For the FearTales series that I have running, I’ve been asking a couple of friends of mine to talk about something that they were scared of and how they overcame it. These were very personal stories, so each one I recieved I handled with the utmost care. It means a lot to be trusted with someone’s personal story.
So, even if I haven’t truly conquered it yet, I find it only fitting that I (finally) share my own.
I am scared of being my parents.
I am scared of being my father.
I am scared because he was well-educated. I am scared because he is living proof that one can be born dirt poor and work hard to succeed. I am scared because, in the end, it all mattered for nothing.
1994 – The Rwandan Genocide.
I was 4. My younger sister doesn’t recollect what she saw at the time, but I still have some images (of fires, bodies, and the like) in my head. For most people, it’s a tragedy that took place far, far away. To me and my family, it wasn’t. We lived it.
During the genocide, I lost my dad.
The genocide was a “war” between two tribes—the Tutsi and the Hutu. It was like the movie Hotel Rwanda… my mom, Tutsi; my dad, Hutu.
There were two sides. We were a mixed family. The problem: My mom could either come with my dad and us to the Hutu extremist side where we would all be protected… except her. Or my dad could go to the Tutsi extremist side with my mom and us where we would all be protected… except him.
To him, the choice was simple: Protect the wife and kids. The last image I have of him is when the Tutsi extremists took him to “a special place” for his kind.
We still haven’t given him a proper burial due to the lack of a body.
I am scared of being my mother.
I am scared because she loves God. I am scared because she’s crazy (legally).
2008 – The summer after my high school graduation.
My sister and I came home to our mother, who’s telling us she’s on Obama’s head team… telling us that since she was named to this team, the FBI and CIA have followed her everywhere. (By the way, we live in Canada.) Then, one day, she was treating the living room as if it was bugged. We asked her what was wrong. She took us to her bedroom and quietly told us that the people in the TV were watching and listening to her every move. Another day, we came home and found that she had packed all her clothes. Apparently, Obama was sending his men to pick her up that night.
Something was clearly wrong.
With the help of some friends, we got her to a mental hospital; Where she was diagnosed as a high-level bipolar schizophrenic.
It seems she had been diving deeper and deeper into a constant state of delusion, and it was linked with her praying. She hadn’t actually worked in 10 years; she taught God was taking care of her (it was actually my grandpa, and some money my father left for us before he died). And now it seems that God was answering her (long-held secret) prayers of her being side-to-side with the first black president of the USA. The doctor said that this, combined with the horrors she saw in the genocide, most likely led her here.
To this day me and my sis take care of her. And whenever she prays, it’s a bad sign.
I am scared of being my stepfather.
I am scared because he’s normal. I am scared because he followed the rules. I am scared because it all backfired on him.
2008 – Winter, my freshman year of college.
My stepfather went to school for engineering. He married a woman he loved. He followed the “rules.” Sadly, those rules (so far) have screwed him.
My step-dad went to Quebec for school, took out student loans, hung out with friends, had fun, all the while planning to repay the loans once he was a working engineer. You know, he did the “normal” thing.
Well, after he graduated, he couldn’t find a job. As a student in Quebec, he studied in French, which somehow isn’t good enough for Toronto. Goodbye engineering job. Hello crappy desk job.
At least he married the woman of his dreams. Except that woman was my mom (and we know how that turned out). Pretty soon after her diagnosis, he filed for divorce. And since she wasn’t in the state of mind to care for the two kids they had together, he takes sole care of them. Life dealt him his cards:
- Hefty debts.
- Crappy job.
- Single father.
- Two kids.
I am scared of being my parents.
“We are not our parents’ choices.”
But how true does that statement stand when you’ve seen three different parents choose three different choices (which you yourself could make) that all lead to misery?
- I am scared of working hard, finding success, and having my life come to an abrupt end before I can enjoy it.
- I am scared of being delusional about how God helps me, and how he will save me.
- I am scared of being normal and going down the “paved path,” which may only lead to my misery.
That’s what I am afraid of. Even though I haven’t completely conquered my fear, I’m in a place where I’m okay with it. I’m in a place where I use my fears to push myself along a better path, one of my own choosing.