The Ko-Written Story

For this post, I was planning on writing an entry that elaborated on my introduction. I wanted to share with the world (or at least get off my chest) the profound existential angst and depression that seem to be pervading my life these days. I wanted to talk about a particularly insightful therapy session I had this past week because I didn’t want to forget its contents—make meaning out of the insight. Personalize it. Internalize it. 

But then I read Sarah’s post, and then I felt sad. And then I reread the post and felt even sadder. Then I tried ignoring the sadness by writing other things until I couldn’t. And then I realized I should just respond to Sarah’s post because it’s probably somehow related to my therapy session. Everything always is. 

In the midst of my confusion, one thing I do understand is the pain of seeing someone you love hurting. Although I am not vengeful, I am angry at those girls, the evil and cowardice inside of them. Hell, I am angry at all suffering. I also want to hold Sarah and tell her that I’m sorry she had to go through all that she did and that she deserved the support she never had. I think I have a newfound understanding of how these experiences have shaped who Sarah is today. 

What I do not understand is why her post resonated with me so deeply and why her honesty made me feel smaller, humbled. And not in the traditional way in which vulnerability makes you wonder who you are or what you did to deserve the invitation into someone’s life.

I wonder if it was the nature of how she suffered that triggered something in me; that, in addition to being bullied, she had felt too unsafe to share that at home or ask for help. It seemed unfair to me that she had to cover up her feelings and pretend like everything was okay. As a once-closeted homosexual (with our family’s religious history), I know a thing or two about pretending and hiding. Was Sarah as hurt and as lonely as I? Did she nurse the same darkness and self-loathing? 

Growing older, I’ve frequently found myself feeling so much pain and sadness and fear. I don’t know how to, or whether I want to, put language to the painful experiences of being gay, and Asian, and in this body. Did Sarah feel this when she wrote her post? 

I cannot give form or shape to my intense desire to be “perfect” or different or desired—to be seen and my truth borne witness to—and cannot share the shameful ways in which I’ve hid, disappeared, pushed myself harder, and continue to contort myself to stop hurting. Could it be possible that Sarah, my strong, strong sister also cannot stand to face her pain? And yet continues to push herself to do so? 

I also frequently fear I’ll be overwhelmed by the profound loneliness I’ve felt from the rejection and “good will” of my mother, my family, my community, society, and my own self. How do I face my God when He has abandoned me? How can I demand meaning out of this suffering and find purpose in my life? How is it that I feel ignored, forgotten, and unloved mixed with ecstatic episodes of feeling completely seen and held? What if “my” God is the wrong one, and what if Jesus (OMG I hope he is) is a fabulous queen? Could it be that Sarah too questioned (like really questioned) her own faith? 

A part of me breaks at the thought that Sarah would have felt even a fraction of what I hold every day. And perhaps her pain is different, even more profound, but I feel the sharp pain and gaping hole in my chest and wish that she would never have had to feel it. I feel powerless because I didn’t know how to help her then and don’t know how to help her now, which ultimately (probably) means I don’t know how to help myself. After all, it was me who was the one that was put in a headlock and choked on that bus (though I remember it being after I had gotten off the bus). And it is me that this post has largely become about. In any case, if you want, Sarah, I will track those girls down and demand an apology, or give you a hug, or apologize for having taken up so much space at home.

Though I want to, I feel like I am not in a place where I can write a memoir. I have no memories; that is, I still carry all of my past with me so there is very little space, or no window, to make meaning out events transpired. Everything is still so relevant to who I am today. But if I did, I would probably write a memoir about denial. It would be about the times in which I believed I was white or Hispanic/Spanish or that if I tried hard enough I could make straight men love me the way they love women. It would be about the times I thought I could keep pushing myself to become successful or thin or about how our family really thought I was straight—even though I danced to Britney Spears’ Toxic in a red dress and a wig—and that Sarah was okay.

Knowing myself, it would also be about why I love and appreciate denial so much. I would try to make everyone understand that everyone possesses some level of denial and that most of our hopes and dreams are actually rooted in some form of its power. It’s also a fiercely protective mechanism that deserves much more appreciation. And finally, what fun would life be if we weren’t even a little bit delulu?