Two Men

There were two men who raised me, the old and the young. One was a drunk and the other had a temper. They both grew up in turmoil and the turmoil festered into a terrible love that manifested itself into their very actions. Their love is a mixed bag, a mix of their whirlwind emotions and egos. An undying love I am still trying to comprehend to this day. 

I believe that a family is more closely-knit than the seams of the warmest quilt on the coldest night, and for the longest time, I thought I would never be the exception. 

The old man who raised me was an extraordinary man. He worked three hundred and sixty-five days of the year and never complained. In his spare time, he fed the fish in the tank and cultivated orchids. But the care he put into both could never amount to the care he put into raising me, who later left him for a small house an ocean away. 

When I was sick, he sat at my bedside at night and held her hand to comfort her. When I came home crying from a scraped knee, he dressed the wound and wiped away my tears. If my mother was tired and refused to take me to the night market on Saturday, he was the one who took me into town on the old family motorcycle. At night, I’d always wait at the front door whenever he came home late from a long day at the factory. I never minded, for this humble man taught me to give love selflessly in order to receive the same love in return. 

But I was young and naive. 

How could I have known that this old man I loved also turned to alcohol for self-medication? How could I know that the drunk loved me but sometimes not the well-being of his family? How could I know that this would tear my family apart?

I waited and I witnessed every drunken fervor, every drunken night. He yelled at me. He yelled at everyone that came within his sight. He used angry words. He’d throw things. But every day, when morning came, the events of the past night faded like the remnants of a shattered nightmare. The sound of the front door opening meant the beginning of yet another long night. As the days passed, the two people that had once been inseparable rarely spoke. 

He wasn’t there to send me on the plane that would take me across the ocean. He wasn’t there the first night I called home with my mother, nor was he there to pick me up from the airport the first time I returned home to visit. So the land of opportunity became my home and I learned to speak English. I became American and slowly, I forgot about the Taiwan days in the hot summer sun. 

So moving to America was hard and unimaginable. But it let me run away, far away from the love I thought I had. There, I met the young man. The young man who raised me. The man still in his twenties but tasked with the life of a little girl he never knew he was going to have. 

The young man who raised me seems nothing like me. He is incredibly harsh and his temper erupts at the most inopportune moments. I can never look him in the eyes because I know that I will never be enough to his satisfaction. 

The young man who raised me is cold and unyielding. He talks about the past because he regrets not working harder when he was younger. So he doesn’t want the same for me. He wants to see me succeed. But his way of showing it is a little difficult for me to comprehend. Sometimes, it even breaks me a little and it takes a lot to pick myself up. 

The young man who raised me constantly scolds me for never communicating with him. He tells me that I should try harder to talk to him. Maybe he will understand me. He will help me. He will always support me. This is what he tells me. If only I’d just talk to him. 

The young man who raised me has taught me to fear him and everything he does. From the moment the garage door opens to the moment he leaves the house in the morning, I am in a constant state of anxiety because I am scared to put one foot in the wrong place. There may be a slipper out of place or a pot in the wrong cabinet. And that will be hours and hours of him reminding me of my carelessness and absentmindedness. 

The young man who raised me has a temper like no other. I am his sponge. I soak up his weariness and his anger and I speak not a word for fear that this anger will turn back on me. His punishments are traditional. He has the right to do whatever he wishes to me. This is what he tells me.

The young man who raised me has taught me to lie. He has taught me hide from him. He has taught me to test my honesty in exchange for personal freedom. This young man has taught me that control is absolute. And maybe I’ll never be free. 

But as time passed, the young man has also grown into an adult. A true adult who has time to reflect on himself, his needs and wants. And he wants to reconnect with me, after years of trauma and broken hearts. He wants to understand my innermost fears and secrets. He wants to comprehend my mental well-being and he is scared that I am incurable. He doesn’t realize that it’s him. It’s him who brought me here, in the hell within the depths of my mind. He doesn’t see he plays a part. But his sweet ignorance is enough. Just marginally better. And for now, that will be enough. 

The agony suffocates. The pain knowing that he never knows, and will never know. But for now, it will only be enough. 

The young man does puzzles with me now. He makes me breakfast when I’m home and he tries to relate to me even though he ends up talking about himself most of the time. He goes rock climbing with me even though he is awful at it. He attempts patience despite his fidgeting and raging anxiety. He reels himself in. Just a little bit. Just enough to keep me here. 

The young man who raised me is strong yet unknowing. He feels strongly and he acts strongly. But he loves ferociously. He does not understand this love nor how to channel it. The love between daughter and father. The love that he was forced to have but was never ready to give. 

The father who raised me was a terrifying yet fantastic man. He hates his job and wishes to do anything else that will satisfy his hunger for knowledge. He loves me but doesn’t understand the weight of the words. I know because he tries to be gentle now. He tries to speak to me now and not yell. He tries to allow me the space to grow. Sometimes it’s not good enough because I will always remember. But slowly, it may do its job to heal. I don’t believe it will happen for a long time. But slowly, there may be a sliver of chance. 

The father who raised me never understood me until the effort he puts in now. But even now he will never understand that it was him. It will always be him. And the him from the faraway land of my childhood. The grandfather I never could interact with. 

These are the men who raised me and them I will never be able to forget. 

My grandfather is an extraordinary man. I did not know that he had quit drinking so that the rest of the family would stop worrying about his health. I did not know that whenever we land in the airport, he has already woken up in the hopes of coming to pick us up despite having to go to work not long after returning home. I did not know that he keeps up with my progress in school through the report cards and letters that my father sends him from time to time. He stays with me, regardless of how far he is. 

My father is a terrifying yet fantastic man. He taught me the value of patience and endurance. He is the reason I am able to live past the sticks and stones. He forces me to reflect on myself and think carefully before I act. He taught me that family binds and never lets go.  The idea that family comes before all else and that true love is so scary it forces one to extreme lengths. That sometimes we are unable to show it save for the suffocating love from our past. And this deformed love from our past will continue to be passed down because it is all we know. 

My father is not very much unlike me. He has anxiety too and deep-rooted depression that is not yet diagnosed. But I know because that is me. That is also the illness I suffer–he just doesn’t know it yet. My father wants to save the world from crashing and burning. His twisted belief is that he can only do it through me. 

My grandfather is also not very much unlike me. He is stubborn with a heart of iron, unable to let others in. He does not open up to those easily and he is tight-lipped about his personal life. He has thousands of prickly walls built up and he self-medicates to feel human.

My father and grandfather both are human. They are my blood kin but they have left deep scars etched within my soul. I find it hard to forgive even though I will always stand at their side. Perhaps with time my iron heart will soften. But I’ll wear the scars proudly. They are as much a part of my family as I am. They are part of my blood now and because of them, I will always remember. That a family is close, tight-knit. And these are the same people who have the ability to hurt me and love me the most.