Murmur

Dear Mr. B, I’m sorry I’m not the person you wish I was. I started reading the book, Good Inside. To believe that “we all, at our core, are compassionate, loving, and generous”, that we are all “good inside”, which allows us to “be curious about the ‘why’ of their bad behaviors”. But more often than not, I do “put frustration and anger in the driver’s seat”. I do operate “with judgement rather than curiosity, criticism instead of understanding, punishment instead of discussion”. Sometimes, I am able to see. I see that inside your withdrawal is tiredness and overwhelmness of trying to be an adequate worker and a good husband and dad. That inside your coldness is a protest for your efforts being undermined. That inside your impatience is months and even years of patience, waiting for me to change for the better, running out. But I don’t know how to be rid of my own baggage and my needs. I’m not relaxed as you want me to be. And I want a hug. A thank you even when you are tired. A comfort...

You are so warm one day, my life is full of color. My body is tired but my soul is full of strength. I can accomplish anything. I smile at you because you smile at me. But the next day you turn so cold. I feel alone, I lose hope. I feel vulnerable, I don’t have the courage to face the long night. I lose the strength to survive yet another long day alone.

  Before bed, baby A is having a stuffy nose again. He was in his bassinet, watching TV (his favorite mobile). His eyes were shining. Arms were flailing. Legs were kicking. “We need to clear his nose.” I said. “Yes it sounds bad.” Mr. B agreed. Mr. B was tasked with putting in saline drops into his nose. Baby A hates it, understandably, and usually lets out huge cries. Mr. B was aiming. Baby A was still intensely watching his favorite TV. “I can’t do it…” said Mr. B, “look, he’s so happy. He’s smiling!”

My dearest little CC, maybe you will never have a happy family. You are sleeping so peacefully on me, even when I'm sobbing. Soon you will be smiling, laughing, running. You are oblivious to the life await. It's yet another long night ahead. And another long day. And night again. I feel I can't carry on but I must do. My dearest little CC, I'm so sorry. But I must push on.

It's 2:14 am. I'm sleepless. CC is not crying. CC is not being held. CC is calmly asleep in his bassinet, like what we have dreamed for for the past month. This is the first time since CC is out in the world that I'm wide awake in the middle of the night, or wide awake any time of the day really, not because I have to care for him, but simply because I'm angry and distressed. For the past month, CC has been my entire life. Feeding him, changing him, soothing him, holding him, putting him down in his lovely bassinet, picking him up again. Sleep has been something that I have to squeeze in whenever I can, and sleep has always come easily when physical exhaustion is constant. But now I can't sleep because I just had a fight with Mr. B, with the loudest scream I could manage to let out. CC has been Mr. B's entire life too, or at least most of it. The first day CC was in the world, Mr. B learned to rock him, sing to him, pat him, swaddle him, change him. I saw his jo...

 I hate this moment. I wanna destroy. Destroy my words. Destroy my mind. Destroy yelling. Destroy silence. Destroy my upbringing. Destroy my trying. Destroy coldness. Destroy laughter covering up everything. Destroy our history. Destroy warmth. Destroy dream. Destroy the dark tunnel in daylight. Destroy the light that's too bright. I feel CC in me. I can't destroy. But my heart is in pieces.