It is not your bravado that amazes me, but your ability to fall crushingly apart and to call out for help.
It is not your lovely home cooked meals made to perfection that I need, although they do make life worth living for.
But your bony, uncomfortable and still so-recklessly-filled-with-love hugs that I need. The ones that are so tight, they hurt but they reassure me of your love and all the emotions unspoken fuse in the full-on-ness of your hugs. They are what I know. Just the way Aru will know hugs that leave no room for breathing. Just that way.
I don’t need you to cover it all up for me. I’m 32 now, in a love of my own, with a child of mine. A life of gambles, baby panadol, chocolate overdoses and clearly no underweight issues. I need your real-ness. I need you to tell me about the messed up days, the mistakes you made, the confusion in your mind. Because my world is that now. No longer in the innocence of childhood, I know the corners, sharp edges and the hurt. And no one knows what I need to hear more than you.
It is not your silence that gives me comfort. But your anger and your words, even at their darkest. More so at their darkest. Because then it is out. Because it makes the darkness normal. If maa feels it, it’s not so scary if I feel it.
And better out than in right?
I don’t need someone obliging.
Someone always saying yes.
Because then I want to be like you.
My role model, the bar against which I measure myself.
I need the real you.
Who looks out for herself.
Who defines her flight and her boundaries with clarity and forethought.
She’s there and I need her the most right now.