Well, I admit, I can't watch movies sanely.
I always caught glimpses of my teenage years in Hubert's somber eyes.
"If someone hurts her, I would want to kill that person, but if I wanted to, I would come up with a hundred people who made me love him more than my mother," he said to the camera. In a sentence, I sighed that there are so many people whose youths are so similar.
So I thought of my mother, my parents are not divorced, they maintain a complete family for me, their relationship is like two warm hedgehogs, they need each other but cannot reconcile each other. It is excruciatingly painful for every man to live with his mother as a teenager. Adolescence meets menopause, and life is thrilling with sparks and lightning. I think about the arguments I had with my mother, the countless arguments, and I never apologized to my mother for my words and actions during my teenage years. And my mother always had a way to shut me up, she would give me a slap in the face in front of everyone, just as she had given birth and raised me. I am a dull person, I almost never cry, the only thing that can make me cry is my mother, not tears of emotion, but tears of hatred. I can almost recite my mother’s evil deeds backwards. No matter how elegant and delicate my mother’s image is in the outside world, in my eyes, she is a selfish, vain, narrow-minded, short-tempered, superficial and meaningless woman. All kinds of things made by the times made me think that she and I would be enemies for life. She peeked at my diary, followed me, called the girl I liked at home, broke the Walkman that my father bought me, controlled my freedom, mocked me with the so-called excellent ridicule of other people's children, and repeatedly cleaned up without permission. My house throws away things she doesn't think are important but is really important to me. I'm not allowed to decorate the room by myself, and stack all my books in the bookcase. But when I read, she would get angry because I messed up the bookcase. I used to think that my love for my mother was moral love, not spiritual love, that is, because she brought me into this world without my permission and raised me amorously, so morally , I should use my love as a reward for her hard work.
My mother's evil deeds are countless, but my boyhood passed in a hurry after all, I left the small city where I was born, went to Beijing to go to university, and then I finally decided to leave the country where I was born and go to another country, and the sadder one. Yes, I found that I was in love with that woman, my mother, the woman I always thought my love for her was moral and not emotional. When I was alone in Beijing with a high fever, I thought of her, the woman who stayed up all night just to give me medicine, water and a cold towel on her forehead, the woman who got up at 5 o'clock every morning before my college entrance examination and gave me The woman who made breakfast, my mother. I suddenly understood her, a man can't understand a woman's love for his child, just like no man can replace a child's place in a woman's heart, because a child comes from within a woman's body, a place no other man has ever lived . So a woman treats her child as a part of her body, a part that will never grow up, and even her love for this part of her body goes beyond loving herself.
So I texted my parents for the first time in my junior year to tell them, Mom and Dad, I love you. The first time I apologized to my mother for an argument I had with her, the first time I hugged a crying mother, the first time I listened to her talk about my childhood, her mother, and how she spent the whole night as a child I stayed up all night to take care of me who was sick. I never thought that things that I was accustomed to would bring me so much emotion.
I have a mother that makes me want to kill her, makes me wish I was an orphan, makes me doubt marriage and even decide not to marry in my life, makes me crazy, makes me sad, makes me write so many words just to express My fantasies and fears about love and life make me dull and numb, making me want to run away and go far away and never come back.
Yet I still love her, my mother, as she loves me.
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