I am the perfect combination of my Peruvian parents

The slightest memory I have of my parents being married is of me hiding in the corner of my bedroom because my mom was coming to spank me for not listening to her, but my dad was trying to stop her by distracting her with affection. Although this isn’t a pleasant memory, it will always keep me warm because my parents were together. I don’t remember much about my parents’ divorce. In fact, I don’t remember anything at all. I don’t remember them ever fighting and I definitely don’t remember any particular adjustments I had to make.

As a child, I spent more time with my dad’s family—I have the best childhood memories with them. For this reason, I hold onto these memories so tightly. I’m glad I don’t remember my parents being married because what if I was happier then? But that’s not okay to think because if my parents had never gotten a divorce, I wouldn’t have my beautiful siblings: Mia, Mirko, Kiana, and Diego—they are my sunshine.

When I was younger, I was a daddy’s girl and I was proud. I loved being with my mom as well, but she was busy with my newborn sister, Mia, at the time. A little after my mom married someone else and Mia was born, my dad left for over a year to Peru and I didn’t understand why. I remember getting presents in the mail and answering every phone call from him. As I got older, I understood that my mom left him, leaving my dad to flee back to his country for a while.

It’s funny to think about how our perspectives change with age. When I was younger I thought my dad abandoned me; as I got older I grew angry towards my mom for breaking my dad’s heart. Now that I’m 25 I can see why things panned out the way they did—some people just aren’t right for each other. As much as you love someone and want to try to work things out with them… love has to work both ways.

I am my parents’ daughter. I am literally the both of them. My parents created the perfect combination of themselves. I get irritated like my mom. I get obsessive like my dad. I am jealous like my mom. I am a softy like my dad. Both of my parents are absolutely ridiculous—my mom can get so mad for no logical reason and my dad makes every little situation as complicated as possible. But, I am completely happy with the way they raised me even if I didn’t always agree with them. My parents shaped me into the woman I am today, and every day that I experience life I catch my parents in myself.

I am writing about my parents today because I know they are the reason I think so much and worry so much – and I say this with so much love. If I wasn’t so much of a damn worry wart, I don’t think I’d be a writer.

My mind is so complex, and I don’t give it as much credit as I should. I am constantly conjuring up preposterous plans and ideas that make no sense at all, but I think to myself what if I could make sense of them all? I come up with crazy scenarios in my mind and sometimes I act them out. There are many times when I lie in bed and think about things I shouldn’t be thinking about. Like a stupid fight I got into ages ago and how I could have handled it differently. I think about the better version of myself I know exists. I think about old friends that don’t give a damn about me anymore. I think about being healthier, but not doing anything about it – thoughts like these eat at me every day and keep me up at night.

See, there are so many things I wish I could be doing with my life that I just don’t do at all and I know as I get older, I will begin to regret this more and more. I wish I would enroll in dancing classes. I wish I could join roller derby. I wish I was taking boxing classes. I wish I was a good singer. All of my wishes are possible, but do I ever do anything about it? Nope. Do I plan to? Hopefully one day.

This is where my worries begin to kick in. I’m scared of what people think about me… literally scared, not shy—scared. I’d like to say I’m just shy, but it’s so much more than that. Every time I meet new people, stand in front of a crowd, walk past a group of people, or even consider joining a club or sport I begin to think about all the possible things people could say about me behind my back or just think about to themselves.

I’m also scared of possible unfortunate events. When my boyfriend is driving a long distance, I worry that he’ll get into an accident. When my sister is taking the bus home, I worry that someone will snatch her. When my baby brother was born, I worried that something would go wrong. When my godmother wakes up, I worry she won’t remember yesterday. When I see my dad’s old face, I worry that he isn’t happy. When I see my mom’s flawless face, I worry that she’ll always struggle. When someone doesn’t respond quick enough to me, I worry they’re mad at me. The smallest things concern me. I constantly wonder if I will ever be sane within my own thoughts. I spend so much time worrying about everyone else that when I finally have time to worry about myself – I’m already spread so fucking thin.

I am almost certain my parents are a huge reason I think the way I do. But, I also need to highlight the magnificent traits my brain and I received from them. I am passionate like my mom. I seek big dreams like my dad. I am creative like my mom. I am adventurous like my dad. I am independent like my mom. I try new things like my dad. I am my wonderful self because of my parents.

When my parents read this, they’ll wonder why I never shared these thoughts with them before. Why would I throw all these burdens at them when I know they have so much more to worry about?

That’s what I have myself for. My mind allows me to join a soccer team and kick-ass. It allows me to share my wildest dreams without sounding too irrational. It allows me to share my fears, but not feel foolish because all of my fears are truly driven by love. I love people so damn much.

My mind is my nirvana, but over the years it’s become my prison. I am finally releasing myself.  

Can anyone else relate?

Categories: Self-reflections

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5 replies

  1. Estoy feliz!! te felicito.. Recuerdo q desde muy pequeña escribías historias… Me encantaba leerlas.. Escribir es lo q te apasiona.. Te amo


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