When The Child Becomes The Parent
Anxiety and dread would be the two best descriptors for my parent’s arrival earlier this week, particularly my unrelenting mother’s narcissism. I have exhaustedly written how my mother has negatively affected my life and psyche. She fucked me up and that’ll never go away. But when I saw my 77-year-old mother struggling to keep up with her physically disabled daughter, I won’t lie, I felt something; not necessarily guilt, nor shame, but that something changed my perception of my mother. As we were leaving the airport, I unconsciously reached for her hand, not because she’s my mother, but out of instinct. I think I know how to take care of people the way they want to be treated. I may hold grudges, but I instinctively push those feelings aside to help even someone I thought I didn’t love. Not to say that my mother isn’t a narcissist because in less than 35 hours of her presence, she has already bragged about donating, helping, and loudly praising herself for believing she’s a God for helping so many “poor souls.” Then proceeding to still undermine my capabilities despite being a grown-ass woman. But I digress…
My father looks even more decrepit since I last saw him 2 years ago. He has type 2 diabetes, an operated prostate, chronic pain from his stab wounds from a fight in the Philippines, and his memory retention/regression is more prominent. My father is also the youngest out of many, crafty as hell, loves tending to animals and plants, a nuturer, and above all, committed. He stopped smoking once he found out he was having a daughter and I became his world. I would lie to people when they ask, “what was your first memory,” because my first memory is my preceeding brother’s molestation of my young baby body. So I controlled the narrative, rerouted my neuronic wiring to choose another “first memory,” wherein my father and I were stargazing on a cool night on our tiled porch in the Philippines. I made a promise to myself that I would be more like my father than my mother and that quickly turned into a Grecian fallacy!
I told myself I would never be like my mom, but my theology was warped. My parents are flawed, but I can choose what and what not to learn from them. I can choose to not act upon my father's impulsive anger towards things he doesn't understand. I can choose upon not being judgemental to other demographics. I can also choose to be generous and kind like my father-figure brother and not brag about donating blood. My brother told our mom recently that he wants to donate a kidney and our religious mother was furious. I understand her protecting her young, but my brother sees it as the ultimate sacrifice; literally giving a part of yourself to keep another person alive. That's powerful, but my mother’s opinion doesn't make my mother a monster. She is simply protective, but I choose to protect strangers and she chooses to protect her blood. Understandingly so because we have different ideologies and that’s okay. After 30 years, I would have never thought I would be writing this with her present in the room.
I cannot express how privileged I am with generational wealth and I'm not just talking about money. My mother has always been the one to break the chain of adversity, which is why my family is mostly reliant on women. I don't believe in fate, but I do believe in hard work and my mother started working when she was 6. Imagine? The breadwinner of the family is a 6 year old selling coconuts and rice on the streets, while going to school. My privileged-ass could never! I admire my mother’s tenacity and I literally would not be here if it weren’t for her breaking generational poverty. However, I am always stumped as to why my mother chose to marry my father and vice versa. My father was raised as a city kid in Manila, while my mother was working hard to get educated in the countryside. Two different worlds colliding… how?
So I asked, “mi, why did you choose daddy?” She replied with, "because he's handsome!”
"But he has cheated on you multiple times. I wouldn't be surprised if we had siblings we don't know about, same with [insert my sexually reckless brothers here],” I replied.
She looked down with a subtle smirk, glanced at my dad's face and softly said, “because I forgave him."
I’ve always thought my mother held grudges, and don't let this fool you, she still does with some people, but not the ones closest to her. If anything, I am more like her than my uncomplicated father. I may hold people more accountable because I am more aware of what harm these people have done to me and to my loved ones, but I will forgive if redemption or change is present.
The more I observe, the more I realize that each family is its own ecosystem. The birth, life, death, and rebirth of newer and better lessons learned. My family is resilient as fuck and so is yours if you take the time to look before it's too late. 2025 has been the year of death and mourning, but that's the circle of life [cue 1994’s The Lion King]. If one is privileged enough to see the child becoming the parent, I would say that is utang na loob (debt of gratitude). I'm going to cherish, learn, and choose to keep understanding my parents until they pass. I have always said to myself that I won't cry when my mother dies. I'm not sure if that will still happen, but I'm hoping I do cry. The tears won't just be for my mother, but for the child and person she was, even after all the abuse I received from her hurtful brain, mouth, hands, and mind. After all, she was just a 6yo trying her best to help her family and how can I judge a child? That would be unfair of me.
