As a newborn, my mother would often leave me alone in my bed, crying. She said it was important that I learned to be independent early on, and that crying should never be seen as a solution to one's problems. By the time I was two years of age, I had forgotten how to cry altogether... She has said that there were moments where I would sit alone and pantomime the sounds of other children crying, though there were never any tears. I stopped, eventually. What would have been the point?
I suppose it wasn't difficult for either my mother or father, given that they were rarely ever home, and it was my nanny who, technically, raised me until we left for North America. It was afterward that they suddenly found themselves as clueless as any twenty-six year-old immigrant charged with raising a child they hardly knew in a foreign country.
Feeling disoriented and linguistically powerless, my father released most of his frustrations toward me, both verbally and physically, often out of mild irritation, and often without any apparent reason. My mother, on the other hand, was distant at best; no doubt in keeping with her "hands-off" approach to parenting. Yet, she still managed to control nearly every aspect of my life and made quite certain to bar most other children from befriending me. I think, perhaps, she was afraid of being left alone; being faithful was never something my father aspired toward, among other things.
I haven't quite realised, until now, why my mother choose to keep me despite her propensity for abortions. She loved my father; she loved him more than he deserved. She loved him enough to conceive his child despite the affairs, and she loved him enough to hold a butcher knife to her stomach--holding me hostage--when my father nearly left her. And when I was born, she loved him enough to turn a blind eye each moment he struck and terrorized me, even when I had done nothing wrong.
I often wonder if she had ever felt that kind of love for me, and if she ever will. Perhaps this is why I have always feared the very concept of love. Some things are never quite as beautiful in life as they are in stories.
fairy tales
Sometimes I can't quite tell the difference between depression and disillusionment. Or perhaps they simply go hand in hand. It's in these moments that I feel convinced, that I have little to nothing to offer the world irrespective of objectivity.
Suppose I were given unlimited resources to live life in any way that I please... I still do not believe that my mentality will change; I will still be unsatisfied, not with what I have, but with what I am. I will still be the same person with the same past, the same memories, and the same brain matter that prevents me from being the kind of person whose happiness is affected by possessions and arbitrarily defined perceptions of "achievements." I will still see myself and others the same way that I always have. I may even become more embittered because I will have made myself accessible to the type of people who base self-worth and happiness on arbitrarily defined and superficial perceptions of achievement and success.
Perhaps I am not irrational in thinking that that there are useless people in the world who continue to exist because they've become masters at self-deceit; fancying themselves as the protagonist to a happy-fairy tale ending. Perhaps this is just me, realizing the truth; that I am one of those people all along?
Suppose I were given unlimited resources to live life in any way that I please... I still do not believe that my mentality will change; I will still be unsatisfied, not with what I have, but with what I am. I will still be the same person with the same past, the same memories, and the same brain matter that prevents me from being the kind of person whose happiness is affected by possessions and arbitrarily defined perceptions of "achievements." I will still see myself and others the same way that I always have. I may even become more embittered because I will have made myself accessible to the type of people who base self-worth and happiness on arbitrarily defined and superficial perceptions of achievement and success.
Perhaps I am not irrational in thinking that that there are useless people in the world who continue to exist because they've become masters at self-deceit; fancying themselves as the protagonist to a happy-fairy tale ending. Perhaps this is just me, realizing the truth; that I am one of those people all along?
unknown
"All these years I kept my true nature hidden, running along like a small shadow so nobody could catch me. And because I moved so secretly now my daughter does not see me… We are lost, she and I, unseen and not seeing; unheard and not hearing, unknown by others."
Amy Tan, “The Joy Luck Club”
Yesterday, I found out that my mother had just gone home from the ER for having been treated for a kidney infection and liver damage. Despite asking outright what had happened, she dodged and skirted as she normally does when confronted with situations that scrutinize her own behaviour. Her only response was that she was "sick" and simply needs to reduce her alcohol consumption. Although, I knew in the back of my mind what the truth was.
My mother has never really had a very healthy relationship with food, so it's no surprise that neither would I. For the past few months, her 5ft3in frame has been teetering along 80-90lbs. I haven't seen her for months, and so I can only imagine what her state must be now, without my or anyone else's company to keep her accountable.
Though, I know better than that. No amount of food or pounds gained will be able to remedy what is, at heart, the cause of this.
cause & effect
“You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.
Why hold onto all that? And I said,
Where can I put it down?”
Anne Carson, from The Glass EssayFor those who know the details of my childhood, I am sometimes asked why it is that I continue carrying my past with me day by day. For a while, I have wondered it myself. I eventually realized, however, that the answer isn't quite as simple as most would hope it to be.
It isn't simply a matter of choosing to put things away or trying to forget and move on; that part is easy. It's easy because I have done this most of my life. Repressing isn't the same as recovering. Repressing is a form of neglect (a form of ignorance); ignoring that something significant has happened that ought to be addressed. Recovering, on the other hand is giving due acknowledgement to past events and reforming the way in which our minds behave in response to events in the present, that parallel with the past.
People who have experienced some form of habitual trauma or neglect in the past may choose to forget for the time being, but it will always be nothing more than a temporary solution. Forgetting does not teach us how to live in a world where every word spoken to us and every touch against our skin feels as though a thousand thorns have pierced through our flesh. Forgetting does not explain why we still continue feeling pain in our hearts, why we continue having nightmares and waking in cold sweats nearly every night, and why we cannot rid ourselves of this inexplicable sense of fear every waking moment of our lives.
Perhaps most disheartening of all, forgetting will not teach us to trust those who claim to love us because those who were supposed to "love" us--our parents and guardians--betrayed us when trust was all a child could do. It will not explain why we cannot trust others no matter how hard it is we go through the motions of reciprocating the tenderness given by our friends and lovers.
At this moment I am twenty-six. I wonder, how many years will it require of me to undo those twenty years of being habitually lied to, abandoned, used, and derided? In fact there is no answer to this question, for the past cannot be "undone." If that were so, simply forgetting would be enough.
fragmented
I have never been very good with maintaining friendships, and I don't think that it's something I will ever really overcome. There are a number of reasons, including my difficulty in trusting others, but I think that much of this has to do with my struggle to maintain a consistent personality.
My lifelong fear of criticism and rejection has lead me to believe that I must be a certain way with each person that I'm confronted with, leaving little room to reconcile the multitude of personalities I've created. All of this in order to feel as though I am accepted and loved, even by those who shouldn't matter to me.
Should I be the arrogant and sarcastic pragmatist or shall I be the sensitive and timid idealist that's so often buried deep within my jaded exterior? Feeling hurt and exposed, I have often in the past opted for the former in order to shield myself from further injury. Vanity and pride are always at their peak here, and though I may not be particularly joyful, I feel as though I actually do deserve to live, and my motivation for action also returns as a result. But the cost of this is always my connection to the world, as well as my compassion for other people; becoming a cold and calculating Machiavellian absent of regret and remorse.
Like everything in the world, it never lasts. I am hurdled once again back to stasis; an empty room filled with rows and rows of tattered costumes, waiting to be worn over and over again. Who shall I be next: the starving/tortured artist? esoteric musician? leader and athlete? compassionate animal lover? hermit? obedient daughter? chronic depressive? etc...
I am all of these things and yet, I am not. It's in moments like this, where I recall the various people that I've been, that I see how truly hollow I've become.
My lifelong fear of criticism and rejection has lead me to believe that I must be a certain way with each person that I'm confronted with, leaving little room to reconcile the multitude of personalities I've created. All of this in order to feel as though I am accepted and loved, even by those who shouldn't matter to me.
Should I be the arrogant and sarcastic pragmatist or shall I be the sensitive and timid idealist that's so often buried deep within my jaded exterior? Feeling hurt and exposed, I have often in the past opted for the former in order to shield myself from further injury. Vanity and pride are always at their peak here, and though I may not be particularly joyful, I feel as though I actually do deserve to live, and my motivation for action also returns as a result. But the cost of this is always my connection to the world, as well as my compassion for other people; becoming a cold and calculating Machiavellian absent of regret and remorse.
Like everything in the world, it never lasts. I am hurdled once again back to stasis; an empty room filled with rows and rows of tattered costumes, waiting to be worn over and over again. Who shall I be next: the starving/tortured artist? esoteric musician? leader and athlete? compassionate animal lover? hermit? obedient daughter? chronic depressive? etc...
I am all of these things and yet, I am not. It's in moments like this, where I recall the various people that I've been, that I see how truly hollow I've become.
monsters
It is tempting, at times, to admit to my condition(s) only insofar as it excuses my failings in character. Once you put a name to something, it suddenly appears to be a tangible entity separate from yourself. In reality, nothing has changed aside from how we choose to label what we fear we cannot control.
We speak of demons, skeletons, monsters, illness etc... and all the while these terrible things have always lived inside ourselves. We demonize rather than attempt to understand, and this abstract separation only leads to further mental conflict. And though this might appear to be mere semantics, words do have weight; they are the bricks in which our thoughts are housed.
Perhaps it is easier to fight with monsters than to fight with oneself. Yet, the loss of such a battle often further rationalizes one's feeling of defeat and failure--of not being strong enough to overcome such a ferocious beast--when all the while there was no beast; there was only you and your own solitary thoughts.
Perhaps it is also easier to forget that, absent of monsters, one is given a unique responsibility in creating and transforming one's own thoughts, thereby requiring far more time and energy than that of mere antagonism. At least, this seems to be the case for me.
I do not see myself as "ill" the way that doctors or psychiatrists do, but neither do I view my thoughts as always true to what I am, because they are merely thoughts. Thoughts cannot be vaccinated the same way that illnesses of the body can. But, they can be mastered, molded, re-directed, revised, etc... in time.
The crux of it is that you can never really escape them. They may change or fade, but there will always be remnants that linger and waft inside the crevices of your mind. The older we grow, the more wounds we carry, making it it all the more necessary to learn to accept them as they are; as a part of life and part of oneself.
We speak of demons, skeletons, monsters, illness etc... and all the while these terrible things have always lived inside ourselves. We demonize rather than attempt to understand, and this abstract separation only leads to further mental conflict. And though this might appear to be mere semantics, words do have weight; they are the bricks in which our thoughts are housed.
Perhaps it is easier to fight with monsters than to fight with oneself. Yet, the loss of such a battle often further rationalizes one's feeling of defeat and failure--of not being strong enough to overcome such a ferocious beast--when all the while there was no beast; there was only you and your own solitary thoughts.
Perhaps it is also easier to forget that, absent of monsters, one is given a unique responsibility in creating and transforming one's own thoughts, thereby requiring far more time and energy than that of mere antagonism. At least, this seems to be the case for me.
I do not see myself as "ill" the way that doctors or psychiatrists do, but neither do I view my thoughts as always true to what I am, because they are merely thoughts. Thoughts cannot be vaccinated the same way that illnesses of the body can. But, they can be mastered, molded, re-directed, revised, etc... in time.
The crux of it is that you can never really escape them. They may change or fade, but there will always be remnants that linger and waft inside the crevices of your mind. The older we grow, the more wounds we carry, making it it all the more necessary to learn to accept them as they are; as a part of life and part of oneself.
dive
Some days I am unsure of whether I am made of flesh and blood, for I was always told that it was wrong to feel, and even more wrong to cry.
As his voice and hand was raised, my eyes descended toward the ground, arms glued tightly to my body hoping I would shrink small enough to disappear. My eyes began to blur as my mind felt oddly at peace, hearing only muffled sounds like the gentle ringing of metal underwater… and the pain was gone.
I observed myself from a distance, and curiously, I felt nothing for this small child trying so hard to hold back her tears. She smiled, after all, on days when she was told to… and that was good enough for anybody.
These days, when voices thunder in my mind, and barbed fingers brush against my skin, I am brought again back to this place. And though I have grown, I still see the small child with sun-kissed cheeks staring toward her father's feet in silence.
In time, my lungs begin to swell and I return reluctantly to the surface gasping for air, desperate to stay afloat. And though I am breathing, there is still a lingering ache in my chest…
As his voice and hand was raised, my eyes descended toward the ground, arms glued tightly to my body hoping I would shrink small enough to disappear. My eyes began to blur as my mind felt oddly at peace, hearing only muffled sounds like the gentle ringing of metal underwater… and the pain was gone.
I observed myself from a distance, and curiously, I felt nothing for this small child trying so hard to hold back her tears. She smiled, after all, on days when she was told to… and that was good enough for anybody.
These days, when voices thunder in my mind, and barbed fingers brush against my skin, I am brought again back to this place. And though I have grown, I still see the small child with sun-kissed cheeks staring toward her father's feet in silence.
In time, my lungs begin to swell and I return reluctantly to the surface gasping for air, desperate to stay afloat. And though I am breathing, there is still a lingering ache in my chest…
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