tightly over my ears in a desperate attempt to block out the shouting. His face betrayed no flicker of emotion as he took in my tear-stained cheeks and the wild look in my swollen eyes. Finally, he bent to my level, his face hard and cold. It was granite; immovable in the face of my despair.
“Emotions are for the weak, Sammy. Crying makes you weak, so don’t let me catch you doing it again.”
I never cried again.