Underneath my yellow skin

Tag Archives: self-esteem

I’m finally at home

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If I could have given my younger self some advice, it would be fuck the police. Er, fuck everyone olse. I can’t emphasize to her how little everyone eles’s opinion matter. Sure, you want to be kind and thoughtful. And, yes, you want to have good friends and connect with individuals, but those assholes who want to tell you what to do? Nope. don’t give them a second thought.

I would tell her, this includes your parents. Especially. This is somethin I really wished I had known much earlier in my life. My parents should not have had kids, and it’s not on me. It’s not because I was a bad kid that they treated me the way they did. You see, as a kid, I had cause and effect backwards. This is true of most kids who experience a less-than-great childhood. It’s human nature to assume there’s something wrong with you if your parents don’t love you.

And, yes, my parents don’t love me. I realized that when I was in my thirties or so. Before that, I thought it was just that they didn’t know how to show it. I didn’t fully acknowledge it until after my medical crisis because I didn’t realize it until then. I mean, I knew in the back of my brain that they had issues and did not show their love in a way that was meaningful to me. I danced around it because who wanted to admit that their parents didn’t love them? But with my medical crisis, I had to admit it because it was costing me to pretend it wasn’t true.

I’ve talked about it before, but what made me realize it was when I came home from the hospital. It was the second day home and my mother wanted me to show my father a stretch that helped me with my back. On the sceond day as I said. From dying twice. Well, to be more accurate, a week and two days after that. She wouldn’t listen to me when I said I was too tired to show him the stretch. That showed me that he was more important to her than I was, which I had known–but I hadn’t fully embraced.

I would tell Little Me that it’s not her fault that they did not like anything about her. My mother wanted a daughter to be her clone.  Or rather, to be the perfect little girl my mother wanted her to be. She made it known to me as an adult that she had had issues with her mother so part of her solution was to have a great relationship with her own daughter–which in theory was me.

The problem was that she didn’t allow for the possibility that her daughter would not be like her or like what she believes a girl should be. In other words, me. She had no idea that someone like me could even exist. Everything about me is offensive to her, apparently, and she takes it as a personal affront. She once said to me in exasperation that something being traditional didn’t mean it was wrong. I retorted that just because it was traditional, it didn’t mean it was right. That really pissed her off, but I didn’t care.


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Doing it my way

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My brother is great at starting a project. If he wants to do something, he just  jumps in and does it. He may not finish it. He may put it in the reject pile at some point. But he will move on with ease to the next project and not think twice about it.

Me, I agonize about starting any kind of project. I will put more time into planning it than actually doing it. If I start a project, there is a high probability that I will see it to completion. I will bitch about it. There will blood, sweat, and tears–but I’ll get it done. And it will be done well because of my perfectionist tendencies.

I much prefer my brother’s way of being. He stresses way less than I do and gets way more done. It might not be as high a standard as what I do, but most of the time, that doesn’t matter. We’re not talking about bad versus great. We’re talking about great versus really fucking great. The latter just isn’t needed most of the time.

This is where my anxiety rears its ugly head. It’s where the voices in my head whisper, “You’re not good enough.” “You can’t do that,” and other nefarious thoughts. It’s my mother’s voice as she has told me how wrong I am since I was a small child. I shouldn’t laugh so loudly, climb trees, run around, sit with my legs open, eat that dessert, read so many books, or talk. Add my father to that: I should not be better than a boy in anything, think I know anything of use, or contradict what a man tells me. I should get straight As because I’m so smart, but never show a boy how smart I am. Go to college and grad school and have a stellar career. get married and have children, putting them purportedly first. Go to church and put God first. Date, but do NOT have sex before marriage. Bisexual? That’s against God, and what next? Sex with animals? Taiji? You’re allowing the devil to dance on your spine. Writing stories that have any kind of swearing is bad! Don’t eat so much.

Be less was the constant message I got and still get. I want too much. I ask for too much. I AM too much.

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Free to be me

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I am different than most people, and I’m fine with it. I don’t like what other people like for the most part, and I do not participate in discussions about those things because there really is no purpose to it. It’s interesting. There’s a letter at Ask A Manager from a person who is an enthusiastic animal rescue person and wants to move off her team because on of her coworkers bought a dog from a breeder. I will say that I am firmly a rescue first person, but I also know there are many reasons why this may not be possible. In this case, I think the LW (Letter Writer) probably doesn’t want to die on this hill.

It’s interesting ,though, all the people espousing the wonders of being around people with differing opinions. “Bing in a vacuum is no good!”, they bleat. “You don’t want to simply go along with the hive mind!” Which, yes, it’s true that it’s good to consider other opinions.

Side note: I’m looking for a video to include with this post. One thing that drives me absolutely batty are power songs that talk about accepting yourself as is, warts and all, but the women singing them (yes, women) are picture-perfect. I know it’s pop culture and media and whatnot, but that ‘I love myself the way I am’ message gets lost when you look like a bog-standard American beauty.

Coifed to perfection. Makeup flawless. Skinny or at best normal-sized. Like, I can’t take you seriously about how broken/flawed/a misfit you are when you look like exactly what society dictates to be beautiful. “I wear baggy jeans!” Well, when you’re a size four, that’s not the big rebellion you think it is, especially when you’re wearing a full face of makeup.

To me, that’s just faux modesty. I know you did not roll out of bed that way and singing about how this is the flawed you, yeah, no. Again, I realize they’re videos. They are meant for thoughtless consumption, but it’s just annoying to me.


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The lessons I’ve learned

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In the RKG Discord someone asked what people did to get past their lowest time. I wrote out this whole answer that included my life-threatening medical trauma–then I deleted it because it’s not really helpful. “Go almost die and then you’re life will be changed.” Not only isn’t it replicable, it’s not even true for everyone.

I discovered this was really true because someone mentioned my post (must have read it before I deleted it) and said it  hadn’t been that way for them. I owned up to it being my post and rewrote what I wrote. I had also mentioned Taiji, therapy, and friends, so it wasn’t just ‘die and come back to life’, but that’s really the crux of my new lease on life.

I also didn’t say that I had literally died twice and came back because I’m not comfortable delving into that too deeply yet. Not because it’s a bad thing or even because it’s too personal, but that it’s just difficult to say in a pithy way that doesn’t completely derail the conversation. But, on the other hand, life-threatening doesn’t really capture the scope of it. I literally died. Twice. I still grapple with that. If a series of events hadn’t fallen exactly in place, I would not be here. I am conscious of that every day. Some days, it’s in the background and it’s not something I am focused on. Other days, I’m in tears as to how beautiful life is (which is where I am right now).

The world is shitty and the situation in America sucks. I am deeply afraid of where this country is going, but I have never felt better about myself in my life. I’m 51, should not be alive, and I’m loving myself–warts and all.

I was thinking about a song that encapsulated what I felt, but I couldn’t think of the name. It went “Have you ever…” and then something, something, something. I thought the group was called Bossa Nova or something similar. There was a part that went, “That’s the _____ I get.” I couldn’t put the pieces together until it suddenly hit me. “That’s the impression that I get.” Which is by The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. I found the video on YouTube and have been playing it on repeat.


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IDGAF…not one bit

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I have had a terribly low self-esteem all my life. I come by it honestly as I’m from a culture that eschews saying anything positive about yourself or loved ones. It’s partly to ward off bad spirits, but it’s mostly just being assholes. That’s not true or fair, but it’s how I felt at the time. I already hated myself and then to hear nothing but negatives didn’t help my self-esteem at all. I was a weirdo in so many ways. My parents were immigrants who preferred to be in the old country. They had no use for American life and they stuck to everything Taiwanese.

As a result, I was a stranger in a strange land. They knew very little about American culture, so I was left to struggle on my own. I was fat, awkward, intelligent, and looked markedly different than everyone else. I was miserable and as soon as I realized I was going to die one day, I could not wait until it happened. I was seven, and for two decades, I spent every day wanting to die. Except I was too chicken to actually ever kill myself, so I begrudgingly got up every day and dragged myself through life.

I was deeply depressed. At times, almost catatonically so. The first year K and I were friends, I never reached out to her because, well, I’m not sure exactly why. In part it was because I didn’t reach out to  anyone, but it was mostly because I could not believe someone as cool as her would want to be friends with a hot mess like me. About a year after we became friends, she asked me if I actually wanted her to call me. She said she didn’t mind, but she didn’t want to bother me if I didn’t want to be friends.

I was flabbergasted. It never occurred to me that she would feel insecure about me. She was and is the coolest woman I know. She’s the yang to my yin, and she’s the joy-bringer in my life. She’s the type who will say yes to everything that sounds remotely interesting, which has led us to many fine adventures. She supports me in everything I do, and she brings me back to reality when I start spinning out.

The fact that she felt unsure about me was an eye-opener. I called myself Guam (because I was an island), and she reminded me that I wasn’t. I told her that I wanted her to call me and that I loved having her in my life. Once we got that straightened out, things went swimmingly. We can talk every day or every other month, and we pick up as if no time has passed. We can be honest with each other in a way I we can’t be with anyone else.


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Minor stressors becoming a major stress

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My previous post was about a family issue that is compounded by a bad habit of mine and now it’s threatening to bring about a migraine. You can read about it here. Yesterday, I had to take my Migraine Excedrin (generic) for the first time since I started my caffeine regime. My sleep has gone directly to shit and I’m stressed about it even when I’m not looking for it. The document, I mean. The problem is that there is three or four places it should be. Three or four places where I would put it, I mean. I remember my brother bringing it to me and me putting it in something and putting it on the shelf under the coffee table. Which is funny because he remembers me putting it on the coffee table, which I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t do. He added, or on the table by the couch. The one with the lamp. Also not what I would have done.

I’ve checked the three or four places several times and now, I have no idea where else to look. There are places that it’s not possible at all because I don’t go into those areas. There are places that are highly unlikely because I just simply would not put anything there–but I’m getting desperate.

The hidden part is that looking for this blasted thing is draining my energy–not that I had much to begin with. I’ve been making deals with myself like, “Check this area, then you can have your pudding.” And not the British version of pudding, but literal pudding.

By the way, sometimes, the simplest things are the best. Instant almond milk chocolate pudding plus a plant-based whipped cream with blueberries, chopped cranberries, and chocolate granola FTW.

Anyway. Gotta keep looking, but I’m running out of ideas.

 

 

The only thing I have to fear is fear itself

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It’s time to admit it–I’m depressed. Not just the low-level depression that I always carry in my back pocket, but full-blow depressed. It’s not as bad as when I was chronically almost-catatonic depressed, but it flirts with that end of the spectrum more often than I care to admit. The one saving grace is that I know it’s outside of me, but that’s not always enough to stave off the demons.

It’s hard because good things are happening for my friends. That’s not the hard part. I am ecstatic for them as I love it when good things happen to people I love, especially when it’s the fruition of their diligence and perseverance. The hard part is looking at my own life and finding it empty in response. Or rather, stagnation. I feel as if I have nothing to show for my life, and that feeling only increases with every passing year. It especially poignant around this time because it’s the start of a new year, but also because two of my friends are experiencing really big changes.

One of them is going to affect me. My taiji teacher is taking over some of her teacher’s classes at her home studio, which means she’s ending one of her classes at the Northeast studio where I study. She’s adding another class in a few weeks at the Northeast studio at a different time, and it’s going to be for a shortened amount of time, but even with that, it would only be twice a week. I used to go three times a week before I got sick, and then I just stopped going to the Friday night class at her home studio. It was two hours long rather than an hour and a half, and I didn’t like that studio for a variety of reasons. In addition, the drive felt twice as long even though it was roughly the same time, and I had to deal with highway traffic jam traffic, which was not my favorite at all.

Here’s the thing. If I go to the Monday class at the home studio, it’s an hour earlier than the class at the Northeast studio had been. That’s not great, but I can deal with it because I’ve shifted my sleeping schedule to be earlier than it used to be by several hours. Although the past few days, it’s been creeping backwards again. Ugh. I try to be in bed by two, which is approximately four hours earlier than I used to go to sleep. The new class starts at 11:30 a.m., which would have been unfathomable two years ago, but is doable now. It lasts an hour and a half, and then there’s an hour-long sword and sabre class which my teacher is also teaching. I could finally learn the rest of the saber form!

Here’s the problem. Or rather, problems. One, two-and-a-half hours is much longer than I can do in one go. Two, I don’t do well with new people. I would know some of the people in the classes, but it’s still not enough to dampen the anxiety–especially as one of them is a woman I have an aspirational crush on*. Another is a woman who has no concept of boundaries and thinks we’re souls sisters. I am not good at erecting and maintaining boundaries, and my impulse is just to deflect and avoid until the end of time. If I have to interact with this woman, I’m going to have to tell her to back off at some point.

::sigh::


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Girls on Film

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Today’s post is supposed to be on fun (following my self-set schedule), but it’s not going to be on something fun so much on…well, let me just explain in my own, sweet, meandering time. I want to start vlogging because it’s what all the hip, happening kids do these days. Even though I’m an old, aching crankster who wants you to get off her lawn, I want to give it a whirl. Why? There are several reasons. One, many people don’t want to read longform posts these days. I understand because people are busy, not as interested in reading, blah, blah, blah. It makes me sad, but I acknowledge the reality. Personally, I don’t want to watch a video of someone talking about something and would rather just read it, but I think I’m in the dwindling minority these days. Two, I used to be a performer back in the day. I was with Theater Mu, and then I started doing solo performance pieces. It was hard work, but it was so damn rewarding. I would feel as if I was going to throw up ahead of time, but then I’d be riding high afterwards (followed by a crash, damn it). The several minutes after a performance was exhilarating, and the applause was just the icing on the cake.

I am a writer. I have said before that it’s in my blood, but I’d give it up in a heartbeat if I could be on stage. I wouldn’t want to give it up, obviously, but if I had to make the choice between writing and performing, it would be the latter every time.* I loved being in front of a crowd, and I fed off the energy of a live performance. Don’t get me wrong. I love writing, obviously, and I can do it copiously day after day (though I will admit that some days, it’s hard to crank  1000+ words a day), but the interactivity of it is limited. I write my posts, then I publish them and send them off into the ethers. I may get a response; I may not, but there’s no immediate reaction to it. On the other hand, when I perform, the stakes are so much higher. I’ve forgotten my lines while performing, and it’s the worst feeling in the world. I’ve delivered flawless performances and have received standing ovations, and it’s the ultimate high. Seriously. Noting has felt as good as the applause I’ve gotten for my performances. Not sex. Not getting good grades in school. Not finishing the Sword Form (though, to be fair, that’s more a subdued and sustained feeling of bonhomie). Not eating a whole pint of peanut butter fudge ice cream (back in the days when I ate dairy).

I remember one performance in a workshop where I received the best reward when I finished my monologue–silence. Oh, I know everyone’s about the standing O, but there’s nothing like that moment of stunned silence at the end of a performance which indicates that your audience is so absorbed with what they’re experiencing, it takes them several seconds to transition back into reality. I remember another for a dyke event in which I stripped down to my panties and received a thundering standing ovation at the end of the piece. I remember another that gave me so much trouble as I was writing it–it was a performance from my heritage culture (Taiwanese) for children, and the kids loved it. It was worth every gut-wrenching moment of writing it just to have that experience.


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Being OK With Letting Go

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Yesterday, I came home from taiji and my mom informed me that my brother and the boys (his sons) wouldn’t be able to make it here for dinner. He suggested we go there. I immediately said no, and my mother said she knew I’d say that. She suggested we meet somewhere like Culver’s for dessert, but he decided to come here after dinner. Then, they came over, and my brother and I were discussing something while my mom and the boys were playing ping-pong. One of my nephews came up to say that my mom wanted to talk to my brother about something. He said OK, then we continued talking. I was marveling over that because I would have immediately gone done and probably resented it slightly. My mom can be very persistent when she has her mind on something, and it’s often easier just to give in than to defer. However, she also is more pushy with me than she is with my brother, probably in part because he’s very firm about his limits.

Anyway, after they were done playing ping-pong, they came back up. My brother, my nephews, and I were chatting about something when my mother said to my brother in a faux-whisper, “Can we go to Culver’s for ice cream?” A beat, “Or, we have bananas.” I started laughing, and my brother said with a big smile, “Can we go eat all the ice cream or stay here and have a banana?” He was making it clear that he realized there was really only one answer to that, which is something he wouldn’t have recognized before. We all started laughing and joking about it, and then agreed we would go, but in separate cars so they could go straight home. Then, my mom said, “Minna will have to drive.” She twisted her knee a week ago, and it’s still giving her problems. So, I said in a deadpan voice (because I mentioned it earlier, too), “Minna can drive to the place where she can’t eat anything!”* We all joked about that for several minutes, and then my mom said, “We should go now.” So of course, that got wrapped up into the joke (that my mom was making a suggestion she knew couldn’t be turned down, then adding layers of conditions to it), and it was a fun family moment.

To be clear, I was fine with driving even if I couldn’t eat anything. It was a moment of family teasing and bonding, and it felt great. I can’t help but compare it to how that shit would have gone down a few years ago.

Me getting home from taiji, quietly resenting that I don’t have space to myself.**

Mom (the second I step in the door which I still don’t like, but doesn’t send me up. the. fucking. wall the way it used to): Your brother wants us to go there instead of coming here for dinner.

Me (a bundle of resentment in part because I know that means me driving because my mom doesn’t like to drive at night, never mind that I don’t either, and my brother lives forty minutes away): NO I DON’T WANT TO GO JUST FUCKING GO YOURSELF GET AWAY FROM ME YOU EVIL COW ARRRRGH!

Obviously, I don’t say that, but it’s what I’m feeling. What I would say would be some variant of a huffy, “I’m not going there” in a very aggrieved tone.  I would feel I didn’t have a choice, which would make me really resentful, even if I did end up going. Also, my mom doesn’t believe she has the right to ask for anything (for many reasons), so she would never just come out and say, “I would like it if you drive us to your brother’s place.” It would be, “Your brother can’t come, but he said we could go there”, and I’m supposed to infer the rest. It’s actually part of what happened in the amusing family scenario above.


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