Today, I realised that my family does not understand me. It's not that they don't try, or that they misunderstand: they simply do not. It's in the conversations I had with my sister, my brother and my mother. Lack thereof with my father. I used to think that I was weird, that they just couldn't get my jokes, or that they couldn't see things from my point of view.

Well, they can't.

They can't see that I'm not like my brother and sister. I'm neither athletic nor street-smart. I may once have used to, but now I fail to force myself to enjoy watching others dancing, or take dancing seriously myself. Like one who is blind, I can't grasp the idea that moving your body a certain way and in sync with music is enjoyable for a viewer. But unlike the blind, I don't wish to.

I believe that my siblings are highly egoistic. My brother derives his self-esteem from earning respect and admiration from others, often voicing his concern for that need to be met. Especially from myself, who somehow feels obligated to give him that self-fulfilment he so wishes to hear. My sister speaks mostly of things that occur around her, how she feels about them, and especially what she choses to ignore. It's easy for her to quickly become the centre of her universe, even more so as she shoots down your point of view with pinpoint accuracy.

My mother is one who gives. But only to those she chooses. Her faith has taught her to view things in black and white, and she has succeeded in accomplishing this in every aspect of her life. And her children's' lives (as far as she knows them). She is a wonderful mother, but it is easy to recognise her flawed perspective of the world once you step out behind her large, protective wings. What peeves me the most today is the lack of thanks from her eldest children, and how she fails to voice her concern of that lack of thanks, even when she clearly does so for other children. You would think that a mother with two adult children would take every opportunity to hold on to them.

My father is like me. Or possibly many things I wish will never become of me. He is a fair man, who keeps his thoughts inside his mind far longer than he should, fearful of what others would say, dreaming of every worst case scenario. He keeps his anger deep within, only to unleash its full force with no warning on its unworthy target. He is resistant to change, likening his dreams to what he already knows, a bird within a cage, afraid of the terror of the unknown.

But maybe it's I who have changed. Changed from being that boy who would ramble on with facts no one cared for, cracking jokes with no audience, seeking myself within rather than without. I crave a listener, anyone willing to add to my knowledge, to challenge my ideas, to laugh when recommended, to hear my cry. Maybe my family has yet to realise that I neither want their mere presence, their eyes of sympathy nor their bored stares. I want their attention, their focus, their interest.

I want them to understand me.

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