I think the saddest thing is growing up. In youth, in infancy, we are blissfully unaware. We are untainted by the world and its problems. In some cases, we know that we have a parent, or parents, or someone who loves us. Who feeds us, and bathes us and kisses us goodnight. Someone who we look to for guidance, for love, for life lessons, for approval. A living template on how to live really. And we love them for it. We love them for existing, for being around.
And then we grow. And we are thrust into adulthood without really being adults. We sit and observe behaviour, trying to work out what is right and what is wrong. And when that comes to a parent, you want to think that their behaviour is right even if it’s wrong. You want to believe that they are the same figure you remember seeing through your six year old eyes. You want to believe that this person is the person who kissed you goodnight and taught you how to ride a bike. But they aren’t. Maybe they never really were, and you were just imagining it.
I’m finding it hard to look at this person and see them for what they are. I mean, I can see them in plain light, and it is so ugly, I want to push that view away. I want to remember the person that was. At least the person that lives in memory. I don’t recognise this person standing in front of me. Who are they and where did they come from?
But I can’t turn back. Time is cruel, and life is hard and everything in between. And I’ve learnt that growing is the biggest disappointment. Take me back to six years old, when a goodnight kiss was happiness.