Mirror

S t i g m a

|| e d i t e d ||

"Deeper, deeper, the wound just gets deeper. Like pieces of broken glass that I can't reverse" ~ V (BTS), Stigma

오명

S t i g m a

~ Jae-hyun ~

HATRED IS ANOTHER THING ENTIRELY WHEN IT COMES FROM YOUR MOTHER.

I've known since the line between my thoughts and reality began to blur for the first time that she was disappointed in me. As her eldest son, it was me who was supposed to grow up to be successful, working in a high paying position in some big money corporation and eventually supporting my parents financially after their retirement. Not Ji-han, her precious, youngest child. Me.

But when scenarios from the television screen and the pages of the books I used to be able to read began to steadily seep into the world all around me, I lost my ability to make her proud entirely. I can't join the military - active duty or otherwise - or audition to be a member of an idol group like Jimin. I can't even work or try to earn myself a higher education! Getting through each and every day alive while attempting to maintain my slowly unravelling sanity is a struggle on its own. Dealing with myself when I can never be sure how to as well as juggling school and a job at the same time is a path that I know I wouldn't even last a day if I tried to follow it. Much to my Eomma's [mum's] dismay.

Under the heat of her furious gaze now, I wonder if things would be any different if the situation was reversed? Would she - could she be proud of me if it was Ji-han who was 'stupidly sick' and not me? Or does her hatred for me have absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I most likely have a mental illness of some sort? Even without her saying anything, the fiery despondency swarming about her dark eyes now like a cloud of angry bees agrees wholeheartedly with that thought.

"I want you out," she declares, spitting the words like they're a bad taste in her mouth. Her hands are balled into fists, a painful-looking white where the metal of her rings bites into her flesh, and her nails carve angry pink crescents into her palms. Despite the aggressiveness of her tone, her statement doesn't strike the devastating blow I thought it might; doesn't leave the damage I'm sure she hoped it would. In fact, I'm surprised it took her this long without Ji-han's constant protection of me for her to say such a thing.

"Soo-jin-ah," my Appa [father] tries to reason with her, reaching for her narrow shoulders with his meaty, sausage-like fingers, but his attempt is half-hearted and his minimal effort wasted. I expected as such, though. He's never been in control of her or of anyone living in this suffocating apartment. He may have been partially responsible for creating the mess Ji-han and I are forced to call a family, but in the end, he doesn't belong here. He simply can't handle our mother's unbridled instability or Ji-han's impossible defiance that stems from his fruitless attempt to protect me. Not to mention that looking back, I don't think there has ever been or will ever be a single thing about me that he could even hope to understand.

My mother shakes him off, side-stepping out of his hold. And despite the situation, he lets her. Effortlessly returning to his role of the oblivious father. Someone who finds more comfort in working in a six by six office cubicle and drowning in work than returning to his family and the unspoken, stigmatising burden they carry; me.

"Don't," she hisses, whirling around to shoot a glare in his direction. The violent suddenness of the movement sends a series of small cracks across the dirty apartment walls and the cloudy living room windows. The wood of the coffee table, stained with half moons of spilt tea and coffee, splinters, fissures like tree boughs branching across the surface, and in the corners of the room, the carpet tears away from the skirting board. The world threatens to shatter at the slightest sign of her aggression, my father's submission simply feeding the fire, and I, I am but a bystander to the end of what is real.