Period.

For so many times that I’ve had fights with my mother, I never thought it would still be the same pain that will keep on stabbing at my chest. For so many times that I tried to show her that I am a good daughter, in return I still get the same discerning and demeaning characteristics of a forsaken daughter.

Sometimes I wonder how my life would be if I had a different mother, a different home, and a different school, would everything fall into its proper places?

There’s just the right amount of love. I believe. I hope. I think there is.

We can’t love too little because it isn’t the kind of love that can surpass every possible unforeseen circumstance, and we can’t love too much because it’ll hurt us deeper than what we can probably bear and it even blinds us to what is rational, if there is such a thing that exists for love.

Is there really a right amount of love? Or one just love for the sake of loving?
To love someone so much might and will almost often be coordinated with high blood-sucking expectations for the right of having equal amounts of love in return, like a dose of antibiotics. If not received, the lover gets pissed off big time and hopes he/she never loved the person at all. That’s exactly what happens between me and my mother; I believe she loves me as much as it’s hard for me to believe although it’s the only compensation I have left for myself so that I won’t feel as bad as a kid does whenever a parent reprimands a child.


For the times that I am not grateful, I am sorry.
For the times that I have been disrespectful, I am sorry.
But for the times I have tried hard to be a good person... that I will never be sorry for.


It’s better to keep our love to its right amount, to its average level; the love that’s not so tight and not so loose, hard to do, but it can be done. Maybe we can just keep our expectations low anyway, never letting ourselves assume too much, but continue dreaming and hoping for the best.

Every day I see my mom drifting away from her usual self and always looking back to the past to where her happiest moments were encapsulated, I see the sadness in my mother’s eyes because I know how it feels to expect and feel hurt, to love and be hurt and to succeed then fail.

I feel because her blood runs through my veins, and it scares the hell out of me because I feel I would turn out to be like her someday.

Gladly for me I haven’t yet experienced any good accomplishment in my life compare to hers. I have a life that’s so shallow and demeaning, word of the day: demeaning.


You know what's demeaning? Loving someone who thinks so little of you.