praise

Since I mention all the other stuff, I thought it only fair to mention this as well. Two days ago, or I suppose when you’ll be reading this, it will have been thirty three days, on the 11th of June, my father praised me. Big deal? I think so. I crave his approval. I crave his attention. He praised me for something work related. Something insignificant, something small. But it was praise. It was genuine. And it came from him. Now is this a big deal? Absolutely. I don’t remember the last time I received praise from my father for anything. I remember the last time he did something that made me feel like I did two days ago. He held my hand in a car in December of 2019 after I shared my feelings with him. How did I react? To be fair, I reacted the same way when he does something that upsets me terribly: I didn’t show it. My face was impassive, even as the upswell of emotions within me was threatening to drown me in happiness. Should I have told him how happy his minor praise made me? Maybe. Here’s why I didn’t. I’m a coward. It is habit. The habit is born from cowardice. I was afraid, have been afraid, not for no reason, my whole life, that if I let the emotions show, I give them power. And as good as they can feel, like scraps thrown to a starving dog, and yes, that is the most apt analogy for my situation, as good as they can feel, I fear that anything I say next leaves me open and vulnerable. And he has this unique ability to destroy me: my emotions, my ego, my independent ness. So I don’t show how good that made me feel. I mostly don’t show how bad he makes me feel either. I just close my lips, nod my head, keep my eyes down. Like a good desi boy. Because even if I do, the logical inverse doesn’t apply. I am not open to feel more ecstatic because of something good he says. Because of two reasons. One, he doesn't say anything good. Two, it always feels like a consolation after he shits all over me. So there’s that. Will I tell him this? No. Will I ever show him this? Also, probably not. Reason being that I have turned this into an outlet so I don’t have to face them. Because facing them is the most terrifying thing for a coward like me. I can ride unbroken horses, I can swim into depths, I’d love to jump off a plane, I could be an adrenaline junkie. Parents? No, I’m fucking terrified of saying anything to them. I miss chipotle. Does that relate? Absolutely not. Actually, it might. Chipotle reminds me of memories of independence from these feelings. So I suppose it does. Everything comes back to parents. #mommy#daddy#issues. But I suppose that’s life. A complex maze of emotion.