Tag: memoir

a previous life

The bustling city of Bangkok was busier than I remembered. Amidst the tightly packed cars like sardines in a can, the distant grey heads rushed around, enshrouded by the airy fumes. Skyscrapers and company buildings littered the streets – a permanent shadow that followed me everywhere.

This used to be a place I once called home, but now, I am nameless. faceless. Lost in a sea of conformity. I am disgusted by the society. And I am disgusted by my self  and my inability to escape the relentless cycles of power, politicians, and prejudice.

The car rolled into the suburb, uniform houses stood next to each other— the ones with a small porch and a garage. We drove past the empty playground. The once green grass lay overgrown and deserted, the swings creaked softly at the departing wind. I noticed the peeling paint off of the merry-go-round as we drove past the barren land.

I remembered spinning round and round, peals of laughter in the air. Giggling with my sister as we rolled around on the grass. I can’t remember the last time we talked.

My head snapped back into the moment as she asked casually, “so how have you been?” — as if she knew me—as if she cared while I was away this whole time.

“I’m fine. And you?” I reply automatically.

If I’ve learned anything at all, it is that, people ask you questions, not because they care for the answer, but because they don’t have anything else to say. This isn’t true for everyone of course, but it will always be true for my mother.

An awkward pause. A horn blares from the opposite side of the road, filling the empty silence.

“Fine.”

I looked out the window, wishing I was anywhere else but there.

“So, Psychology, huh?” she looked proud, as if knowing what major I was in meant that she was involved in my life.

“Actually, I switched to Journalism six months ago.”

“Journalism? That’s great.” she chirped.

I could see her crinkle her nose in disdain through the side view mirror.

 

*

 

My old bedroom looked smaller than I remembered. A bed. A dresser. A desk. My eyes shifted from the small twin sized bed to the tired table. I pulled out the chair which groaned against the ashy hardwood floor. Old books and novels lined the shelves— a thousand lives I wish I’d lived.

I smiled fondly at memories of old detective novels and reminded myself of the light in my eyes that could never be put out. I was ferocious and determined to take on the world. I wonder what happened to that little girl.

The oblique golden rays shone on the stained cardboard boxes, the fine coating of dust marking the years it has been left behind. A gentle gust of wind drifted through the creaky window, as the thin white curtains danced against the soft light.

There was an element of something almost magical at the untouched pale-pink walls. Plastered with polaroids of family trips and middle school dances, I almost didn’t remember the thrill of being asked to the first dance. Almost.

I don’t feel anything anymore. There is no thrill. There are no emotions. One word text messages, leftover Chinese takeout, and quick fucks. This is the new norm. The scary thing, I think, is that I’m starting to get used to it.

Scratches on the pale walls made by the end of metallic rulers. Names of crushes, dates of first kisses. Tally marks of days spent alone and nights spent lonely.

I sigh.

It’s not that much different now. Except, I no longer feel whirlwinds of emotions. My heart never skips a beat. There are never butterflies in my stomach. The empty pit beneath my chest is still there though.

I am reminded of all the times spent in the corner of my bed- curled up and alone. All the times spent looking up at the artificial fluorescent glow, wondering when it would all get better.

It doesn’t.

I breathe in deeply.
Late night conversations on the phone and tears that ended up with scars not on the walls.

There are no more conversations. There are no more tears. All that’s left are fading scars and a numbness that never goes away. 

The fluffy white blanket gave the illusion of being comfortable and safe but its frayed hems said otherwise.

I wonder what parts of me I have left. 

Opposite of the bed stood my vanity. The polished structure that once stood strong now wilted. Staring defeatedly at me, as if asking me why I abandoned it. The mirror hung, lone and depressed. But wiped clean, without any fingerprints or marks or trace of life.

Stupid, stupid table. Of course I’m going to abandon you. Stupid piece of shit. Reminding me of my shit life. 

I stared back at myself.

— Who am I?

fifteen

When I was fifteen, I received a large, black tote bag from my mother. To start the school year off with something new, she said. I was no longer using my old bright pink colored backpack. A person’s bag says a lot about them, my mom said. During the first weeks, I kept it clean. There was a pouch in front where I would keep my essentials— my phone, my keys, and a tube of lip gloss. That didn’t last very long.

Crumpled homework and test papers littered the bottom of the bag, along with receipts from Starbucks runs and blue peppermint gum wrappers. Tangled earphones and torn sheet music also made the pile. Lost hairbands camouflaged with the black of the bag.

The sun had started to dry out the corners of the bag, making it fade to a warm colored brown. Everything in the bag was cluttered and jumbled up from the time I frantically searched for my math homework— which I found lying next to an English assignment from the week before and a pregnancy testing kit.

The leather handles had little crescent moons in it from the time I walked past him with his tongue inside another girl’s mouth. Digging my fingers into the leather was the only thing that kept me from crying out loud. It did not, however, stop me from trying to split my veins open like the stitches and seams that were falling apart. I was falling apart.

When I was fifteen, my mother told me to grow up. She told me to stop crying, to stop running to her. Smart girls are strong girls, she said. Smart girls are pretty girls with long, straight hair that will make boys fall in love with them. Strong girls are skinny girls with legs for days and arms that need to be embraced. Hands that need to be held. I listened.

When I was fifteen, I learned that my mother will not – could not be there for me. Because she was “raised that way.” When I was fifteen, I learned that no one will love me enough. No one could possibly love me enough if my own mother could not even try.

I asked my mother, what do I do about this boy? She said, put on a pair of heels, a short skirt, don’t forget the makeup too. Make him love you.

But mother, I said in my mind, you don’t even love me.

So, this time, I didn’t listen.

I learned to grow and to cry on my own. And with time, I found hope. I don’t need anyone to love me. I love myself. With every setback, every heartbreak, every rejection and failure. I repeated this louder and louder. My ex-boyfriend called me fat. I love myself. The girls at school called me a slut today. I love myself. My mother thinks I’m worthless. I LOVE MYSELF. I LOVE MYSELF. I LOVE MYSELF.

Yes, there have been relapses – many (that’s the thing with depression, I guess). My mom and I have a good relationship now. But I will never ever tell her the things that matter to me. My hopes, dreams, or fears.

She will never know that I played soccer in high school. She will never know how many times a week I see my psychiatrist. She will never know what I had for lunch today, or the day after that, or the day after that. She will never know that there are still four- no, five visible scars from the time I tried to feel – anything (because hurting meant that I was still alive). She will never know how much she hurt me. She will never know how much I loved her.

She did teach me some valuable lessons, though. Like how to walk in heels, how to properly hold a teacup, and how to curl my hair. But she also taught me to be kind, to have an open heart and open mind. She taught me that I should always, always put my daughter first.

So, dear daughter, if you are reading this one day, I love you. For who you are, and who you will become – wholly, and completely, I love you. I promise to teach you all the things my mother taught me (how to curl your hair, how to put on heels). I promise to teach you what life taught me – that no matter how terrible things become, there is always a silver lining. I promise to never restrict your creativity and capacity for imagination. I promise you can eat anything you want. I promise that you can carry any colored backpack.

I promise that I will try my best to protect you from the world and all the terrible things in it, but when the world hurts you (because it will), I promise to be there with you every step of the way. To hold you and hug you and make sure that you’re okay (even though you are equally as strong without me). I promise, you will be loved.

— I promise that I will never become my mother