Some nights back I woke up from a bad dream, crying. I searched for Mr Hubby's arm in the darkness of the night, when I found it, I held on to it tightly. It was as though his arm was a rope for me to climb back to reality. This woke Mr Hubby up, sensing that I was crying, he pat me gently on my head. I broke down; I couldn't stop my tears from flowing. I drenched the corner of my pillow.
No, I didn't dream of monsters. I dreamt of my childhood; one which was filled with many painful memories, disappointments, grievances and anger. One which, I supposed, emotionally damaged me for a long time.
"Your parents don't care about you." "Nobody wants you." "Get out of my house."
Those casual remarks by the adults probably didn't mean too much to them, but to a child, I was scarred. Permanently scarred.
All these years I tried to free myself from my own malicious past. I thought I had it conquered. But the bad dream was like digging into my raw wound. There was just too much hurt. Although it was only a dream, but the disquietude was so real; I wasn't able to go back to sleep.
The baggage from my past makes me a person who fiercely guards against hurtful and meaningless words spoken in the presence of my children. I flinched when hear someone telling (jokingly)Laetitia that she is naughty and nobody will love her. At that instant, I wish there was a "mute" button I could press on.
I probably won't be able to fully bury my past or completely let off those who, unwittingly or deliberately, contributed those harsh words. But I can do my best, using my own ways to bring up my children without crushing their spirits or their dignities.
Speak only what is true and not threaten them with lies, for you teach nothing but you just gave them a reason to tell lies.
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