The Saints Of Mibba
In The Eyes of a Child
Life isn't easy. I realize that.
It took me a while to fully understand, but now I think I do. Every little thing someone does for me, I've learned to take notice of it. Every time my mother goes a step further than she should to make me happy, I've learned to appreciate it. Every new detail I come across about myself, I've learned to embrace it. And every change that's been made in my life—whether it is beneficial to me or detrimental—I've learned to accept it. It wasn't simple; it was a long journey full of sleepless nights, new discoveries and learning how to believe in myself when I had no one else to turn to.
When I was a little girl, I was taken in by a family friend to raise me while my mother went to live on her own. At first, I didn't know much about her. I didn't know her name, I didn't know what she looked like and I didn't know her personality. I wasn't even sure I had a mother, let alone two biological parents to love me like any other child. Yes, I was different. Did I know it? No, I believed the family friend I was living with was the woman who gave me life. I was unaware of the mother I had, and the father I never deserved.
By the time I was able to hold a stable memory, my mother continually visited me. Her position and the woman's I was living with should've been vice versa. But no, what was a mother to do when she wasn't sure she was ready for a child?
My father; I never knew him. Maybe once had he graced my world with his presence, but not at an age when I could've remembered him. He didn't matter, and I never spoke of him. Why burden her anymore than she already was? Wasn't I burden enough?
A step-father—something I had no intention of believing existed until I officially had one. I didn't like him. I didn't know him, therefore judged him by his appearance, his subsistence and even his adoration for my mother. Was it right of me? I liked to think so. I was childish, but what more did you expect from a mere child?
Seven years old; a new home, a new beginning. I started to like him. And she started to like me. Being in one house with two other adults was different, but it was the true definition of change that I was sure to learn.
Eight years old; a new state, a new life. How fast time seemed to be going. Everything seemed like such a blur and I was too careless to notice. I let the time pass by, I let everything happen in routine with the year before it, and I forgot how to live.
Adolescence—good enough of an excuse, right? I was turning thirteen, I was proud of hitting a new stage in my miniature life, but I didn't embrace it. Not like I should have. Time flew like the wind and I didn't hold back. Immaturity; step three in my book. I had already grown out of infantile, adolescence could only be experienced once and immaturity was the lucky number three.
Then came fourteen, and then fifteen... my, how time flew. This was when lessons were learned, consequences were faced and emotions were let free.
Paranoia... I had heard the word before. It didn't mean much to me; I couldn't have been bothered by it anymore than the next person. But when I discovered I possessed said disadvantage, the anxiety only increased. I had many fears; the usual—small spaces, heights, the dark, spiders, dolls... nothing too out of the ordinary with those minimal fears. But the thought of death, the fear of hearing a person's heartbeat—not knowing if the sweet throbs would instantly stop and never be heard again, the fear of cancer, the fear of being left alone, the fear of any illness and never healing... something was wrong.
Any explanation? A disturbed thought process characterized by excessive anxiety or fear, often to the point of irrationality and delusion. How specific of you, Wikipedia. It indeed was paranoia. But nothing was wrong physically; I wasn't sick in any way, shape or form. My mother's and a very trustworthy doctor's assurance was all I needed. I opened up; I let my feelings be released... I cried, I confessed and I got treated. Well, as good of a treatment as daily anxiety pills could provide.
My lesson was learned. I learned to enjoy life without as much worry; without wondering if I would awake the next morning. I stored those thoughts in the back of my mind for another day when they were really needed. I learned to believe that everything happened for a reason. That there were no coincidences, only fate conjoining two similar paths. No one just got lucky, but found a way to make their own luck with the abilities they mastered.
It was strange to think that my mother was the one who started the deep, emotional thoughts that plagued my mind for so many years... yet helped me recover in the most reliable way possible. I guess it is true: a mother is God in the eyes of a child. And I'm still a child, if not appearing so on the outside, I most definitely am mentally and emotionally. I don't believe any person will fully grow up unless they truly want to.
We're all children in some way or another, and we've got so much to learn. We just need a little guidance to realize that we're getting older, yet age is nothing but a number.
It took me a while to fully understand, but now I think I do. Every little thing someone does for me, I've learned to take notice of it. Every time my mother goes a step further than she should to make me happy, I've learned to appreciate it. Every new detail I come across about myself, I've learned to embrace it. And every change that's been made in my life—whether it is beneficial to me or detrimental—I've learned to accept it. It wasn't simple; it was a long journey full of sleepless nights, new discoveries and learning how to believe in myself when I had no one else to turn to.
When I was a little girl, I was taken in by a family friend to raise me while my mother went to live on her own. At first, I didn't know much about her. I didn't know her name, I didn't know what she looked like and I didn't know her personality. I wasn't even sure I had a mother, let alone two biological parents to love me like any other child. Yes, I was different. Did I know it? No, I believed the family friend I was living with was the woman who gave me life. I was unaware of the mother I had, and the father I never deserved.
By the time I was able to hold a stable memory, my mother continually visited me. Her position and the woman's I was living with should've been vice versa. But no, what was a mother to do when she wasn't sure she was ready for a child?
My father; I never knew him. Maybe once had he graced my world with his presence, but not at an age when I could've remembered him. He didn't matter, and I never spoke of him. Why burden her anymore than she already was? Wasn't I burden enough?
A step-father—something I had no intention of believing existed until I officially had one. I didn't like him. I didn't know him, therefore judged him by his appearance, his subsistence and even his adoration for my mother. Was it right of me? I liked to think so. I was childish, but what more did you expect from a mere child?
Seven years old; a new home, a new beginning. I started to like him. And she started to like me. Being in one house with two other adults was different, but it was the true definition of change that I was sure to learn.
Eight years old; a new state, a new life. How fast time seemed to be going. Everything seemed like such a blur and I was too careless to notice. I let the time pass by, I let everything happen in routine with the year before it, and I forgot how to live.
Adolescence—good enough of an excuse, right? I was turning thirteen, I was proud of hitting a new stage in my miniature life, but I didn't embrace it. Not like I should have. Time flew like the wind and I didn't hold back. Immaturity; step three in my book. I had already grown out of infantile, adolescence could only be experienced once and immaturity was the lucky number three.
Then came fourteen, and then fifteen... my, how time flew. This was when lessons were learned, consequences were faced and emotions were let free.
Paranoia... I had heard the word before. It didn't mean much to me; I couldn't have been bothered by it anymore than the next person. But when I discovered I possessed said disadvantage, the anxiety only increased. I had many fears; the usual—small spaces, heights, the dark, spiders, dolls... nothing too out of the ordinary with those minimal fears. But the thought of death, the fear of hearing a person's heartbeat—not knowing if the sweet throbs would instantly stop and never be heard again, the fear of cancer, the fear of being left alone, the fear of any illness and never healing... something was wrong.
Any explanation? A disturbed thought process characterized by excessive anxiety or fear, often to the point of irrationality and delusion. How specific of you, Wikipedia. It indeed was paranoia. But nothing was wrong physically; I wasn't sick in any way, shape or form. My mother's and a very trustworthy doctor's assurance was all I needed. I opened up; I let my feelings be released... I cried, I confessed and I got treated. Well, as good of a treatment as daily anxiety pills could provide.
My lesson was learned. I learned to enjoy life without as much worry; without wondering if I would awake the next morning. I stored those thoughts in the back of my mind for another day when they were really needed. I learned to believe that everything happened for a reason. That there were no coincidences, only fate conjoining two similar paths. No one just got lucky, but found a way to make their own luck with the abilities they mastered.
It was strange to think that my mother was the one who started the deep, emotional thoughts that plagued my mind for so many years... yet helped me recover in the most reliable way possible. I guess it is true: a mother is God in the eyes of a child. And I'm still a child, if not appearing so on the outside, I most definitely am mentally and emotionally. I don't believe any person will fully grow up unless they truly want to.
We're all children in some way or another, and we've got so much to learn. We just need a little guidance to realize that we're getting older, yet age is nothing but a number.
♠ ♠ ♠
by Dynamic.