Seven-Day Book: My Growth Trajectory | Day 3 - Like a Doll

Write about the people who played a role in your growth. For example, if this person has participated in shaping a part of your life, he will think of it at different stages of your life and tell stories between you.

My mother not only shaped a part of my life, she shaped all of me.

My mother is very good at making things. She has the pride of someone who studied architecture, is sensitive to space, persistent in design, strict in taste, and picky about details.

I may not be her most successful work, but it must be the most expensive.

She spent a lot of time, energy, and effort. She shaped me, from the tiniest tips of my hair to the most general contours of my body. She is proud, sensitive, persistent and strict at the same time. She is an artist.

When she was in elementary school, she took care of everything from abstract time arrangements to concrete daily outfits. I have to do the things she specified at the time she specified, wear the clothes she specified, and appear in the place she specified. All the clothes in my wardrobe have been reviewed by her. She also decides what clothes to wear and what hairstyle to wear to school every day. One time, I didn't want to wear the clothes she had prepared and wanted to wear another one. She burst into tears, got angry and hit me while crying - I don't even remember whether I cried louder or she cried louder - After spanking me, she said to me with a tired look on her face: "When mom spanked you, my heart hurt more than you did. Be obedient and don't let mom suffer like this again." For the first time, I knew that I should learn to be a well-behaved person. Child: And it has to be all-encompassing. Listen to your mother and don't let her get hurt.

So I learned to be obedient and careful. I smiled gently at everyone and called all relatives, both known and unknown, by their names correctly. When eating, I sit quietly on my seat, run around without getting off the floor, and swallow all the food I like or don't like in an obedient manner. I almost only wear dresses and rarely trousers. The skirt length is just right to cover my knees. On my feet are all kinds of small leather shoes that I am used to or not used to wearing. My mother asked me to learn vocal music, practice piano every day, attend English classes and Mathematical Olympiad classes every weekend, and participate in all kinds of competitions. Certificates of honor were plastered all over the walls of my home. I am "someone else's kid", I am perfect, I am my mother's work.

When I was in middle school, my mother's perfect work and my perfect life went awry for the first time. The bad news is that I didn't get into the middle school designated by my mother. The good news is that I got into a better one. My mother's expression was complicated, and I couldn't tell whether she was happy or angry. She may also feel conflicted: It is a good thing that I got into a better middle school, but not only is it too far away from her, but it also deviates from her plan, which is a hidden worry. She finally agreed and let me go to that middle school. I began boarding life, leaving home and her unbreakable hold. For the first time, I had "pocket money", which came from the food expenses I saved, so I read a book without my mother's permission for the first time. I saw too many things that I should not see as a work. My mother's worries came true. Her works came to life and she added colors that she could not imagine or control. I feel very sorry for Frankenstein. Is it inevitable that man-made things will escape the control of their creator?

In any case, my new life makes me almost forgetful and enjoy it. If it weren’t for winter vacation and summer vacation, I would never have remembered that I was actually my mother’s work, my mother’s doll, my mother’s obsession, loss, unwillingness, pride and hope. I always thought that what my mother wanted was what I wanted, but books and adolescence made me think that no longer. My mother hopes that I will only read books by saints and not read anything other than must-read classics. But I read Russian literature, pornographic movies and BL novels. I also made some friends, none of whom were straight, and they were all "bad students" who would be considered by my mother as "not doing their job properly" and "not doing anything right".

My mother sensed my loss of control. But I'm taller than her, so she doesn't dare to hit me. She began to murmur: "You were so cute when you were little." I dismissed her and her thoughts. There were only mountains and rivers in my hands, stars in my chest, and distant places in my mind. I just want to resist, escape, and go further and further away.

I got my wish and went to the far place I wanted to go. I went to college. I was finally further away from my mother, and the major I chose was not what she originally planned, and my life has completely deviated from the track she planned. But then another pain began. Thousands of kilometers away from her, and after ending my constant resistance, I finally realized that the foundation of my body was shaped by her after all. The fact that I don’t want to accept is that my mother is not a bad person, and I am very similar to her: my love for art, my sensitivity to design, and my delicate nerves, isn’t this her? I fell into repeated questions to myself: Am I really "me"? Fear then grew: Will I become a woman like my mother?

I do look a lot like my mom. I began to be able to observe and understand my mother's emotions. I think my mother is probably aggrieved. She did everything she could do, and she did the part she could do beautifully, and I, as "my" partner in the production, messed up the part I was supposed to do. Her work is imperfect. Her daughter should have a charming singing voice, be good at stroking the piano keys with her long fingers, have an elegant figure, light body, speak well, have a stable job not far from home, the salary is not high but never work overtime, and marry Rich Xiaokai comes home from work on time every day to cook for his son and daughter, and keeps his house clean and tidy.

But I can't go back. I hardly sing, I hate the piano, my hands are full of paint, I walk like a foreigner, my speech is ugly, I went to study in a foreign country far away from home, I have been reluctant to work, and after I started working, I work overtime until the sky is dark, the sun and the moon are dark, and I don’t have children. , no cooking, a messy room, and a row of sex partners of all genders - it was so terrible that she couldn't even say the shameful word "sexuality".

I haven't been home for a long time. But I remember that when I went home last time, my mother still often murmured: "You were so cute when you were a child, so good and obedient, like a doll." I rarely agree with her, but I agree with her This chant. When I was little, I was like a doll, a doll. My mother likes dolls. She likes doll.Like a doll.

I'm not a doll.

Write on the back:

This article stuck with me for a long time. In fact, there is a lot I want to say, but the complex emotions and stories are all so entangled that I can't see clearly, which makes it difficult to write. In fact, I have given up asking myself "what am I", but my relationship with my mother is still dark and sad. Being in a foreign country has strengthened the wall between me and her (although I think it's good to have a wall). I almost don't contact her and don't reply to her messages, but she will still send her persistently. This is so sad. A few days ago, she asked me if I could eat white rice in Japan. I guess she has read too many sensational articles on domestic public accounts, and while she finds them ridiculous and nonsensical, she also feels deeply helpless and sad, and maybe a little self-blame. Because I know she is just too worried and wants to talk to me too much. I don’t know how to (actually don’t really want to) share my current life and “my” self with her, so the me in her memory still remains many years ago. Her information has not been updated for a long time. She also knew this, so she wanted to get closer to me, but I wisely protected myself and turned around and ran away. I probably won't be able to respond to her expectations anymore. How long will her hopelessness last?

I loved my mother before I was ten years old. As a teenager I hated my mother. Now I'm in my twenties, almost thirty, and I don't know what to do with my mom.

And... I'm really not good at writing multi-line stories, so I won't force myself next time...