For most of my teenage years, I was perceived as one of the antagonists in the lives of some of my family members.
Up until now, I still think of those miserable years every now and then. The memories would come like a thief at night — unwanted and sudden. There are even days that the feelings feel so fresh, so painful.
I was misunderstood, sheltered, scared, and reactive. And yet, they viewed me as the enemy.
“Don’t they understand that I am a kid?” I think I asked that question to myself years ago. And then again today (December 11, 2023).
That part of me never healed properly, and that particular question never really left my mind. Did I really deserve that label just because I was acting up over the drastic changes in my life then? Was I not allowed to feel how I felt? Were my feelings invalid just because others were hurting more than I did?
They claimed that it was the way I was raised. It was as if I never faced any consequences for my mistakes, as if I never got yelled at for crying or throwing tantrums. But I did.
I’ve said before that growing up with an angry man would change the trajectory of your life and how you would become. And I am not blaming anyone. My finger is not pointing at the angry man in the corner that lurks right now. I can still see him, but he and I are civil right now.
No. What happened during that time affected me deeply.
I thought (and still think) that it was unfair that those adults badmouthed me in a way that I was pictured as a great enemy, especially to my ma and those around her. Of course, she has always been a saint, or so they would say. I would not object to that either, but here is the thing: she is not perfect.
I remember a particular memory during my middle school years. My ma made a disturbing comment about my pa, her words are still glued to my brain, but I would not write it down for it was too sinister ever to be repeated (only one friend of mine knew about what she said, and she agreed that it was unbelievably inappropriate). Therefore, undoubtedly, I became enraged. At that moment, when I was 15, I was ready to leave home. I shouted at my mother. I did not remember whether she cried or not because, at that point, all I cared about was my feelings that got hurt. And I had every reason to be furious.
Was I wrong for only caring about my feelings? I don’t think so. I was 15. Would a hormonal teenage girl know better? Of course not. I only knew how to express my feelings by shouting at people, the way I was taught by my old man.
No doubt that I was deemed the “villain”. And thus began the origin story of how I became my family’s “public enemy” when I was a teen.
“It’s just that her character is ugly,” I heard those exact words coming out of someone’s mouth — someone related to me — more times than I could even count.
Always the same sentence over and over again. Every time I exploded. Every time I threw a tantrum. Every time I got upset. Every time I gave the silent treatment. Every time I slammed the door.
They never kindly asked what bothered me, what the matter was, and what it was that terribly upset me. All they knew was that my reaction was too overwhelming, and I was hurting people (re: my ma and her loved ones).
And then, as I aged, when I started going to therapy, I came to a realisation that it was my defence mechanism. I never learned the proper way to express frustration and hurt, so I ended up resorting to what I knew best: getting angry. And boy, did I master that skill. But those people did not understand my reasoning. To them, it was just part of my horrible personality — something that was passed on by the man before me.
Obviously, what I did was not right. I am not writing this to justify my past anger and frustration. However, it indeed would have been nice if somebody came to my level and talked things through nicely. And somebody did, and that somebody was the only one who never antagonised me. Nevertheless, the situation was difficult when four out of five people in the room were blaming the teenage Maria.
Since I was being labelled as the child with an “awful attitude”, eventually, I acted more like it. I mean, wasn’t that what they asked for?
It clearly did not get better for me. By acting up even more, I was constantly taunted by the remarks saying that my characteristics were ugly. And I began to believe that to be true and not an act anymore.
“Maybe they are right, maybe I am an awful person,”
Their hostility toward me did not help at all. I needed a helping hand, and yet, no one was willing to lend a hand. So, I was left alone. Nobody bothered to ask how I was doing, and even if they did, they made sure that I never forgot how bad of an individual I was.
Thus, the label remains a part of me, even to this very day.
A few days ago, my ma and I quarrelled. The root of the problem was her diminishing my idea of going for a Christmas lunch. I knew why she was nonchalant about the plan, but what hurt me the most was the way she said it. It was very unpleasant to hear. She could’ve said it amicably and reasoned with me. If that had been the case, I would’ve understood and tried to negotiate and find rational solutions.
Of course, since I did not get the expected response, my defence went up immediately. I did not scream; I sternly said, “Why did you say it like that? You could’ve responded nicely. I was just asking.”
I was upset because I knew that next year’s Christmas, I would not be in Jakarta. Therefore, I would not celebrate the joyful season with her. I was hurt. And I tend to get reactive when I am hurt.
This incident occurred on Saturday. I am writing this on a Tuesday night, so it has been a couple of days since that happened, and I am still acting hostile toward my ma.
Yes, I know it’s wrong, but my feelings are valid too. She has not apologised, and I am not much of a bigger person to do it first.
The ‘cold war’ did not bother me… at first.
That was until I overheard a conversation in which they were ever-so-clearly talking about me and my behaviour in the past few days. Again, the primary choice of weapon was the words: “ugly character”.
I had not heard that in a while. And I would be lying if I said that one occurrence did not sting like the hell it was.
In the past couple of years, I have been maturing. Incidents like this rarely happened — or at least less often than it used to be. I thought that my antagonist character had already gone through its redemption era and had undergone a significant character development process.
But that label, it resurfaced. And all of a sudden, I was teleported back to ground zero. The villain never changed. The sheep’s clothing was just a disguise, and now it had shed from the wolf.
I had been viewed as an anti-hero by all sides of my family. And yet, this particular episode felt (still does) worse than the previous episode. I think the main reason is that it feels uncalled for, especially knowing that I (thought that I) have significantly changed for the better.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken this too personally. It might have been said in passing and they might not remember it either, but I — too — don’t want to justify other people’s actions toward me.
As I grew up, I learned that you would always be an antagonist in someone’s story — regardless of how saint-like or evil you actually are, some people might believe that you are the reason why their life is miserable. I might be the antagonist in certain people’s lives, and I can do nothing to change that if the person has that belief engraved in their head. For now, I am just trying to be better. And I know I will be better.
PS: No closure nor action has been given or taken regarding this. To be completely honest, I don’t feel like it either. I am writing this down because it is better to articulate my feelings this way.
