Underneath my yellow skin

Tag Archives: plain-spoken

Do not placate me when I say my truth

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I have more to say about the truth and honesty. I’m for it. The end.

No, seriously. I am very much about my internal truth because I had to deny it for so long. When I was kid, I was made to hold  in any negative emotion. My parents did not want to hear anything about anything. They wanted me to be quiet and smile and just exist. Honestly, I’m not even sure about the last bit.

You know the saying, “Children should be seen, but not heard”? My father believed children should not be seen nor heard. And my mother supported my father in almost everything.

In addition, my mother was constantly rewriting history so that it said what she wanted it to say. When I was in my mid-thirties, I realized that she was a gaslighter. Not on purpose, but she will always tell a story the way she wanted it to end. She said something mean or rude? Never happened. She did something that showed her in a bad light? No, she didn’t.

Here’s my last post, by the way, before I continue on.

I am passionate about my truth. At the same time, I’m also passionate about being protective of my soul and heart. What I mean is that if I know someone is going to be callous with either, I have no compunction about lying to them. Usually by omission, but sometimes, it’s a deliberate lie. Or, as I talked about it with A, I tell a lie/untruth/skirt around the truth out loud, but say the truth in my mind. That makes me feel better. Does it really make a difference? Probably not, but it makes it more palatable to me.

I am a slow learner. As with most people, I was taught that honesty was of utmost importance, and it was a sin to lie. Both church-wise and culturally. At the same time, my truths were so far from eveyrone else’s truth, I didn’t feel safe saying mine out loud–especially not to my parents.

My parents could not handle the truth. Again, I learn that fairly late in my life. My mother did not like to hear anything that countered how she thought life should be and my father simply did not hear anything that did not adhere to his beliefs.

With the latter, it was easy to tell when my father did not like where a conversation was going. He would get a look on his face as if he’d eaten a lemon, and his eyes would go blank. I have known for decades that when he gets like that, it’s best to not say a damn word. However, he has the knack for saying the exact thing that will set me off. I don’t know if he does it on purpose, but he certainly gets enjoyment from it. At least until I talk back to him.


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I mean what I say; no more, no less

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I’m thinking more about how my brain works and how it doesn’t. In my last post, I was talking about how this manifested when talking about my parents and how people were uncomfortable when I said they didn’t love me.

Side note: Yes, this early in the post! I am pretty sure I’m neuroatypical. Now. I never thought that about myself until talking about it with a friend six or seven months ago. Maybe more? Anyway, I knew I was a weirdo. I knew I didn’t think like other people did. I felt as if there was a manual on how to human that I had never gotten. It’s partly because of cultural issue, but it was also me feeling like I was broken. All the other kids would talk and laugh, seemingly knowing what each other was talking about. I had no clue, and no matter how much I studied the others, I did not gain a clue.

Side note two: My family was not at all immersed in American culture. I can’t remember a time we went to an American movie, for example. We did go to a fast food restaurant every Sunday after church, but that was probably a time thing. Best meal I had every week, too. Big Mac, fries, a diet pop, and a hot fudge sundae if it was McDonald’s. A chicken parm, fries, and a diet coke if it’s Burger King. Once in a while at Mickey D’s, I would have one of the ‘pies’ rather than the sundae, but not often. We went to Arby now and then, and it was meat and cheese. Very tasty, actually.

My mom was a health nut before it was a thing. We did not have sweets in the house, and she put me on my first diet when I was seven. Her goal was to get me married and having babies by the time I was wenty-five, and I wasn’t going to get it done if I was fat (in her eyes). My father is from farmer stock, and I have a mesomorph’s body. I am thick all the way around. Even when I was anorexic, I still had broad shoulders and thick thighs.

No matter how much I whittled away at my frame, I was never going to be a languid, slender, lissome person. And you know what? I don’t want to be. I like being strong. I like having muscles. I like feeling like I could beat the shit out of an attacker if I needed to. I have biceps that bulge as I practice my weapons forms. I have thighs and calves that could be used as tree trunks.

I love my body now. Plain and simple. I have my moments of insecurity (in fact, I’m in one now), but it’s more because of the intense societal pressuer to be thin. I do want to eat better, which includes cuoking, but let’s be real. I am not going to cook.

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Take me at my word

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I realized a few decades ago that many people are not comfortable with plain speaking. I don’t mean brutal honesty because I am not into that, but I do mean speaking without euphemisms. I started saying I was fat because I am. I don’t like ‘plump’ or ‘zaftig’ or ‘fluffy’. I don’t hate them, either, but they’re too vague for me. ‘Fat’ is a good, solid word. There’s nothing hidden about it. To me, it’s a neutral term, though I understand that other people don’t like it. I only use it to describe myself, not other people (unless they are like-minded).

Another term is old. I use it for myself in the RKG Discord because I’m definitely on the old side. I don’t think 53 is that old, but it’s ancient in gaming. I mean, the kids are complaining when they hit thirty of being old, so, yeah.

A concept that I get push back for is something I mentioned in yesterday’s post: My parents don’t love me. I used to say that they loved the concept of their daaughter, but I’m not even sure that is true any longer. Heer’s the thing. They should not have been parents. I don’t think they actually wanted to be parents, but it was drummed in their heads (back in the last millennium in Taiwan) that they had to do it.

My father did it for saving face purposes. That was what real men did. Got married and have kids. Fuck around on the side. Provide money for the family, which was all he needed to do. In his mind, anyway. And if my mother pushed back on aynthing he did (like spank my brother), then he petulantly said that he wouldn’t do anything at all.

I knew fairly early on that he did not want to be a father. My mother, on the other hand, had stated quite plainly that she always wanted to be a mother, that it was the most important thing in the world to her. It was all she wanted (so she said out loud), but it isn’t reflected in her actions. Or rather, she did the shit that she thought a mother was supposed to do (cooking, cleaning, sewing). She also pushed my brother and me to do all the things she thought a kid was supposed to do. In my case, it was dance (tap, ballet, jazz), an instrument (first, piano for a few years and then cello for seven or eight, the latter which included orchestra), ping-pong, T-ball/softball, volleyball), and I did try to get into acting, but that was for me. It’s so stereotypically Tiger Mom that my mother didn’t think my brother or I should have a second to breathe.


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