There is a scar on my left wrist. It’s the trail of a blade. It’s barely noticeable now, but a vivid time capsule of that evening well before COVID-19 began.
I was locked in the bathroom. In my right hand was a fruit knife – whether I knew it consciously or not, survival instinct convinced me to pick the bluntest blade.
Beyond that locked room, I heard echoes of the fight in the house.
“The disrespect,” a voice said, “no decent child would ever retaliate against their mother.”
I heard my younger brother break down in tears. “It’s all my fault.” He felt liable because I had defended him.
“We keep you fed,” my mom said. “Gave you what you wanted, always complied with your poor decisions and whims, let you go out and embarrass us. Any other parent would have not tolerated this. How dare you? You were a nuisance. You had to be kept in control.”
Looking back, I remember a breaking point. I wanted to be out on the streets at night, knowing how dangerous it was, because at that moment my safety didn’t matter. I was reluctant to take any advice and hellbent on rejecting whatever they had to say.
Until these words.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “for the last 20 years.”
Mom knew what to say to soothe me and convinced me to sleep under their roof that night. But I still wanted to leave and cut off.
In February, we moved into a new home, finally one of our own, no rent to pay. Mom was on the balcony setting up the curtains. She held a metal curtain rod in her hands. The overhead wires that passed by were too close and lacked proper insulation.
The next moment she was on the floor, screaming for help. She was begging us to keep rubbing her body so that she didn’t die. She kept telling me to take care of the family for her. The trip to the hospital only took 20 minutes, but it felt like forever.
In a way, my isolation started earlier than the official lockdowns. I barely went to visit my mother at the hospital, because upon seeing her, I would break down in tears. I spent my time taking care of my home and dropped out of university for that semester. My dad dedicated most of his time to taking care of mom in the hospital.
In the world, COVID-19 had become something I could no longer ignore. Like most other countries, we started to see a spike in cases. The hospitals were understaffed and lacking equipment, and the information related to testing wasn’t accurate either. It was a risk to go to the hospital. We worried about my immunocompromised mom with open wounds and deep burns.
Finally, after a month, we could bring her home. At first, she couldn’t walk well and couldn’t use her hands. Without her help, the house was in disarray.
The injury and healing process made my mom depressed. She saw herself as disabled at the age of 49. The wounds weren’t fully healed, and perhaps they never would be. She said the burns on her hands is how God punished her for what she did to me.
“That’s not how God works,” I told her.
Helping my mother recover was refreshing. It allowed for forgiveness and understanding. I realized it was part of my mother’s upbringing and culture: they grew up on harsh punishments and were never taught peaceful alternatives. I realized that this cycle of violence could be broken.
Our days are still isolated at home together, with no jobs or school to attend. Stuck in isolation, my family finally managed to nurture understanding. Now there’s gratitude that we have the opportunity to be safe at this trying time.
