When I w as a kid, I had no idea what was normal and what wasn’t. No, that’s not right. I knew that my family was not like others, but I didn’t know why. It’s easy to see in retrospect that it’s cultural, but how was I to know that at the time? When you’re a kid, the only thing you know is your own family. That is the basis for normal. Which is fine if you have a healthy family. However, if your family is deeply dysfunctional as mine is, then it’s hell.
I was being shaped without knowing it. I was taught that my perfectly normal body was gross and disgusting. My brain was the only thing that mattered, but at the same time, I was supposed to make sure that at some point in time, I was attractive enough to secure a (male) mate with whom I would breed. I had to play an instrument and a sport, and there wasn’t any question of whether I could quit or not. Until I got deeply depressed and thought life meant nothing, but I’ll get to that later.
I started dancing when I was two and took lessons until I was twelve. I played the cello from eight to eighteen. I also had piano lessons; played ping-pong, tennis, and softball; and took enrichment classes during the summer at the Twin Cities Institute for Talented Youth. (TCITY). I took Latin, drama, and writing during those summers. There was no such thing as downtime; my brother and I had to be doing something every minute of the day.
When I was in high school, I was deeply depressed. I thought about killing myself every day. My brother had trouble with school so my mother was focused on him, not me. I was (and am) good at school, so she just took it for granted that I would continue to excel. She paid my brother for his good grades, but I got scolded when I brought home an A-.
I decided to give up my junior or senior year. I stopped trying and my grades plummeted. Probably junior year. I remember once in class, the teacher wasn’t there and we were all just hanging out doing our thing. I wrote suicidal poems on the blackboard and was outraged when someone else erased them. In retrospect, it was a good call, but at the time, I felt as if I was being erased.
I was not well. At all. I could not articulate why I was feeling so shitty, but I did. I wanted to die, but I didn’t have the guts to do it. That was an Advanced Creative Writing class, and the teacher clearly did not want to teach it. she hated my poetry, criticizing everything from my lack of title to switching tenses to lack of punctuation. It really put a crimp in my poetry writing because it was so restrictive.
I went to my favorite teacher, Mrs. Weaver (also English) and asked if I could do an independent study with her. She had no reason to say yes, but she took pity on me and allowed me to sit in her room for that hour. I read any book I wanted, and we were supposed to talk about it, but she never made me. It’s not hyperbole to say that she saved my life. Without her and that hour, I would have done something desperate and drastic.
it’s astounding to me now that it took me so long to realize how fucked up my family was, but it’s not surprising. I didn’t have many friends and I rarely went to someone else’s house. My church was Taiwanese, which meant the kids had similar cultural backgrounds. I never felt as if I fit in with them, either, because I was just so weird and different than anyone else.
I had no interest in any pop culture, for example. And, as a teenager, I was interested in boys, but I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t care about fashion and makeup, so that was a wash for me. I had no idea what to talk about with the other kids, and I know that was on me.
It’s funny how at fifty-one, I feel more comfortable in my skin than I did when I was a hot twenty year old. And I was hot then. I was skinny, dressed fashionably (with a lot of help from my friends) and had a mod haircut. I wore makeup and looked pretty damn tasty. But I was a hot mess inside, and that leaked into my interactions with others. I was by turns cold and clingy, and I fell for anyone whom I could not have. Straight women, gay men, and people in committed relationships. I wanted a partner, but I feared it at the same time.
To be fair, that’s not far off me now. I want to date, but I know that I’m too intense. I get way too attached to one person because it’s what I was shown by my mother. I don’t think she would exist without my father to fret over. And to feel superior to. And to be a ball and chain around her neck.
I was objectively hot in my early twenties, but I thought I was grotesque. I was struggling with anorexia and bulimia, but thought I was obscenely obese. It was decades of being told I was too fat to live in polite society that made me internalize that I had to whittle myself away into nothing.
I had a 27-inch waist when I was at my smallest. I went to a Los Lobos spin-off (a group they made in their spare time) concert at First Ave and fainted because I skimped on eating so I could have a drink or two. I was already going bare bones with food, so cutting back another 500 calories was not a smart decision.
I fainted and woke up on the floor. The bouncer scooped me up to bring me to the front door, peppering me with questions. I was so out of it, I could not answer. K had to answer for me as I remained dazed and confused.
Now, I’m fat–technically obese–and am a thousand times more comfortable in my own skin. I love my body and how it got me through death–twice. Without missing a beat! I’m better than ever and I can do more than I did before. My medical trauma made me quit smoking, which is for the good, of course. I have expanded my Taiji regime to an hour a day. I want to start another weapon, but I’m taking a break for now. I inhaled the Fan Form after brushing up on the Double Saber. It’s not good to learn them too quickly, and I need to do the left side of a few of them.
It’s hard because I always want to learn a new weapon form, but I need to pace myself. But I’m loving how hard my body is getting. My biceps are looking good as are my legs. I’m muscular to begin with, and they are just getting stronger. I love my body now; it’s bordering on arrogance. I’m fine with that, though, because it’s been a long time coming.