Never enough

When I was a child, I had a hobby... I loved drawing. Drawing used to be a pretty common activity among kids... at least it was before social media took over.

When I was little, I thought I was different from the others... I always saw myself as better, more talented than the rest... But maybe every child thinks that about themselves... that they are different, special...

No matter how much I drew, no matter how much I improved in creating, I never felt good enough. Maybe because I never really was. No one ever appreciated my drawings. And if someone did, it never felt sincere—more like pity; I could hear the sympathy in their voice, the sadness they felt for me.

It took me a few years to realize that this activity—art—was not meant for me. My disappointment was probably intensified by the lack of positive feedback I so desperately longed for but never received.

I clearly remember how, after hours of tiring shading and coloring, I would hold up my finished piece proudly, then immediately run down the hallway to the kitchen with a big smile to show my mom the family picture I had drawn.

“Mom, look!”

She wouldn’t even turn around... not once. Never looked up from the dishes. It was always the same monotonous and expressionless “mhm” and that usual blank stare behind the counter—the face of someone who couldn’t spare even five seconds for their own child.

This went on for years. I kept trying, determined and persistent, always hoping that maybe if I got just a little better, I could win my mother’s approval... After all, who else would a child want to please, if not their parents?

Every time, I would run down the hallway with excitement, hoping for a better reaction. But it was all in vain... no matter how much I improved, it was never enough.

It wasn’t until years later that I realized all my efforts had been in vain—my drawings always ended in fruitless struggle.

At some point, I grew tired of trying to be good enough. I stopped looking for encouragement, affirmation, or any kind of feedback. I gave up. Maybe I was talented, maybe I wasn’t... I’ll never know now.

Then I got my first mobile phone. The last traces of creativity disappeared from my free time, which I then spent mostly studying and resting by browsing the internet. A week passed, then a month, then a year went by without me picking up a pencil even once. And if I ever had any talent, it’s now completely lost... Even if I wanted to, I couldn't make up for all that I missed.

A few months ago, I realized that—just like my drawings—I was never enough either. Outside of art, I never received any praise from my mother. If I did something well, it always went unnoticed. Even animals learn through positive reinforcement, don’t they? Let alone a small child! If I did something wrong, I’d only know because punishment came immediately afterward.

I’ll never forget my mother’s distorted face, or how I would run up the stairs into the corner of my room, screaming like an animal being slaughtered, hoping she would change her mind and let it go. But she didn’t... She came after me with heavy steps, and I crouched in the corner, covering my head and whatever I could. I couldn’t even look as her shadow loomed over me, hand raised to gain momentum for an even harder blow. And then I’d count the hits: “Two, three.”

I wanted to scream “ENOUGH!” but I didn’t dare, because I knew it would only make her hit harder and longer.

I didn’t want her to hear me crying either, because I knew it would only give her more satisfaction. It hurt—it stung, it burned—her handprint turning into a bruised red mark within seconds.

So I sat there helplessly, in silence, crying out for help inside, fighting my tears, biting my knees in pain. I was only six years old... I couldn’t have protected myself even if I wanted to. And my mother used that power imbalance against me, hitting me over the smallest mistakes, the most insignificant things. As if it gave her life. I saw the satisfied smile on her face, the glimmer of pleasure in her eyes—as if my pain made her feel good. As if she was just waiting for me to mess something up again, just to give her a reason to lay her hands on me.

Of course, all I ever learned was what *not* to do—always the hard way. Never what was right.

If there were two ways to do something, and I first chose the right one, I’d get no real reaction. But if I tried the wrong one, bam! I was on the floor again, in the same corner of the same room, trembling, waiting for my fate to catch up to me. I was anxious all the time.

And most of these beatings could have been avoided with a single sentence: “Good job!” or “I’m proud of you.”

Sixteen years later, I’m still waiting to hear either of those come out of my mother’s mouth—but maybe a lifetime won’t be enough and I'll die waiting...

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