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Monday, September 19, 2005
Malaysian Psycho
I actually wrote this last Thursday but never got around to posting it because the ancient pc at work won't allow me to blog. What a bitch.
Have you read the book? If you don’t know what I’m talking about, the answer is likely a no. But if I ask if you’ve seen the movie (American Psycho), there’s a higher chance of my (small) audience going, “Oh, yeah!”
The local one lives in my house. Seriously. We all have problems with our family. Overbearing fathers, hysterical mothers, siblings who abuse you emotionally and/or physically (one of the few times I’m glad I’m the only child), senile grandparents, perverse uncles, nosy aunts, overachieving cousins, etc.
The larger your family, the higher your chances of suffering one of the many levels of hell. Mine must be somewhere in the middle (sorry you didn’t make top/bottom tier, mum; very unlike you to not achieve an extreme).
Most of my friends don’t believe me when I tell them how insane my mother is. Until they witness her in action. Then they marvel at what a combination of melodrama (there’s nothing ‘melo’ about drama), boredom, senility and a whopping dose of OCD can produce.
Last night, I hung out with some friends till about 2:15am. My bad for staying out so late on a work night, but as a 23-year old fully capable of making decisions on her own, I can handle 5.5 hours of sleep. Yew Seng came in to the house for awhile. At first she didn’t see him behind me. She had this agitated “I have a bone to pick with you” expression. The moment he popped his head in the door, she pasted on a friendly smile à la Bree Van de kamp. Hello, normal mother.
Sure enough, the moment he left, the façade disappeared and she requested I sit down “to talk” (translation: listen to her complain). She didn’t like me getting home late on a work night. Surprise. I explained I didn’t want to stay in my room, as I tend to mull over The-Thing-That-Should-Not-Be. I didn’t tell her I needed to escape from her as well.
Fast forward 5 minutes later and she’s stalking me in my room, bent on drilling it in my head that I should have moved on. It’s been 2 weeks. Give me time to heal, for fuck’s sake. But no, she proceeded to call me, “an idiot.” Why? “ You’re so stupid. You’ve been played and dumped. If I were you, I’d hate him.”
But I don’t want to hate him. It’s hard to hate someone you still love. Has it really been a century ago that my mother was a young woman in love? Has she forgotten what it’s like to have heart broken by an emotionally detached male? Or maybe, even back then, she was immature (well, she still is). Hate is the easy way out. It works, but eventually you have to let go of that hate, which actually lengthens the healing process. Hating someone till the next one comes along doesn’t count as healing.
I ignored her. She didn’t like that, so she promptly said, “I’m not dropping you off at work. You can take the train.” And she left. Which left me wondering if I should even go to bed. Taking the LRT meant waking an hour earlier, and I would get only 3 hours of sleep.
The next thing I knew, she was back with what was one of the worst things she’s ever said to me (and there’s a lot): “If you want to die on his account, you deserve it.”
Um. Hello, Mumzilla.
Does she think we’re in Hollywood where you can get away with stupid OTT lines? I am not Teri Hatcher and we do not live on Wisteria Lane, Mrs. Huber.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, she absolutely refused to leave me alone, even after pleading and begging and waking my dad 3 times. This went on for over an hour, ending when the man of the house yelled at us. I can’t be home tonight till after dinner, because I know he will threaten to kick me out or kill me. Same old story, rehashed a thousand times since I was 15. Whenever there’s an argument (mother is never smart enough to keep her voice down), it is always my fault. He doesn’t care for details, just that I’m the child, so I must be in the wrong.
I felt so sick to my stomach. Why can’t the woman leave me in peace? As I type, she is calling me. She does this out of love. Or so she says. Where is this love she rants about? I hear noise, but I don’t see it, I don’t feel it. She must’ve come back into my room 5 times last night, once to throw my company’s medical policy at me and restate that I am a mess. Reminds me of something she said a few nights ago:
“No man will ever want to marry you. The state of your room reflects what you are.”
And I am a mess.
Have you read the book? If you don’t know what I’m talking about, the answer is likely a no. But if I ask if you’ve seen the movie (American Psycho), there’s a higher chance of my (small) audience going, “Oh, yeah!”
The local one lives in my house. Seriously. We all have problems with our family. Overbearing fathers, hysterical mothers, siblings who abuse you emotionally and/or physically (one of the few times I’m glad I’m the only child), senile grandparents, perverse uncles, nosy aunts, overachieving cousins, etc.
The larger your family, the higher your chances of suffering one of the many levels of hell. Mine must be somewhere in the middle (sorry you didn’t make top/bottom tier, mum; very unlike you to not achieve an extreme).
Most of my friends don’t believe me when I tell them how insane my mother is. Until they witness her in action. Then they marvel at what a combination of melodrama (there’s nothing ‘melo’ about drama), boredom, senility and a whopping dose of OCD can produce.
Last night, I hung out with some friends till about 2:15am. My bad for staying out so late on a work night, but as a 23-year old fully capable of making decisions on her own, I can handle 5.5 hours of sleep. Yew Seng came in to the house for awhile. At first she didn’t see him behind me. She had this agitated “I have a bone to pick with you” expression. The moment he popped his head in the door, she pasted on a friendly smile à la Bree Van de kamp. Hello, normal mother.
Sure enough, the moment he left, the façade disappeared and she requested I sit down “to talk” (translation: listen to her complain). She didn’t like me getting home late on a work night. Surprise. I explained I didn’t want to stay in my room, as I tend to mull over The-Thing-That-Should-Not-Be. I didn’t tell her I needed to escape from her as well.
Fast forward 5 minutes later and she’s stalking me in my room, bent on drilling it in my head that I should have moved on. It’s been 2 weeks. Give me time to heal, for fuck’s sake. But no, she proceeded to call me, “an idiot.” Why? “ You’re so stupid. You’ve been played and dumped. If I were you, I’d hate him.”
But I don’t want to hate him. It’s hard to hate someone you still love. Has it really been a century ago that my mother was a young woman in love? Has she forgotten what it’s like to have heart broken by an emotionally detached male? Or maybe, even back then, she was immature (well, she still is). Hate is the easy way out. It works, but eventually you have to let go of that hate, which actually lengthens the healing process. Hating someone till the next one comes along doesn’t count as healing.
I ignored her. She didn’t like that, so she promptly said, “I’m not dropping you off at work. You can take the train.” And she left. Which left me wondering if I should even go to bed. Taking the LRT meant waking an hour earlier, and I would get only 3 hours of sleep.
The next thing I knew, she was back with what was one of the worst things she’s ever said to me (and there’s a lot): “If you want to die on his account, you deserve it.”
Um. Hello, Mumzilla.
Does she think we’re in Hollywood where you can get away with stupid OTT lines? I am not Teri Hatcher and we do not live on Wisteria Lane, Mrs. Huber.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, she absolutely refused to leave me alone, even after pleading and begging and waking my dad 3 times. This went on for over an hour, ending when the man of the house yelled at us. I can’t be home tonight till after dinner, because I know he will threaten to kick me out or kill me. Same old story, rehashed a thousand times since I was 15. Whenever there’s an argument (mother is never smart enough to keep her voice down), it is always my fault. He doesn’t care for details, just that I’m the child, so I must be in the wrong.
I felt so sick to my stomach. Why can’t the woman leave me in peace? As I type, she is calling me. She does this out of love. Or so she says. Where is this love she rants about? I hear noise, but I don’t see it, I don’t feel it. She must’ve come back into my room 5 times last night, once to throw my company’s medical policy at me and restate that I am a mess. Reminds me of something she said a few nights ago:
“No man will ever want to marry you. The state of your room reflects what you are.”
And I am a mess.
Published by: Li San C. # 9/19/2005 10:10:00 pm 
Comments:
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You know, I have a feeling most Asian mothers are like that. Thankfully mine has finally stopped doing that to me, although I'm not sure if it's because she finally thinks I'm "grownup" enough (HIGHLY unlikely) or that she has finally (finally!) given up. Or maybe I haven't given her much cause to do that lately. In any case, I usually ignore her anyway. It's usually my grandma now that gives me cause to hate my family. No one else bursts into my room at 9.30am to shout at me for being late to work (yes YES, I KNOW ALREADY!!) and continue to ramble about it in my face until I leave for work, and then ramble about it SOME MORE when I get back. I have a hard time trying not to yell back, because well, she's old and all. And she IS family, whether I like it or not. The ensuing family dramas are not funny, though thankfully it barely happens now because I am barely ever in the house, except to eat and sleep.
Yea asians parents can be a bitch sometimes...because they can't ever entertain the idea you're grown up! My mom's getting better as it is, but she has relapses..in ways extremely similar to your mom. But dude, you're freaking 23! She should give it up already.
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