What’s wrong with washing plates?

Some years back, my father called me into his room. I don't remember how it began. I know he was disappointed in the way I relate with others (meaning: not at all really) among other things. Schoolwork, seriousness. He was upset that I was wasting away like that and so, he decided questions needed to be asked.

Before that day, I had already spoken to my parents briefly about having depression. I didn't exactly know how to explain it in any way other than using that word. So I did. And they didn't understand but well, what did it matter? They reacted the same as they always do. By pretending it didn't really happen and praying to their God for answers.

I don't know. I don't know what goes through their minds. Maybe some day, I'll understand a bit better. We're very, very different people. But back to the day on my mind.

My father asked me what the root of my depression was. So "we" could work on it, together. And I thought. And thought. For perhaps the first time in my life, I really considered it. Why was I so sad? Why was it so hard to get out of bed and do all the things I was meant to, according to him? A reason was asked of me so it could be hurriedly resolved, fixed, and then I could return to being the ever-obedient daughter I once was.

So... Fair enough. After much thought, it finally came to me. Them. Not directly "them", more of a general sense. My depression began when I was eleven years old. When I realised I was not like other people. I didn't have friends all around me, I liked to read and be quiet, I wasn't as loud or beautiful or fun. When I realised I wasn't the kind of daughter they truly wanted. One who did chores without tiring, saw schoolwork as the number one priority, was in love with their god and their way of life.

Instead, I see beauty in a life with more simplicity. I want peace. I want to find it and I want to hold that safe feeling forever. But then, I didn't understand that it was truly okay to want those things. So... Fearfully, confused, I dared to be vulnerable. And believe me, I was never that around my father. I kept on a mask to hide the discomfort and even fear he brought with his presence alone. It lingers even now.

And my father... When I told him that it was comparisons and insecurity that caused my depression, he replied very simply. What's wrong with washing plates? What is wrong with prioritising school work? How dare I complain? I have it so easy.

I suppose part of me can understand where he's coming from. But you have to understand this. Despite the fact that his childhood involved hawking fruits to pay for school and being beaten by his parents at the slightest misstep, I believe it is cruel and insensitive to compare two lives. I believe everyone suffers, no matter how rich, how smart, how successful or pretty. I believe a parent should take the good they learnt from their own, not the bad, and try to give that to his children. But my father never learnt much on how to be emotionally present, not even with his own wife and he wasn't going to start now.

Sorry if this was long. It's a story, I suppose. The truth but it sounds a lot more painful writing it down. I suppose it was. But years have passed. I cried a lot, that day. It hurt to exist even more than usual. These days, we unfortunately have a distance between us. I'm not sure he even knows it's there but for me, it is and I'm sort of glad to have it. He's not a bad man. He only did his best as he knows how. But I needed him that day. And he did the very worst thing he could possibly have. He told me that the root of my depression, the one he'd asked me to find, the one he promised to help me with... Meant nothing.

That was what I heard. That's what I've written. But I've moved on. Worse things have happened. I'm alive still. I no longer seek help and validation from others like I used to. I've learnt to rely more on myself and treat the person within with kindness. After all... If my own father finds it that difficult, who else do I have in the end but me, first and foremost?