1. BACK TO BASICS

Do you ever lie awake at night and think to yourself, "why am I so fucked up"? Because I often do. I wonder why I'm so awkward, why I could never fit in with the "popular" kids at school, why I'm not smart enough, or funny enough, or good enough. And then I'm like, well, do something about it. But what? What can I do? How can I fix my life when I barely even understand it? Why am I here? What is my purpose in life?

I recently started seeing a therapist. It sounds so cliché, but I do spend a lot of my time complaining about my childhood and my "mommy issues". I grew up in a traditionally Asian household. My parents immigrated to Canada about 35 years ago but really, they couldn't care less about assimilating to Western culture. In my family, my mom wore the pants. She made the rules and if you dare break any of them, you better hope to God you don't die. Literally. My mother was legitimately psychotic. I remember being 3 years old, sleeping in my crib, and suddenly waking up with a strong urge to use the washroom. But I was 3 and couldn't get out of my crib, so I peed the bed. My mother was furious. I swear she could have murdered me right then and there if my dad hadn't been there to protect me. One time when I was 5, I was fighting with my brother, as siblings often do, and my mom thought the only way to stop us from fighting was to throw a knife at our heads. Either she died, or we died, but someone needed to die if we couldn't stop fighting. I lived in constant fear as a child. Don't get me wrong, she can be very nice when she wants to be, but she didn't often want to be. That's the problem. When I was 8 years old, I failed a test and forged my mom's signature on the report card so she wouldn't find out. Because I knew if she found out I would be in huge trouble. Well, she found out anyways. My punishment? She took a steel rod used to sharpen knives and hit the palm of my hands 100 times per hand. And if I cried or flinched, she would start over from 1. My hands were black and purple for weeks. I was so swollen I couldn't even hold a pen. When I was 9, I stole $10 from her purse because I wanted fancy Pokémon cards that my friend was selling. Yes, I know I shouldn't have stole from her, but everything I did was out of fear. I didn't want to hear her say no and get mad, so I found my own solution. Well, I was a stupid child because I got caught every single time and so when she found out about the $10, she showed zero mercy. I was kicked, and punched and thrown against the wall, brutally beaten up. When I was 10, I lost a water bottle at school and she thought it would be a fantastic idea to wake me out of bed at 2 or 3AM and beat the shit out of me, pulling me out of bed from my hair and throwing me against the wall. I have hundreds more stories like that and worse. I mean my mom would literally keep several large wooden broomstick handles behind the couch for "easy access" so she can use it to beat us. She will take anything she can get her hands on, wire hangers, kitchen utensils, steel, wood, whatever! Whenever I did something wrong she would remind me time and time again that I was a mistake child. She never wanted me, but rather my dad forced her to have me. She called me a fat pig when I was kid because I would stress eat to feel better. She would take away my bed privileges and made me sleep on the cold hard floor in the hallway between the kitchen and the bathroom. Yeah, as a kid, I didn't realize it at the time, but those experiences were fucking traumatic and abusive and ultimately they shaped me into the person I am today, and now I've got to deal with it.

My mom has this thing about obedience. We always had to be on our best behaviour. We were never allowed to throw tantrums or cry as a kid. If we did, she would give us one look and we would know we were in big trouble. She didn't care if we were in public or not, she did not hesitate to scold us loudly or slap our faces. As a child, I was never allowed to speak or have an opinion. I had to be the good girl and just sit there quietly beside my mom while she socialized with her friends. I couldn't wander off or play or anything. So eventually I just got used to it. I would sit there quietly and zone out. I guess that's why I was so socially awkward growing up and could never fit in at school. I had been silenced for so long, I didn't know how to interact with people or say what's on my mind. I'm always shocked when people actually care and want to listen to what I have to say. I honestly didn't even think I mattered.

Now, at the age of 31, I am finally learning to deal with my experiences. How to move past it all and heal from the abuse and trauma. It's not an easy journey. I've had to work twice as hard to constantly prove myself, and rise above. My motivation? To escape. I am constantly trying to run away from it all. I need to get myself out of here. My house is my prison. I have no freedom here. And you know, it's so overwhelming when everything hits you at the same time. It's hard to not feel defeated. So how am I supposed to get past it?