I would like to start this post with a disclaimer. If you get to the end of this and feel that it’s incomplete, that’s because it is. I don’t quite know how to describe it, but I know a post is done when it’s done. There’s no set word count or guideline that I follow. But in everything that I post, I stop writing when I feel a sense of completeness. I guess the perfectionist in me has an inherent feeling for when that is. I may meander in my posts, but they generally come full circle, connecting the beginning with the end.
However, that won’t be the case here. What started out as a single premise has quickly ballooned into something that will not fit in one post. The more I write, the more I understand that sometimes your writing has a mind of its own. This monster here is no different. This post will be the first part of three or four. I’m not quite sure yet how many times I will split this. I’ve been trying to lower my word count (not trying very hard evidently), but it hasn’t really been working. But since I am preemptively splitting it, hopefully I won’t make your eyes bleed too much. That being said, let’s begin.
I’ve always been different. Always thought differently, always acted differently. As a kid it came to me naturally. Simply put, I just wasn’t wired the same. I zigged when others zagged. In my teenage years it became somewhat intentional and exaggerated. I wanted to be known. I wanted to be unique. I wanted to be remembered. One of my biggest fears was being forgotten. So I did whatever I could to stand out. I wanted so much to make a name for myself. But I didn’t need to try so hard. I didn’t need to stress as much as I did. When you do great things, your actions speak for themselves. It’s not necessary to embarrass yourself for the sake of name recognition. Not all press is good press despite what they say. Fame and popularity are not even things that you can catalyze or manifest (frankly they’re overrated anyway). They don’t come as a result of your actions or your behavior. They are rather, people’s reactions to things you have done or created. Excel at what you do and be confident in who you are, and all things will fall in place.
Trying too hard is honestly an easy mistake to make. As we grow up we slowly discover who we are. We find what we’re capable of, we learn about ourselves, and we discover what motivates us. But oftentimes in doing so, we don’t remain true to ourselves. We try to be someone that we’re not. We attempt to live lives that aren’t the ones that are meant for us. We don’t make the best use of our gifts, and we try to pursue paths that we aren’t optimized for. It comes with the territory. Growing up and finding who you are also includes discovering who you are not. Finding who you are involves trial and error. We don’t start pursuing greatness from Day 1. We’re not capable of it. That’s why we go to school for 13+ years. Our rudimentary tools need to be developed and honed. They tell us from the start to dream big. The motivational posters and banners hanging up in classrooms may be corny, but they generally hold some semblance of real truth. Dream big. Always. But make sure that it’s your dream that you’re pursuing and not someone else’s. Life is more satisfying that way.
I can attest to that. We can all agree on that can’t we? If you’ve been reading along with me, you know by now that I like to distinguish between pre-therapy Justin and post-therapy Justin. What can I say? It was a definite turning point in my life. We are ever-changing, so each year we show a different version of ourselves to the world. But I like to break up my life so far into three phases. No it’s not childhood, pre-teen/adolescence, and adulthood. That seems like a reasonable line of delineation, but it doesn’t quite work for me. The main crossroads in my life didn’t line up that way. For me it’s childhood, pre-therapy (disheartened youth), and post-therapy (mended human). We all know that I am quite open about my struggles with mental health. After all, that’s been my thing ever since I started posting more regularly on this blog. It’s been the drum that I’ve been beating and will continue to beat. I do not hesitate to talk about it. It may be taboo for others but it’s not for me. It’s a necessary discussion and relevant to us all.
I don’t find myself meeting new people that often—I don’t go out much after all. And although I don’t generally take initiative in starting conversations, I am open to conversing with people I don’t know. I don’t have a problem talking. I can carry a conversation just fine; I’m just not much of a conversation starter. When I do find myself partaking, the conversation generally flows in much the same direction. They ask me what I do for work—no surprise there. I rehash recent history: this is what I used to do, but I quit in January, and now I spend my time writing. The conversation usually continues in much the same way. I don’t go out of my way to talk about myself (I’m not that conceited), but if someone is asking me questions about myself, you’d best believe I’ll answer them all as thoroughly as possible. That being said, I routinely find myself being asked something along the lines of, “what spurred you to quit your job and start writing?” I’m glad you asked! The short answer is that I went through dark times, I sought out help, and I worked on my mental health. We’ll get to the long answer later on.
Mental health might seem like a heavy subject to discuss during a first-time conversation, and I have to admit that I agree with you! But if we sidestep the discussion in order to stay within our comfort zone, won’t it become easier to just sidestep it every time? If we don’t talk about it when it comes up naturally, then when will we ever talk about it? There won’t be a better time!
Willfully ignoring a prime opportunity like that wouldn’t sit right with me. Are we ready to jilt ourselves out of a genuine conversation with life-changing potential? I don’t know about you, but that’s not a risk that I’m willing to take. I don’t want that blood on my hands. There’s already enough artificiality in this world as is, we don’t need to doctor our conversations. Of course there are some things that should be kept to yourself when meeting new acquaintances, but in my opinion this is not one of them. If profound subject matter makes you uncomfortable, then great! It means that it’s working. It made you think. It was thought-provoking. I’d rather have that than go through the motions with small-talk. Get to know people truly. You’ll be better for it.
As much as we like to think that we’re empathetic and observant, we simply do not know everything that others are going through. That’s part of being human. And although we regularly engage in nuanced communication such as body language, tone of voice, and facial expression/non-verbal cues, nothing beats communicating through conversing. We can only imply so much, we can only hint at so much. Some people are better at reading non-verbal language than others. Some people are utterly clueless. That’s just how it is. The best way to understand another person has been and always will be talking to them. Listening to them. Discussing consequential subject matter. Having a back and forth. The preeminent method of characterizing how you’re feeling is verbalizing it. Bring your thoughts to life in the form of word or action. I know us males don’t like to talk about our feelings. It’s seen as weak, feminine, vulnerable. But if we don’t communicate, then how will we foster healthy relationships with other people? So let’s start a conversation. Let’s talk. Let’s facilitate a safe space. Let’s come to an understanding. Let’s discover what it means to be mentally healthy. I can and will talk to anybody and everybody about mental health. I think it’s that important. It bears thinking about. Think deeply and profoundly. Reflect on your life. Be proactive in addressing your issues. Discover who you are through active contemplation.
A fruitful life calls for introspection, so be sure to make time for it. If you don’t understand yourself how can you expect others to understand you? Be one with yourself. Ensure that your mind, body, and soul are in sync. You need to discover who you are. It’s imperative. As I said, discovering who you are includes discovering who you are not. This encompasses but is not limited to the following: finding your strengths and weaknesses; discovering your interests, passions, likes/dislikes; figuring out how you think; making honest assessments about your good or bad habits; recognizing areas that need improvement.
Of course, each person’s mind works differently, so I can only speak to what goes on in mine. That being said, for a long time, I had been conditioned towards passivity. It was in my nature. As you know, I was an extremely shy kid, which resulted in lack of confidence and eventual anxiety. I never really told anyone what I liked or what I wanted for fear of reprisal or rejection. I never really pursued what I wanted to pursue for fear of tipping the boat. From a young age, I was afraid to tell even my parents how I truly felt about certain things. I was afraid of liking things too much. Whether it was due to fear of it being taken away or being told that I couldn’t like it or have it, I don’t really know. I remember when I was 6 or 7 my mom had bought me a beautiful Philadelphia Eagles winter jacket. It was puffy, reversible, and oh so warm. I loved it. But I rarely wore it. I spent more time looking at it in my closet than I spent wearing it, but it was still my favorite thing that I owned up til that point. I never told my mom how I truly felt about it. I was too afraid. Of what you ask? I’m not even sure if I knew back then, I certainly don’t know now. Regardless, even as a young tyke, I just didn’t think I was allowed to have nice things. I don’t know where this misconception stemmed from, but it stuck with me far into my adult years. Sometimes it was overt, other times it remained suppressed.
Of course it became a hindrance for me as the years went by. It played a huge impact on my life, but at the time I was incapable of identifying it let alone quantifying its effect. I never would’ve known it. Reflection and introspection weren’t really a part of my vocabulary back then. I’ll admit, I was delusional in some things, and misguided in others. I just didn’t know myself all that well. My self-awareness was nearly non-existent. Which came in conflict with my self-image in an odd sort of way. I worried so much about my self-image when I was younger, but I likely did more harm to it than good. I certainly didn’t help it with some of my outlandish behavior as a teenager. In trying so hard to stand out, to be unique, to be memorable, I only brought attention to the less than desirable aspects of my persona. But I didn’t know that. I did what I wanted to do, I said what I wanted to say in the moment, without a second thought. I didn’t care about others. I didn’t even care about myself. But even so, I was still too self-absorbed. Focusing on what I was doing at the moment rather than looking ahead to my future; or looking within at who I was; or improving my image and reputation to who I wanted to be.
So where would I be without introspection? Where would I be without therapy? That’s where we see the three phases of my life come into play. I had a fairly decent childhood. Like most, I had good times and I had bad. I went on playdates with friends, I hung out with kids at recess, I talked to kids at church. I was just a regular kid for all intents and purposes. But even so, I still spent a lot of my time alone. Being the only boy and the middle child will do that. I don’t know if I would call it a double triple life, but there were three versions of myself that I showed the world. There was who I was when I was at church, there was who I was with friends at school, and there was who I was when addressing adults and authority figures. There was also who I was at home, which was also somewhat different.
I was most comfortable at church. I was a goody-two-shoes. I always tried my best in Sunday School and during the youth programs. I read the Bible regularly and I was a pretty consistent participant. Oddly enough, the adults that helped out with these programs didn’t scare me all that much. If there were ever a shell-less version of me in elementary school this was it. But at the same time, this version of me may not have been the real me. Like many other church kids, I put up a facade. I was a holier than thou type so my church image was sacrosanct. It was cleaned up and immaculate. I cared a whole lot about my reputation before the word even became part of my vocabulary. Of course there were certain kids that I did “rebel stuff” with, like swearing or gossiping, but who hasn’t done that? I did that stuff in secret, only my compatriots knew about it. I didn’t do it in a way that allowed for the general public to see. I had always selfishly seen myself as the kid that parents brought up as an example to follow.
Who I was at school with classmates was quite similar but without the religious overtones. This was another relatively opened up version of me. I didn’t really try to hide who I was. I didn’t talk about my faith at school because I didn’t know how and because it never came up, so that aspect of my life remained separate. Due to the lack of a facade, this was likely the most genuine version of me. I didn’t try to clean up my image. I was who I was, and I had no issues with it. That is until 4th grade. That year I had started needing glasses. At the time, wearing glasses in public felt like a death sentence to me. I was embarrassed and scared. I decided I would rather squint and have trouble reading than wear them. Of course, that only made my vision worse, but the thought had never crossed my mind. I didn’t know it at the time, but that year was the start of a major downturn in my life. That was the first critical event that caused my self-confidence to steadily wane. And in my pre-therapy years it never fully recovered.
The face I showed adults and authority figures like teachers, store workers, or restaurant staff was completely closed and guarded. I was afraid. I couldn’t talk to them and I wouldn’t. I couldn’t even look them in the eye. I didn’t participate in school. I didn’t raise my hand. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t ask for help. At times it felt like it was physically impossible. There was too much pressure. I did my best to follow along with the lessons, but I was too shy to speak up. Talking to someone who was more than a few years older than me was too daunting a task. I couldn’t even order a cheeseburger at McDonald’s. It gave me too much anxiety. Getting up even the slightest sliver of courage to say a simple sentence was too demanding. My pint-sized brain couldn’t handle it. I didn’t like being this way, but I couldn’t exactly help it. Certain triggers shut off my communication skills. Unfortunately, over time it just got worse. Being a recluse went from being my alternate mode to my default mode.
As my confidence ebbed, I found it easier and easier to clam up. To build up walls. Puberty pushed me in that direction. Throughout my elementary school years there were a number of traumatic experiences that stuck with me and replayed in my head over and over. I won’t rehash all of them here. There are way too many for me to describe in detail (not all at once anyway). I never could get over them. Not for the next 10-15 years. I struggled immensely with letting things go. There were two monumental events in 6th grade that catalyzed the direction that my life was headed. Although not the most damaging experiences ever, they were the precursor to something dark. The first incident was maybe not a huge deal when it came down to it, but in the moment it was devastating.
I don’t remember when exactly it had happened, it may have been in the spring. I had gotten a 75 on one of my math tests (the first of many sadly), mostly due to careless mistakes. And of course I freaked out. That had never happened to me before. I was a good student, a kid who had always thought that he was on the right track. Who took school somewhat seriously and enjoyed it. This result was the first time in my life I had started to doubt my abilities. Before this exam I had total faith in myself. I had never before felt any insecurity about my academic capability. Unfortunately this was only the start of a troubling trend.
In 5th grade we had transferred schools within the district. From 2nd grade to midway through 5th I had attended what my siblings and I refer to as a “hippie” school. We called our teachers by their first names, our assignments weren’t graded (I’m not sure if they were even pass/fail), and we took sloyd instead of art class. Instead of learning drawing, painting, and sculpture we basically had a woodworking class. I remember making a rainstick, a güiro, and a mbira amongst other things. My parents hated it. They didn’t think that alternative education would prepare us well for junior high let alone high school. But we were new to the town, and the wait list for the “better” (read that as more traditional) schools was long. Victoria and I had been put on the wait list as soon as we had arrived in town. As you can see, it had taken three and a half years to get off of the wait list.
Back then, there weren’t as many east Asians in our town. They didn’t start moving in en masse until I had gotten to 8th or 9th grade. All of my friends at my first school were white. At my second school, I was one of four Asians in my class, which unsurprisingly changed my school dynamic. My priorities shifted, as did my identity. This was when I first started coming to grips with my Asian-American heritage. Sure, the majority of people at my church were Asian, but that was different. I didn’t see those kids everyday, I only saw them on Fridays and Sundays. So for me to finally have classmates that looked like me, that was life-changing. But regrettably it was beneficial for me in some ways, but detrimental in many others.
I became more focused on doing things that fit into Asian stereotypes. As a preteen I thought that it was the proper way to show pride in my culture. I didn’t know how to identify as Asian-American without being a cliche. Of course some traditions were rooted in my cultural upbringing—it’s hard for the offspring of immigrants to be completely whitewashed unless it was done so intentionally. It does happens, but it didn’t happen to me. My parents had tried their best to instill Chinese culture into our upbringing. We went to Chinese school, we took piano lessons, they preferred to speak to us in Cantonese and Mandarin, and we had homework to do outside of school (both Kumon and extracurricular workbooks from Costco). The things that they say about “tiger parenting” are true for the most part. All traditional Chinese parents use this technique to some extent. It’s just a matter of how much emphasis and how strict. That being said, I rejected this approach somewhat. It just didn’t work on me all that effectively. In any event, I grew up rather whitewashed—if I were to put a percentage on it I would put it at 70-75%. So it wasn’t for lack of effort on my parents’ part. That falls on me, not them.
In Cantonese they have a term for it: jook sing. It refers to a Chinese person who was born in a Western environment who identifies more with Western culture than they do Chinese culture. It is a somewhat derogatory term that our parents’ generation uses to refer to us. The opposite of this would be FOB (fresh off the boat). Ideally we want to be somewhere in the middle. Acknowledging your heritage from both angles. But while it may be easy to bond over things such as the cuisine, filial piety, and academic excellence, it doesn’t quite hold the same meaning if you’re unfamiliar with the language. And unfortunately Chinese is a difficult language to learn. It’s not intuitive. There are thousands of characters, and five or six different intonations. It doesn’t have a traditional alphabet. It’s easy to fall behind in class. Especially if you’re a Cantonese kid trying to learn Mandarin for the first time. I dreaded Chinese School. I had never really been interested in it to begin with, because I had been forced into it. But it was also easy to get discouraged by its difficulty.
Unlike English there are multiple aspects of the language that you need to learn. It’s possible to excel at one aspect but be mediocre in another. In English we have verbal and written forms. If you know how to speak English then you’ll have no problem understanding it and vice versa. If you know how to read it, then you’ll also have a basic understanding of writing it at a minimum. In Chinese it’s not the same thing. All four things are separate. Generally when speaking to your elders they’ll ask you if you know Chinese. And depending on what you know, you’ll tell them you can read, write, speak, and/or understand Chinese. I will usually say that I can understand a bit, but I can’t speak it. My vocabulary is poor and my accent is off. Due to the nature of the language, it’s imperative to be able to nail down the correct intonation, otherwise you risk saying the wrong thing and/or embarrassing yourself. My grasp of the written form is even more atrocious. The characters are hard to remember, and even if you do recognize a character it doesn’t mean you know what sound it makes. Not unless the pinyin or jyutpin is written above the character. Pinyin and jyutpin are romanizations of the sounds that each character makes. But just because you know what the character sounds like doesn’t mean that you know what it means necessarily. Are you thoroughly lost yet? So am I! So do you see why I had so little interest in learning Chinese? It was difficult, so I rejected it. And instead, embraced what I knew. I knew how to act white. It was easy for me because all of my friends were white. Up until 6th grade, I hadn’t necessarily adhered to traditional Chinese principles. But then things changed, simply because I had made some Asian friends.
I suppressed who I was on a personal level in exchange for emphasizing who I was on a socioeconomic level. Which in theory may sound great. Especially for Asian-Americans. As a culture we don’t like to rock the boat. We’d rather conform than show individuality. It’s safer that way. If you don’t draw attention to yourself there’s less of a chance for disappointment or failure. And boy, let me tell you, failure is the last word that Asian immigrant parents want to hear or say. If you fail, you bring dishonor to your people, to your family, and to yourself. I didn’t necessarily feel that much pressure from my parents. They were much less strict than many others. You know the mom from Turning Red? That wasn’t my parents, but I knew parents that were like that. It has a transcendent effect on their kids, and in turn on us—their classmates. I certainly felt a whole lot of pressure from church aunties, my parent’s friends, and most of all my peers. It’s draining. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.
JHUMWRITES—A Mental Health Blog 