Bao's weblog


Meandering thoughts of a Bay Area college student… be prepared for some bipolar vocabulary

Whenever I hear my parents yelling at each other, both sides threatening the other with divorce papers, it breaks my heart a little. Well, okay, a lot. It makes me really sad that I’m not close to my dad. It’s hard to really talk to him a lot of times because he’s always busy working. But I hope he loves me. Whenever I sit down next to him at the sofa to watch football, we don’t really talk. I just ask him questions about the game. We hug four times a year: new years day, his birthday, my birthday, and Christmas. Maybe Thanksgiving. The other times we talk, he yells at me saying that he only seems to ever see me on the computer instead of doing homework with a pencil and paper like how he used to do homework at UC Berkeley.

I’m extremely proud of my father. I always wonder if he’s proud of me. I’m always too scared to ask. If this was a webcam chat you’d see me tearing up right now. My hands are shaking, making this post really hard to type.

When was the last time we shared jokes? Maybe over a decade ago? When I was riding my first bike?

I fucking hate this family. I hate how my sister always takes me mom’s side and tells her to get divorced with my dad like it’s a fucking joke. I hate how they bad mouth each other to me behind their backs. I hate how I was 99% certain they were getting divorced the second we came home from the cruise. Everyone else’s families seemed to be strong.

We took professional family portraits on the Sapphire Princess. Our fixed smiles and our physical proximity to each other masks the fact that I’m living with a broken family. As our family portraits along with countless others are being displayed on one of the ship’s many hallways, I looked at all the other beautiful families, wondering, almost hoping, that there are other families there that are as messed up as mine. But of course, their smiles and physical proximity doesn’t give a single hint. Why would it? Our’s doesn’t either.

I really really miss my father. Is it really such an impossible wish to fulfill to see this family happy with each other? To not be ashamed of each other?

I don’t think my dad has ever seen me cry since middle school. I sort of wish he walked in on me now and maybe he can ask me what’s wrong. I don’t want to see my family severed anymore. I didn’t realize how not okay I felt about this until I broke down earlier.

I wish there was a way for me to show my dad how much I love him. I don’t know what I’m so afraid of.

Lately, overcome by God knows what, my sister decided to give me gifts so I can give to my girlfriend. She was going to give away this white stuffed cat. My mother walked in and wouldn’t let her do it because it was the very first toy my dad ever gave her. I’ve never hated her more at this point. I hate how insensitive she is. How she tells my mom that she should get a divorce in front of my dad… on the cruise, with a smile on her face. I hate how things got so bad that we had to eat at separate tables and I had to watch my mom begin to cry while my dad and my sister silently ate on the other side of the room. I couldn’t look directly at this situation and instead I just stared through our window into the night.

For awhile, I liked to think that my friends became my real family. But only for awhile. It was insufficient. Whenever everybody left at the end of the day, there were times I would just stay in my car instead of going straight home. Who would want to go home to this? But now I think that the more time I spend away from this dysfunctional family, the worse things will get.

We’re going on another cruise this winter. I’ll be back from university. It’ll be my mother, my sister, and I along with my mom’s side of the family. My father decided he didn’t like cruises and chose to stay behind.

I don’t know. Everything’s been damn painful up to this point. I hope people see this. Maybe you can give me some advice… some support… anything. I really don’t know what to make of any of this. I’m sorry.


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