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I can only see myself through the mirror. See my straight black hair tinged with burgundy
tones. See it growing longer every day; see myself changing a little more each day. Without
the mirror, my being becomes an ambiguous form in my mind, seen but unable to see,
unfastened from my sight and recognition. My mirror is the overarching structure that makes
definition possible.
I like to think of my mother as that mirror; the mirror through which I see, and am seen.
My mother was born in 1970; the youngest of seven, she was the delicate trinket in my
grandfathers eyes, his beauty queen.
In 1990, my twenty year old mother married a man nineteen years her senior. He was a
promising Japanese business owner and seemed to offer escape from her bleak poverty.
He offered fresh air instead of the stratified smog she had breathed the past twenty years.
Yet, in 1998, when she was not even thirty, my mother boarded a plane with a ticket paid for
in her Japanese husbands money, one that would separate her from him for over seventeen
years.
During the time between their annual visits, betrayal scorched the bed sheets. Both wife and
husband indulged in perfidious intimacies. Both wife and husband fooled not only
themselves but the girl, now nearing adulthood, who had begun to trace their footsteps.
It was nearly a decade ago when I was twelve that I finally awoke to the reality of dads
absence, to the reality of mothers men, to the realisation that he wasnt the first, and would
not be the last. I was twelve when I first hated a stranger enough to dream of wielding a
knife into his dirty flesh and suture the mouth that whispered sickening words of seduction.
I promised myself to never be like my mother. I promised to never hurt anyone the way she
hurt me, to never betray someone the way she did.
Lies.
Some few years later he would whisper, Youre just like your mom, as we lay in his bed,
cuddling our secrets and the emotions that had taken hold of us.
I am. I would reply, as I thought of sneaking out of the house, of the hushed
conversations and laughter, and remembered how it used to be. I thought of rekindling
something that we both should have forgotten, but couldnt seem to. I thought of the other
that was asleep, the one that would never know.
I thought of what I had done, but I couldnt find an answer to Why?
I will never truly know what went on between my mother and father, what brought her to that
decision to take me and leave the country. Under the guise of education, Ive heard
stories of another woman, a mistress. I didnt know what to believe.
Over the years, Ive heard from both woman and husband, but I still dont know what to
believe. Their real story is still encrypted within their confabulated words.
ButI know my mother is a kindly woman who was torn between a love that she couldnt be
with and the security of a mans warmth. Do I hold the right to condemn her for wanting a
modicum of happiness? For wanting the comfort and companisoonship other women have,
but of which she was deprived. My mother is fractured, between two hearts, two lives.
I recall that morning when I told him, I wish there were two of me; two of me to cater to the
two men I cared for.
I never understood my mother before, but if experience is what it takes to truly understand, I
was beginning to.
I still struggle over what happened between that man and I. I still dont know why I did what I
did. In this penumbra, the fear that haunts me is fate.
My mother reached out for another to find in her life a shred of joy, love and security. Yet
when she reached out she cast her shadows upon her twelve year old child. Now, nearly a
decade later, will I be fated to that life? Am I inescapably tied to a pre-existing existence?
Can I not make my own?
Somewhere along the spectrum of Time, you came. The first time we met, I was, on the
surface, perfectly together. The next time we met I was escaping that perfectly together life
and recklessly undoing the knotted me.
You came as a validation, letting me know that I can still redeem myself from the image of
my mother. Whilst others told me Youre just like her, you looked into my eyes and said:
Our parents are like spectral shadows, but we can step out from what the parent projects.
I now realise the diacritic between mirrors and shadows. My mother is both the mirror and
the shadow. When I look back, the mirror reflects back a clearer image, a defined being. But
even without it I can still see; my minds eye, not my mirror makes seeing possible. As I turn
away, she is the silhouetting shadow cast before me. However, it is my own steps forward
that I take- ones that she may ink, but not compose.
That was all you needed to say, to inspire me to step the first step towards the illuminated
world, away from what my own mother was unintentionally imprinting upon me.
Two years ago, I had Hope etched in cursive, black ink on my right wrist. Two years later,
you have etched those fading letters with renewed colour into my life. The Hope from the
past rejuvenated by this Hope we give each other in our present, urging us to walk forward
into a future we have yet to write ourselves, but may do so together.
Step 4: Exposure
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