I love myself.
I had to start with that because it’s a revolutionary statement for me. I have spent most of my life hating myself. I was told both explicitly and implicitly that I was… just…wrong. This was suburban MN in the seventies. I was fat, Asian, brainy, and probably neurodivergent. I did not watch TV, never went to the movies, and didn’t listen to pop music. I wore dresses that my mother made, and I had the typical bowl cut that Asian kids had back in the day.
In other words, I was a hot mess. I had no idea how I was supposed to act or how to fit in. I didn’t know any cultural references, and I felt like an alien.
I feel a lot of compassion for that confused, withdrawn, depressed, anxious, and deeply suicidal child. I hated myself, and I hated life. I wanted to die. I woke up every day disapointed that I was not dead. This is not hyperbole. This went on for many years. I was a confused child along with being emotionally abused and just dumped on in general.
I hated that little girl for so long. I sneered at her and looked down at her, treating her (in my mind) with contempt and anger. If I could, I would go back in time and cuddle her to my breast. I would whisper in her ear that she was perfect just the way she was. I’m not saying she didn’t have flaws–of course she did. But she was a precious human being who should have been treasured for who she was.
Instead, she got put on a diet at age seven and told she was too fat. On the regular. Her mother had body issues because SHE came from a deeply msogynistic society who really hated fat women. A lot. Plus, Taiwane genes mean smaller in general, so there’s that as well.
