Memoirs

Recently I've noticed some things I didn't before. I've become observant in that strange way where you'll notice little things and wonder where they came from; make connections you wouldn't think of before, before the world changed all of a sudden.

One of my friends always pats me on the back when she hugs me. Another rubs little circles with her thumb. I wonder at these things. Where did they pick them up? It seems so little and such a small detail often goes unnoticed, and yet to me, it says something. It's an expression of a little extra comfort. Patting someone on the back, rubbing circles - do they often comfort people? Do they often have to listen to bleeding hearts?

But they don't listen. They don't have to, don't want to, and shouldn't. One cannot offer such pure, unreserved kindness and also sympathise with their load. The conflict of emotion is too much.

That is why people keep secrets.

I am a confidante. I am good at knowing people, knowing what they do, why they do as they do, why what is what is and what makes life tick. Manipulation is too strong - it's a nudge, a gamble that sometimes pays off and sometimes doesn't. No one ever gets what they want all the time. People tell me secrets, their inner truths that they hide. My family is a den of liars. They spit poison at each other when their backs are turned and the light is dim, and pretend everything is fine. It's like an old tapestry - an aged story, beautiful to look at, a complete ragged mess on the back, and overall a subtle reminder of how history repeats again and again. There is nothing new under the sun.

They all tell me their secrets. Sit down in a comfortable place, and soon enough silence grows unbearable and people speak. They say things to me they wouldn't to anyone else - apparently, I'm a good listener. I listen. Often people hear things, respond, and move on. But listening is different - you've got attention, the words matter, it is no longer mindless noise. Slowly, the pieces come together, and sometimes even the speaker knows not the importance of what they've shared. But it is a burden. I learned to manage it, push it into a locked room shielded by lies. My family uses lies to hide their attitudes. I use mine to hide their true natures. They all hate each other. They all hate something or other.

My father hates my mother for ruining him, for trying to lock him away from other women and keep him from seeking the love he longs for, the flame of hope he used to know. He hates his children for keeping him married to the one he loathes. He hates himself for not being able to leave a legacy to a supposed son that never existed, for not leaving a legacy at all. He hates that in this life, he no longer has anyone he can truly trust.

My mother hates my father for going off with other women, because she fears he'll cheat on her like her first love did, and tells him to stop because she hates that it'll tarnish her reputation. Her perfect Catholic marriage, the last sanctity of her faith being that at the very least, she's married with children to a man that hasn't cheated on her. Yet. She hates herself for being too ugly in her own eyes to keep a man faithful, she doesn't trust anyone anymore. She hates her children for always being too far or too close to her. She hates that they don't fit her ideals, she hates that neither of them wishes to become a nurse or an engineer or some other respected position high up with a grand salary. She hates it because she might never have all the money she wished for, all the reputation for wanted, never living the high and mighty life like a royal snob.

My sister hates my father for expressing his anger at his own life, for his nostalgia and bitter reflection of the world nowadays. She hates him for not helping her all the time, for not holding her hand (when it has always really been outstretched and she never wanted to take it because it was dirty and imperfect), for telling her the cold truth. She hates my mother for always trying to rein her in when she would rather drown in her own suffering. She hates herself because she knows this, would rather be miserable than accept help and become anything but a child, she would do anything to be a child again where someone held her hand and bought her everything she wanted and life seemed to always go her way because there was no one better.

None of them know what to think of me.

When I came along, I was their second chance, not that they knew it. But I always shined brighter, lighter, over my peers and my dim family. I was the lightning in a cloud full of sparks. They couldn't keep up with me - so to remedy this, I learned how to dim it with a veil of lies. It worked well enough. I was their little girl who shone, who got the best grades, who made friends with the right crowd. I still am.

Under that, though, I keep secrets. It is how I made real use of my spark - my memory is very good, although only when I'm paying attention. Even then my proficiency with lies and general knowledge recall is often enough to fool most people. I don't hate my family. In my sister I fostered a resentment - she got the things normal people had - she watched the TV shows, she made the cool things. I was an academic. In primary school this doesn't mean much, and thus she was superior. But the day I learned I passed the eleven plus changed things. Suddenly, it was recognised that I was clever, and she was not. She was plain, 'cool', normal. She even had normal teenage phases, the angst, the trends, the wrong kind of friends. But I was clever and that changed everything.

Recently, that's been recognised again. I've slipped under the radar because I knew even then that if my family knew what I could do being so clever, they would use to their advantage to parade me around like a trophy. They have. To them I am a means to an end - that is the way it has ever been, because I am too much to be their perfect child. But I keep secrets. I am their skeleton in the closet. I know what strings to pull.

I know that keeping secrets, for one, is just asking for trouble in the first place.

But I'll keep it even if they don't, and I'll take them to my grave.