About hating resistance

I am back from few days in Bucharest with my parents.
 We had very hot days, temperature-wise, which limited my movements in town.
But what also limited, to a greater extent, my movements is that I am still uncomfy with going out, having an agenda of my own while I am there. There is a well-known icky sensation in my spine and bones when I have to tell my parents that I am going to town to meet friends. As if I'd be doing something wrong. (btw, when I have started writing this post I had a totally different subject in mind)


It is as if I were guilty of something I am not aware of, doing something wrong in a way I am not conscious about, but my father is totally aware and makes it clear to me. Now that I am writing it like this, it seems like a nightmare, the I-want-to-scream-but-I-can't type of nightmare.

I am guilty about it, undoubtedly, nobody explains to me what's wrong about going out to town, meeting friends, "shopping without shopping" actually, seeing what's new in a town I love.

For a long time there was this "malaise" about going out: I was always late, whenever I came back home, I seemed to be late. Not that I've been missing anything or that I've promised to be back "earlier". simply that I have stayed too long ("what could have been so much to see, there is nothing out there"). Malaise about explaining what I have been doing and whom I had met, malaise of having to explain and justify myself for doing something else than I was expected to do, even if there has never been clear what I was expected to do.

It is weird how much I have calmed down since I have started writing these lines.
I have just came to realise that when I arrived in Bucharest it was already late because I was already gone. That time is short and we could not have enough time together. Which somehow prevented us to enjoy the time we had as this time was filled with anger and uncomfortable thoughts of not living up to the expectations: be the smartest girl, have the nicest life. Being whatever I was not. This is, I see now clearly, source of much pain and suffering.

I loved my mother almost bald scalp. I found it a tender thing to look at, and I was not scared at all. The day she's told me she bought a wig I felt that something changed, that we grew closer and fonder one of the other. That some barrier fell and that was a good thing. I would never say that the mere fact of my mother having cancer is a good thing. But we managed to talk about it and see how we shared more about ourselves in this last month since she's found out.

I was about to talk about resistance, but I think I meant to write about finding (some) peace.