When I got off the phone, my mum’s voice was still reverberating bitingly in my head. It had swirled around, reached my heart and then come out to sting all over my body.
I ignored it, as I had done countless times. I have been getting better and better at it. I can just shake it off like a cat who got caught in an unexpected downpour would shake water off her body.
I have engaged in this exercise every week for years, listening over the phone to the assumptions of my family as to who I am and, duty done, I would just get on with being me the rest of the week. I have actually got used to this split personality and even found that it adds an interesting dimension to my life.
The startling disparity between who my parents think I am and who I think I am has allowed me to stop entertaining any idea that we’re talking about the same person at all.
The girl my parents’ soundwaves convey across the world to me is naïve and doesn’t know much about life. They show this girl their love and concern by constantly reminding her that she hasn’t much in the way of wits about her. They give her endless lectures about how to live life, how to work towards a reputable career, how to choose friends and even how to date. (These latter two topics are their particular field of expertise, I presume.) When the girl has chosen something – be it a job, a man or some friends – they make sure she knows that she isn’t shrewd, so that she needs to constantly doubt herself.
Every week, I hear about this dumb girl. Over time I have felt so sorry for her and can’t help showing my sympathy with gushing eagerness and even adding some dry tears for extra dramatic effect.
‘Oh, is she so clueless about life? Tut tut, what a poor girl! Of course, in that case, she probably wouldn’t be able to tell if she was being duped or not.’
I have got this sympathy showing to such a fine art that I even harbour the thought that maybe I can make a modest living offering sympathy as a service around Chesterfield. Imagine the postcard in the local shop window: ‘Gushing eager sympathy on offer, buy one get one free, Christmas Special!’
Occasionally however, by clever usage of cutting words, my mum can fuse this slow-witted girl with me temporarily as she did the other day.
‘Maybe you should just come back and live with your family here. You’ve been there for over a decade and nothing concrete has materialized in your life. You haven’t made any progress.’
That nipped me sharp.
‘… over a decade and you haven’t achieved anything significant …’
The dizzy weak-minded girl my parents know and ‘love’ hijacked me for a couple of hours and made my skin crawl with shame.
I sat at the table and ate some chocolate. Then I asked my adopted dad if he would like to share some with me. The word ‘chocolate’ always has the desired effect, and he came and sat with me.
As soon as I had given him some chocolate, I vented my sin.
He looked at me, popped one big square of 70% dark chocolate whole in his mouth and mumbled slowly.
‘Do you think the girl sitting right in front of me now is the same one that I knew 10 years ago?’
‘No’
‘So which version do you like better?’
‘This version of course.’
‘There‘s your answer. You said it without hesitation. Don’t waste any more time on this.’
With that, the silly girl that my family loves packed her bag and left in a huff. No doubt I will see her again, but I hope she has gone far far away this time.
While she’s away, I must work on this business idea of gushing eager sympathy-offering service. If I hurry, I might be able to set it up in time for Christmas.
Next Christmas?