Every time I say goodbye to my parents, I am transported back into my 6-year-old self, standing like a lost puppy at the door step of my kindergarden, being separated from my parents for the first time in my life. There is a feeling of helplessness and loss, like my whole world of warmth, security, protection, seclusion even – was all crumbling down like a house of cards. And the kindergarden teachers who pulled away a tearful 6-year-old that day were all wicked witches who ate little children for fun, and they would be sure to eat me for I was the fattest of them all.
Fast forward 27 years later, I still feel the same way every time I say goodbye to my parents. Like I am leaving the safest place I know into unknown, adverse and hostile territory where only the valiant and resilient will survive, for if you don’t watch your back, the world will surely swallow you whole. Nay, tear you to pieces, watch your tortured body and tormented soul fester in pain and agony, and then swallow every last piece of you, and then some.
Saying goodbye to them was never easy for me then, and it isn’t easy for me even now.
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