If at half past 1 am, after a cup of coffee in lukewarm water in an equally lukewarm weather, you find yourself writing in longhand with ease, pausing every now and then, finding delight in killing mosquitoes by electrocution using that handy, racket-like thingy made in China, you know you’re doing a good job in blocking out negative thoughts and a bad job in fixing your fucked-up body clock.
Repression has become as natural as breathing lately that I could pat myself on the back for not letting thoughts of the inevitable break in and bring me down, but then I’m worried about my mother. Sure, she shows no sign of depression or anxiety or whatsofuckingever condition a wife will probably go through when she knows her husband suffers from a traitor disease and there’s little she can do about it, but I’m afraid her own illness, which used to be at its peak when we were young and was never really cured as far as I know, will strike again anytime soon because of this ordeal, and what frightens me more is that there’s nothing I can do about it.
And it’s not that I don’t care about my ailing father. When a person has a heart disease you don’t go around rubbing it in, for crying out loud.
He’s the breadwinner of the family. If he’ll be forced to quit working because of his condition, I wonder where on earth we’ll be. My brother, only a year older than me, doesn’t look to me like someone who can get a stable job at the moment. My younger sister is an upcoming high school senior who has a bright future ahead of her, and I am an upcoming college senior who has some serious issues with self-esteem. I know I could get over them come desperate times, but my father won’t let me apply for a job (as in a real one, not online) until I finish college — you know how parents can be obsessed with their children getting a diploma. Mother told me I should obey my father with this one.
At home I may seem callous because I’m such a crybaby I’m sure if I bring myself to talk to my parents about this The Great Flood will occur alright, but every grim possibility actually terrifies me that I have to pause and hold back tears while writing this because my shirt’s really soaked now with all the crying merely thinking of the blasted what-ifs. Had I known that the enormity of the situation will completely sink in now that my fears are written down, I could have repressed them altogether and just focused on fixing my fucked-up body clock.