In a post-COVID-19 world, the internet has become inundated with insipid jokes that go viral, and even some songs celebrating sorrow are sped up to match the pace of our relentless content consumption.
Sensitivity has never had such a bad reputation. Ironically, today sensitive people have to clarify that they are not sensitive.
Social media presents an illusory utopia where the siren calls of laughter are allowed, and inhabitants flee from the shadowy clutches of these ominous negative emotions.
As I scroll down my phone every night, a question invariably plagues my mind. Am I a decent human being? Why am I so different from others? If you too grapple with these questions and bear the weight of sadness, sensitivity and self-doubt, then this story is for you.
COVID-19 took my grandma’s life. I watched as my mother stood in a room drenched in the sterile scent of antiseptic, her gaze fixed on a pair of frail, pale feet.
She seemed to utter words, but I heard nothing. Her lips twitched at corners, mirroring the flickering, dim lights — yet her face remained still.
She’s a mother to three children — no one is expecting her to be the one to have an emotional breakdown. If she can’t be strong like usual, how will her children have the space to deal with the loss of their grandma?
It became her daily routine. She woke up much earlier than the morning called for, she wept at the same table repeatedly and then went about caring for her children.
By all accounts, she should be a paragon of strength, yet in my eyes, she was a stranger. I only received one response after calling her name three times while the bath water grew hotter and hotter.
The nights were eerily quiet, and although the rooms were muted, everyone was restless. I could hear the creaking of the swing chair and clinking of the wavering wine each time the lights went out.
My parents talked less frequently, and the only interaction between them was a fight that went back and forth fiercely. The following morning, she resumed to be my same unbothered mother, as if nothing had transpired.
I could not bear to witness the transformation of her world — so immutable yet now marred by change.
So, I stepped out and asked a simple question: “Mom, do you miss grandma?” I dreaded having to see her face, but one thing was certain: she stopped her housework.
She gently touched my head and mildly replied, “Of course, I miss her so much, but don’t you have homework?”
I was taken aback by this awkward shift in topic, but I needed to tell her something important.
“Mom, I miss you too.”
She faltered for a few seconds, opened and closed her mouth and turned away — then came a wave of tears without any warning. For the first time, I saw her as an unpolished, vulnerable adult.
The moment of emotional extreme only lasted for a few moments before she brought over an amber vintage album to me, sharing stories about her mother, my grandma.
She hated the question, “Why do you look so sad?” It seems like all the negative emotions are unreasonable and unnecessary unless they do have a reason. No one questions others when they’re happy because people are allowed to feel this way for the sake of it.
“Sorry, son. I just can’t cry loudly and spend an entire day doing nothing.”
No one should feel guilty for experiencing emotion, for they come naturally. This isn’t a condemnation of a hedonistic culture. The celebration of joy is commendable, but the expression of sadness should not be vilified.
Happy endings in movies are confined to the screen, not reality. We’ve gradually forgotten that life also consists of tragedies.
I wish someone could hug me and whisper “it is okay to cry,” when the day comes that I truly need to feel that way
