Guilt

When I was much younger, I mistook her for my mother. She looked just like her, and since she was always around me, I believed she was my mother. There is a picture of her standing next to me and my cake, celebrating my first birthday. I have kept it for donkey years. I loved my aunt.  She told the funniest jokes ever. Her laughter lit up the room. In fact, just the mere sound of her voice had the ability to energise a full room. She had a bubbly personality that I admired greatly. My aunt is arguably the best dancer/fun-lover in the family. I never wanted to miss her parties.  Her positive energy was contagious and I loved her even more for it.

When I left Fabian, my ex-husband, I moved into my empty room in my parents’ house. And while I was there, various family members frequently came to advice me, albeit unsolicited. One day, my beloved aunt knocked on my door and I asked her to come in. I was sitting on my bed, so she sat beside me. I sensed she wanted to talk, I muted the television and turned my full attention towards her. She was not wearing a smile, and her head was facing the floor. Then she looked up at me.

I saw her somewhat gloomy face and I got worried. I touched her arm and then she began to speak. She told me that before she married her husband, she was dating a young man she really loved and they planned to get married. While visiting one of her elder sisters during the holidays, she met another young man who was training to become a doctor. Her sister liked him and encouraged her to pursue a relationship with the new guy irrespective of the fact that my aunt was already seeing someone else. My aunt’s boyfriend was a student, just like my aunt, but was not going to become a doctor. They told her that her future was more ”secure” with a doctor than with someone who was not going to be a doctor. She heeded their advice and before long, she was carrying his child. They eventually got married.

My heart broke and I wondered why she was telling me this. But before I finished scanning through some possible reasons, her voice joggled me back to consciousness. “I’m telling you this so that you will not end up like me. I did not have the courage to stand up for what I really wanted and for who I really loved. So, my dear, do what makes you happy. If you don't want to go back to your husband, don't go back. I just want you to be happy…”, she said.

When I came out of the closet, my family put so much pressure on me that I had to cut everyone off for a while so I can have some peace. I declined most requests to meet, did not entertain visitors, was extremely selective of calls I picked, and deleted all my family members and questionable friends from all social media, including my beloved aunt. I did not speak to her for many months and I had no contact with her. 

But I never forgot her words, and when I came out of the closet, I adhered to her advice to do what made me happy.

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We live in a society where family exerts the most influence in decision making. Among the many tactics used is fear - fear of the future and punishment-  and guilt. I think of my beloved aunt. I wonder if she is happy. If she married the man she initially intended to marry, would she have lived a much different life? Would her decision be different had her elder sister, and pretty much the whole family, not implored her to marry the man she eventually married? Would my life be different had I not ended my marriage and come out of the closet?

When I decided to end my marriage and come out of the closet, my parents accused me of dragging their name in the mud, and disgracing the family. My mother asked if that was how I wanted to “repay them” for all their “sacrifices and love.” While I understood their fears and concerns, I could not understand how parents can choose the perceptions and feelings of people they barely know over the wellbeing of their own child(ren). 

When my mother found my blog and read everything on it, she asked, again, “ Is this how you want to repay us for everything we have done for you?”, as if taking care of your child(ren) is a favour. If one chooses to have children, it is their responsibility to care for them. But many people in this part of the world do not view it this way and expect children to “repay” them for “sacrifices” made.

One of the reasons I write is because writing is therapeutic. When I write, I force myself to confront things I would rather not remember or think about. Writing enables me say things I may not be bold enough to say verbally and is also a tool for social change and transformation. You can imagine, then, my utter disappointment when I received a text message from my parents expressing their dismay at “the things I write about them, how I am exposing the family and putting myself at risk”.

Asking me to stop writing is asking me to stay silent and deny my existence. 

The only way I can live a happy life is to live on my own terms, free from guilt and fear.