I Admit

The girl's admissions.

I’m sorry for not doing the laundry or dishes.

When I see you in the hall, my first instinct is to look away and close the door, don’t say a word because I shouldn’t bother you anymore than I already have. And downstairs, the dishes will pile up in the sink. I’ll hear you complain, having to come home and wash what I leave there, instead of finding an empty sink because then I’d have taken care of it. But I don’t know about tableware and stare at dishes, only putting them away when I feel annoyed by the sink’s space being taken up by dirty plates and bowls, not knowing sometimes where they go, should I wash them or not.

I’m sorry that I can’t cook.

You tell me to watch you, but I always get in the way, lacking enough awareness to observe without blocking your path or limiting your motions, how I stay outside the kitchen, only there to rummage the fridge or pass you when you prepare your dinner.

I’m sorry that I can’t speak your language; for giving up when I can’t understand you.

When you speak in that foreign tongue, unable to understand, I don’t bother to listen, only slight caring for what everyone says. You use English around me, so I feel no need to learn, but I will hopefully.

There are times I can’t understand what you’re saying because your words are simply rephrased and reused. I want to listen, except when I can’t understand, I too easily feel defeated. And though everyone can laugh about it, I don’t want to because laughing reminds me how communication has become hollow and fragmented.

I’m sorry I can’t take care of myself or look after myself “properly.”

Needing acne products for my face, unable to do the smallest tasks and asking for your help, having to confirm what to do, I know you’re tired after work. I’m only bothering you with things I should be able to do myself, common sense, use a little common sense. In the mornings, you prepare my lunch and even wake me up sometimes. Even though I hesitate, anticipating the moment you’ll complain, I still ask for rides here and there. It’s not my intention, but then, nothing ever is.

I’m sorry I needed you to pay two hundred dollars for my laptop and often ask for money because I can’t earn my own yet.

I’m sorry that I don’t greet you when you come home.

I’m sorry that I can’t stand to hear you say “goodbye” or “see ya later.”

I’m sorry for not wanting to listen to others, wanting to hear you instead, talking with me and encouraging or reprimanding me.

You’re my mother. However, there are times I find others act more like “mothers” than you and I don’t want them to. I don’t mind being lectured, but only once. After, just remind me and speak on the subject with me. When auntie used to lecture me outright and we’d go home, I wouldn’t want to listen because the things you say sound like her and I feel I’ve lost my mother for those fifteen minutes, driving home.

Finding out you had diabetes, you started talking to me a little, here and there. We laugh a little more. Even though it’s only snippets, they’re better than the silence, separated by a flight of stairs or when I sleep in the afternoon, hiding myself in my room.

I recall one specific car ride home, after we dropped off big brother. The conversation eludes me, except there is something you said that I can’t forget, making me so happy to hear. “You’ll be what you want to be. In the end, it’s your choice. I can’t change it or force you.” Your words were the greatest thing I’d ever heard, but they couldn’t last long as I remember that it’s not true. I don’t feel stress. What I feel is pressure for the future, for what I don’t know and what I don’t feel.

I’m sorry for feeling tinges of happiness when you found out Toby had cancer.

It was the first time I’d seen you cry and you hugged me. Even with the knowledge of Toby’s sickness on my mind, it’s the closest I’ve ever come to knowing how you’re feeling and what you’re thinking. I am indifferent to most matters and know, when it comes down to it, I don’t like being touched, but I didn’t mind it then. Your feelings then were raw and exposed. I wondered if that’s how it was when father died. Who did you cry to? Why didn’t you cry with me?

I’m sorry for being indifferent. I’m sorry I can’t remember. I’m sorry I overreact and sometimes, I sound sarcastic. I’m sorry that I can be cold and uncaring.

I hope one day, you can take it easy, no pressure or pain. For everything I do now, I want to make it up to you. When I’m older, I want to be someone who makes you proud to boast “This is my daughter.”

I’m not there yet, not even close, and I’ve been struggling to find a way to do what I must for that future.

But I’m lost, wondering what do I like and what do I care for, what truly scares me and what do I want. Even if I daydream about the future, I have no real goals for it. Things just pass me and I have little incentive to slow them down or to bring myself to bother with it. Motivations such as family, money, and easy living don’t work.

No matter how much I want to be useful to you and make you proud, I fall on my knees, lean back, and close my eyes, no longer here because the motivation isn’t there. When I ask myself who do I care for, there’s one person I don’t have to ponder on. It’s definite. My mother. But that’s it and no more. As long as I think about it, it’s as if it doesn’t reach me. My emotions toss and turn, and though aware, I’m detached, feeling them like a presence, not a beat of my heart, throb in my head, curl of my fingers or tensing of my back.

I love you, mama. I’m sure of that. But I don’t know what to do or what to say. And that, I am the most sorry for.