The Perfection of Parents

When I was a child, I saw my parents as something akin to perfection.

I can vividly recall sitting at recess in year 4. One of my closest friends was complaining about how strict her mother was; another jumped in on the action and decidedly stated her mother was worse for having the audacity to not let her go to a sleepover that Friday. I remained silent. In my mind, I was thinking about how lucky I was. I had a mum who was strict but fair, and a father who was loving and kind. In that moment, my brain painted my family in idyllic brush strokes. A piece of art for all to see.

In Year 6, I began noticing the mood swings from my mum. One day, she would be calm and happy. The next, any little thing could set her off. My siblings were a mix of clueless and young, never noticing anything out of the ordinary.

Flash forward to high school. I'm at the awkward age of sixteen, growing through the teenage years with a lack of social grace and an abundance of attitude. I am driving to pick up my sister from gymnastics with my dad. We arrive early - not unsurprising when we always leave at least ten minutes before we should have to. With the car idling and the windscreen fogging up as cold hair brushes the glass, my dad turns to me. "I know you already know, but your mum has depression and anxiety." I didn't know. Or, at least, I didn't want to know. There was a moment of hushed silence before, "But don't tell the others. They have no idea."

First year of university. Any time I make my mum angry with an ill-worded phrase or mistimed joke, the guilt sets in. I am always the first to apologise, the first to bridge the vast silence that comes after a blow up. When I see the mood changes, my stomach clenches and my heart squeezes. I never did tell my siblings as promised; they are still as clueless as they were before. It's my duty, my brain screams at me. My job to ensure my mum's happiness. Even if it's at the expense of my own.

I am in my second year of full time work now. I have a job where I'm respected, a house I bought on my own and am what most would call independent and successful. And yet, that squeeze of the heart and clench of the stomach has extended past my mum to encompass any social interaction. I now sweat at the thought of greeting my colleagues, and then tense up when I hear them chatting to each other in the halls. I have a few good friends, but can't make any new ones. Still, though, I don't seek help, that ever persistent guilt telling me my mum will think it's her fault. That my dad will feel that he failed to notice me.

I don't see my parents through rose coloured lenses anymore. Some days, when I am most alone, I even feel the small seeds of resentment trying to take root. But those seeds can never take form. Maybe it's because when I call my mum when I am feeling lonely, she'll offer to drop what she's doing and rush over. When I see my dad, he always insists on chatting for hours, regardless of when he has to be at work the next day. And that is the greatest gift they can give me - more than the perfect parenting style, or a life free of burdens or worries. Their time and their love.

So do I see my parents as perfect? Not anymore. Instead, I see them as human - messy, flawed and just trying to do the best they can for those they love.