Gallery Books

This was the classic behavior of abused children. Broken people learn how to keep the peace at the expense of our own needs. We merged into any given situation. When two chameleons successfully take on each other’s hues, there is nothing left.

When I look at the snapshot of my parents grinning ear to ear in front of the building I hated going inside every day, I think about how much I hid from them. I couldn’t tell them how unhappy I was because I didn’t want to ruin their joy over my accomplishments. Inside, I was filled with anxieties shared by many first-generation immigrants and people my age. I felt that practical choices and financial stability were more important than taking risks and doing work that I valued and loved.

The unhappier I became, the more I searched in others’ faces for a glimpse of my own feelings. But I saw only the well-guarded facades of people who had been taught the same things I had: be ambitious, be successful, be happy, be tough.

But sometimes, what you think and what you feel are two very different things.

I’m tired of the words that slip out, the feeble complaints of which nothing will come. The same shit, different day, complaining for the sake of complaint because nothing ever changes.

My illness, my depression, it raped my self-esteem, my ambition, my thirst to live.

It’s too much pressure—you know?—to act normal when you’re grieving. I just can’t do it. I can’t pretend that my whole world hasn’t fallen apart.