I wish I could write about my parents.
I made a promise to myself, many years ago, that I would never write about my family when I was angry. This wasn’t exactly hard to do, even though they make me very angry very often, because I knew what the cost could be and it was too high. The chances might be slim, or they might be high, I don’t really know what the statistics are on this, but even the tiniest chance is too high a chance.
What if I died? Okay, stupid question, let me rephrase it. What if I died before them, and they found out about this blog/my old blog/my journal? If our roles were reversed it would probably kill me to read something hateful about myself written by my mom, my dad, or my brother after they passed. I could never do that to them, it would be unconscionable and I pray that insha’Allah I never fall into anything like it.
So I’m here tonight wishing I could write about my parents and my family. Not because I’m angry at them, but because…it’s so vast a subject. There’s so much, so, so much that our lives together are made of that I don’t think I’m competent enough to put it all into words. It’s complicated wouldn’t even begin to describe it.
I feel like, the more I move forward in life, the less I’m able to describe it. That is partly why I stopped blogging the first time around, it just go to the point where everything I was experiencing defied explanation. There was no way for me to adequately put it into words, so I didn’t even try. The emotions involved were so strong, tangled, drawn-out, that I couldn’t just put words to paper and do justice to what I was experiencing. The same is true when it comes to explaining who and what my family is, but, alhamdulillah, to a lesser degree.