There I was, in New Years Eve, carrying my youngest half-sister to sleep. Between the humming I did to keep her lids closed, the body rocking I made, and the pain that grew in my arms, the seedy underbelly of my family story I grew into never bore people. And that point, the cynical side of me kept making lines that I finally put into action, now that I’m writing this piece, about my family background.
My first appearance, was somewhere between late 1995. The news my mother brought was shocking for both side of family, because my mother and father was not married, and was not planning to be. Yes, I am, well, was, those ‘accidental’ kids that people prevent to getting in to. The marriage was done in mid-January 1996, and I was born in April 27th 1996. It was the night before the holy sacrificial day to Moslem in the world, Eid Al-Adha. I guess I wasn’t that bad, don’t you think?
Growing up wasn’t a hard thing to do, since my mother kept the accident thing from me until I have enough logic to realized that I am in the situation. I was that perfect kid who stopped using bottles for milk at the age of 1 and smart enough to read at the age of 3. I was also diagnosed of ADHD, a sort of mental sickness that occurs to young children that affect his/her motoric ability, separating them from other young children. Every child has a different symptoms and mine was tip-toe walking, the inability to catch a moving object, and the out focused side of me that kept me moving all the time. It doesn’t equal to hyperactive or autism but it is quite similar.
My mentally sick condition was needing the right therapy from eligible psychologist, but the economic condition my mother was into wasn’t helping at all. My father was (is, actually) always gone and he left very modest money to my mother that time, so, any addition outcome won’t make it to the list. So she therapy me by herself. It still burns in the back of my mind, her doing to make me healthy again. She’d kept me in a desk for a full 20 minutes doing nothing (It is hard for young kid to do this, it is even hard for us teenagers, sitting around doing nothing), and another 25 minutes drawing and writing stuffs. Another one was playing what my mother called ‘a rolled game’ because she’d passed me a plastic small ball you’ll find in a ball pool, and I have to catch it on time, before it passed the line my mother made from duck tape. That went on and on and on until I was approx. 5, and it stopped because I finally can control my movements and as I get older, I got a little bit mature too.
Graduating from my kindergarten (Well, isn’t this thing weird? Graduating from a kindergarten when you’re not officially graded for something other than coloring and bead-working), I managed to find myself getting accepted in an ivy public school and aced myself out there. I was always in the top 5% of my class and getting 90+s in subjects that need 90+ scores.
But it all stopped because my mother decided to move out of the current house we’re living in. She didn’t do it automatically, but she did move out eventually. First she would took all of her belongings, like her jewelries and her important papers, followed by her clothes stack and pairs of shoes getting smaller by amount, and then her make ups, and well, me. I remember her putting all of my clothes in the only suitcase I have back then. It was pink and has a picture of barbie on it. She put some on her bag because my suitcase was very very tiny for a move out, and she put me in a pair of jeans, my favorite white t-shirt (even back then I know what a style staple is), and my double sided wind breakers. She pulled me out of the house, said something to the maid, put all of our stuff in the back of the taxi, and headed for the airport. All I know back then was... I’m in a vacation to Jakarta, because my twin grandmothers misses me. And I did have a vacation. I visited Museum Nasional, went to Dunia Fantasi and everything. But my, I am not going back to Surabaya, my ever lovely hometown.
My exact reaction was... Nothing. I was too little back then to even rebel, even screaming did not passed my mind. It was a habit living without my father, and the school I got in to was a very good school. The only question I had back then was, “So I’m staying here?”, which followed by a good nod from Mom, and followed by my “Ok.” That’s it. No “Why?”s, no “How?”s, nothing. Until now, I haven’t got a simple explanation why this is happened. I figured it out on my own, and asked my Mom. “Is the reason you were leaving is that dad’s a jerk and you shouldn’t be married at all to him in the first place?” Her face muscles tighten and said “I don’t want to marry your dad at the first place. But it was an obligation, I guess? And one of the reason that I didn’t ran away because I need his name for your birth certificate, and you kinda need a dad.” Emphasized on the word dad. “It would suck to grow up without having a father, even though you don’t need one. For the sake of the status.” that’s it. She needed his name for my birth certificate, and for my reputation.
And now, 2012, it’s been.... seven gaudy years from the divorce, eight from the runaway. I’m perfectly in shape as the other teenagers, even though my family are more fucked than theirs. Seeing Mom in her wedding picture was bland, she had no smile on. My family was messy, but it taught me the most wonderful things I won’t get with a happy joyful family. The strongest person who’s ready for anything did not actually ready for anything, but s/he’s been through everything and s/he knows the pace of everything, s/he’s used to it, and s/he’s hanging there.
My family now is perfect. Picture perfect. I lived with my Mom in a tiny homy home, with my step father who’s rarely home because his work needs him in the field. He’s an engineer on mining, and he’s the smartest person on earth. He listens to me every time, and check on me more then my mom. I have asked for a baby brother but they’re still both too busy for another kid, so... I’m being patient here. My father had marry a wonderful, nicest step mother could be on earth. They lived in the city, and my father still went away to far far away places to resolve his projects. He’s a contractor. My step mother works in an IT company. They gave a lovely baby sister, whom I named Marcya. Originated from Latin, meaning a warrior; warlike one. Is it ironic to name her that way after all I’ve been through? Hahahaha. She’s three, pretty, so daddy little girl, and her passion is teddy bears.
I have learned my lesson, give me another phase of my life I need to conquer.
P.S. It's actually parts of the phase; I didn't write it all:p