Abandonment & attachment
As I gaze upon images of unknown abandoned houses or learn about the history of forgotten places, an eerie feeling engulfs my body. It’s as if I have a connection to these places, as if I once lived there or experienced the lives of their past residents. This inexplicable sensation slowly transforms into profound sadness and eventually grief. I find myself grieving for a loved one who passed away a decade ago. But how can these bittersweet memories be mine if I have never actually inhabited those houses or visited those locations?
My only memory of feeling abandoned dates back to when I was just 5 or 6 years old. I awoke one morning to discover that my parents had left me behind to be with my grandmother, siblings, and cousins. Their absence left me bewildered and anxious. I searched for them in their room, but their voices were nowhere to be heard inside or outside the house, nor did I catch a glimpse of them in the garden or vicinity of my grandmother’s home. Desperate, I rushed to my grandmother’s house on that chilly morning, only to find her and my siblings sitting by the fireside, trying to warm the place. Still, my parents were nowhere to be found. I asked my grandmother where they were, and all she said was, “Tupla go lo Tambul” [They went to Tambul].
The thoughts raced in my young mind — had they left with the birds at dawn and departed with the stars and moon? My heart broke a little, and though I wanted to cry, I held back, knowing they would return when the sun started to shine. However, I was also angry. They hadn’t informed me about their departure; they had just left me behind. I was upset because they could have taken me with them, and I would have willingly followed, no matter the distance. As long as I was close to my mom, I would have been fine. I don’t recall much of the rest of that day, but I vividly remember how it concluded.
The sky began to change colors as darkness approached from the west, and the sun started its journey towards the east. Standing in the backyard of my uncle’s house with my cousins, I anxiously awaited my parents’ return. From my vantage point, I could see figures approaching from about 1 km away, and every little movement led me to believe it was my mom. Excitedly, I would tell my cousin, “Em mami kam!” [That’s mom returning!], and my heart would flutter like a hot air balloon, ready to embrace her. Yet, 40 minutes would pass, and no one would walk through the gate, causing my heart to ache a little each time. I repeated this hopeful waiting more than once.
Eventually, at around 7:00 pm, someone came through the gate and handed a bag of munchies to my older sister, claiming it was from mom. She called out to me, “Tomo, mami karim twisties kam eh!” [Tomo, mom brought twisties!]. I sprinted as fast as my little legs could carry me at the mention of “Mami.” I thought, “She’s here! Finally!” However, when I reached the bag of munchies, my mom was nowhere to be seen. I asked the person who brought the bag where she was, and he simply said, “Mami stap lo hap” [Mummy is there], pointing towards the road I had been gazing at for the past hour. I wanted clarification, but he vanished like the wind. I felt sad once again, and my little heart continued to ache. Holding back tears, I longed to return home and sleep, hoping that if I closed my eyes and fell asleep, my parents would be there when I woke up. Each time I heard someone opening the door, I would awaken in anticipation, only to find it was either my siblings or grandmother. When I finally woke up for the last time, it was morning, and my mom sat by the fireplace, peeling kaukaus for breakfast.
Recalling this childhood memory from 20 years ago fills me with immense sorrow. If given the chance to travel back in time, I would choose that period of my life. I would be there for my younger self, offering reassurance that she is not abandoned, that no one is leaving her. I would embrace her tightly and spend the entire day by her side, making things easier for her.
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To be honest, I have an intense fear that anyone I grow close to, anyone with whom I open up, become vulnerable or intimate, will eventually leave me. I’m haunted by the thought that they will leave for several reasons:
First, they might grow tired, exhausted, or bored of me.
Second, they may see me as a hypocrite, a failure, or someone peculiar.
Third, they could perceive me as clingy, overly attached, needy, or self-absorbed.
Fourth, they may never view me in the same way I see them — as someone special.
Fifth, they might believe they can find someone better than what I can offer.
I’m unsure if these thoughts stem from past experiences with friends and family or if they are simply a product of my own mind. Regardless of their origin, I dislike having these thoughts because they inevitably arise whenever I develop a strong connection with someone. I find myself sitting alone, surrounded by darkness, anxiously awaiting the day they decide to leave. I don’t want to say that I am the issue, but when the door is closed and I’m left alone, I convince myself that I am the reason they leave. It takes time to shake off that feeling, but once it fades, I find myself resenting my own vulnerability, regretting having opened up or gotten close to them. This hate eventually leads me to avoid forming deep connections with others. Suddenly, I develop trust issues and start overanalyzing people’s behaviors in an attempt to determine who is genuine, real, and likely to stay in my life. It’s all because I fear becoming an abandoned house in their eyes.
This piece was written on May 28th, 2023, at 9:31pm.
