Room of Regrets

When Jane entered the mother's room, the first thing she saw was the turquoise wallpaper, and the bed with turquoise color- her mother's favorite.

Before entering the room, she had taken a deep breath, repeating what the psychiatrist had told her. Breathe, you are no longer the vulnerable child that you are, you are now strong and independent and lovable woman, and you can stand up and protect yourself.

The next thing she noticed was a strong smell of antiseptic and a sickly familiar floral smell and she noticed that her mother, despite having forgotten everything still did not forget to put on her favorite perfume. She finds it almost laughable, how someone could forget everything about their own daughter and the entirety about their life, but still remembers stuffs that routinely stuck to their body like a memorized conditioning.

She saw her mother lying on her bed, her dark hair greying and her face filled with wrinkles and suddenly, she felt as if her mother had shrunken into such a foreign being.

Her mother's gaze was empty as she looked at her, and the cataract giving her previously imperious brown eyes a streak of blue. The patient uniform looks out of size and oversized on her mother's ever shrinking body, nothing at all similar to the old controlling woman who used to rule her life like a military officer. Nothing like the proud business executive whose only failure in life was having her.

She can see that her mother's mind is not quite there, and she is probably already thinking of something else, already- but oddly, this is probably the only time when Jane has found her mother to be completely peaceful, there was no remnant of her poisonous tongue, her emotionally charged screams, and the taut lips pulled down in constant criticism and displeasure.

How does it feel really, to live in such an empty casque?

It has been five years since she last visited her mother, and had left her in the retirement home. To her husband and her family, her excuse has been work and her own children. But, she knew that whenever she saw her mother, the similar streak of fear would reappear- and she would regress to the powerless, helpless, six year old child clamoring for her mother's affection but receiving nothing but empty disdain.

Her birth was unplanned, and her mother was not sure who her father was. Everyday, she would be berated for being born, and the next day- how she is a complete waste of space and is useless. That sentences stuck to her, like the pavlov dog that has been conditioned, and she was still deeply afraid and insecure.

Her whole life she was filled with nothing but a sense of lingering confusion that never quite disappear, questioning what was inherently wrong with her. Despite her finally able to graduate first class in her class and has a stable job as a marketing director, her mother merely looked at her with disdain- as if she was a sin that she wanted to forget, a memory she wished to blot away.

Her whole life she thought she was unwanted. After her last suicide attempt, her psychiatrist had advised to face her problem head on- to face her mother and tell her how it truly feels. She had vehemently rejected the idea, and even now- she still had the same fear coursing through her veins as she smelled the sickly floral smell as her mother beats her again, and again and again.

Her mother's lack of memory boldened her, and she took a chair to sit beside her.

Her mother merely asked who she was. She said that she was a Christian missionary and she has dropped by to all the patients. The lie felt bland in her tongue, and she was half-afraid that her mother's critical mind would catch it- but her mother merely nodded, a blank, dreamy expression crossed her face. 

"You are similar to my mother," she started- and her voice trembling just a little.

Her mother looked at her, and a fond grin played on her lips- the sort of grin that she never saw even once during her childhood. She remembered only the downturned curl of her mother's lips, disapproving and judging her every step.

"I never had a daughter, I always wanted one."

Despite her knowing that she has fully grown up and is fully independent from the clasp of her mother, the sentence still has the power to disorient her and make her stomach sick with fear that swirls around it like hungry moths.

"Really?"

"Yes. My mother had never loved me, so I wanted to have a child. I wanted to raise her with love and affection."

"My mother never loved me."

"We're the same, then, aren't we? Some people just aren't meant to have kids. I think it's something in them- ingrained so deeply that they're chemically imbalanced that they just cannot afford to be kind and caring."

"It's true, people like my mother should never have children." Jane continued, seized with an anger that has bubbling for 40 years. "I hope- I hope she has aborted me."

"Don’t say that- you're a beautiful young girl and you reminded me of the girl I used to be. I'm sure your mother dearly loved you." Her mother said flippantly. And Jane wondered if her mother is playing some nasty trick and that she was merely pretending to have dementia- this would not be the first time her mother had pulled a nasty trick on her.

She had once badmouthed her in front of her first boyfriend, telling him he could do better than a girl like her.

Bile rose to her throat and she finds herself crying and unable to contain it any further, "I hated you. For my whole life, I hated you. I was never enough- I was never good enough for you. Tell me, is it my fault that I was born into this world?!"

It was all the things that she wanted to say, but never dared to say because deep down, she still crave her mother's affection. She felt as soon as she admitted that she is unloved, that is what she is going to be, forever alone, defective, unloved. All cool seemed to evaporate from her and she suddenly became a screaming child. And she hated it.

She did not want to relive this. Never.

Somewhere in the depth of her heart, she had regretted reacting. Hated herself for being so hot-headed that she never sent the message across that she simply wanted to be loved and that she's so sorry for everything.

She stood up and slammed the door shut, vowing never to return again. Forget about forgiveness, they are now past beyond and chance of repair. The nails have been ingrained into her heart- prickling herself with a debilitating sense of inferiority. She drove her car away in a rush of fury and went home and slept the whole thing off, and the next day, she received a call from the retirement home.

Her mother had committed suicide, and she had written a suicide note on the wall in blood, 'I'm sorry I was not good enough.'