I chose you, on the beach in the dark with my eyes closed. I love you. This is not about falling out of love.
I moved 1100 miles from the only home I’ve ever known to your country, your life, your world. You promised me A, B, C through X, Y, Z. I leapt, and I haven’t looked back.
However, I am disappointed.
Your relationship with your friends is not at all what you told me. You all ARE “typical guys,” and you heart sleaze and violence. You all subscribe to antiquated views of gender. You yelled at me for not cooking dinner after I had worked 11 hours. You told me it was “my job.”
Your family is what keeps me awake at night, tears rolling down my face. They don’t listen to me.
Thrice I told your mother not to buy us that furniture set, and she did. She’s bought me numerous gifts that she knows aggravate my allergies, then tells me I don’t really know. I think she’d kill me if she could. When I moved to you, she told me how to take care of you, telling me, “This is how it works around here.” From day one, she has told me I don’t know you, I don’t deserve you, and I can’t make you happy. I am not paraphrasing. She’s criticized my finances, my tastes, and my self. She has made me think that everything she says is true, which is the worst feeling.
Your father listens to us and to me, and then he does exactly what he wants. So he’s really just hearing and not listening. Clearly his respect lies with himself only. He was also told not to buy us that furniture set. He appears kind and understanding- like when he badmouthed his wife and then asked for our comments. He offered us advice on dealing with her hurtful and spiteful behaviour! Then he drove home a few hours later and told her all that we said. A knife to my lungs.
Both your parents give gifts, either of monetary or tangible value, and then expect us to bend and break to their ways. You told me for years your parents weren’t like this, weren’t like mine who have done this to me my entire life. My parents gave me a bill when I was 18 for the charges I incurred since birth. Your parents continue the process of making me feel worthless and like a slave who can be bought by niceties and “non-optional social conventions.”
Your brother is tricky. He loves your mother as only a gay, self-conscious, Internet geek of 23 still living at home can. He professes to be on our “side,” to dislike the hurt your parents inflict. But then he reports our comments to your mother, conveniently leaving out his accusatory and damaging words. He tells me I am too sensitive, that when she said “You don’t know what you’re doing” she really meant “I know what to do better than you.” Like that makes it any better.
The worst thing about your family is how you all go out of your way to keep your mother happy. You will worship her feet or her ass or vomit praises. She is alive and well, conscious of neither social norms or niceness. She struts and loses friends weekly because of her insensitive, brash, bitch personality, yet you all pretend that she is wonderful. You tell ME to adjust, ME to get over it, ME to ignore it, ME to pretend she said something else. I hate her.
I am disappointed in how my life has gone downhill since moving to you. I pushed to graduate university quickly so I could move here faster, and my degree has become worthless in your country which favors Citizens over permanent residents. When I mention going back to get a Master’s you complain about the cost. I have gained entirely too much weight, and I blame stress and the weekend binges of pot-induced hedonism.
Your mother makes me feel like my only chance for happiness and worthiness is her death. Or mine.
The real reason I don’t want to have children? They would know your mother.
I have two wrinkles in my forehead, and my eyes look like the eyes of a 40-year old. I am only 25.
Like I said, I love you. I don’t love you any less for all these heavy disappointments. I don’t love you any less, even though you are the reason I put myself in a world of such hurt. I wish I loved you less. I wish I could break off the flow of love and fling it to shards on the concrete. Because then I could leave.