journey to find love (from within)— part 1 : the cuts

content warning : mental disorders (depression & eating disorder), suicide & self-harm

By : Bạch Dương

I love the scarred, quivering body of fear in the piercingly-cold corner of the room for the sacrifices it made to keep me alive.

Growing up and maturing with the passive idea of "being born" haunted me. Throughout my childhood, I blamed myself for my family's break-up. I stayed with my dad instead of my mom and soon got acquainted with being alone and picking myself up when everything crumbled. I didn’t have any guidance from a mom so my hair was always a mess and my clothes were always wrinkled up. From an early age, I already stood out as being different from my peers from the beginning. Even in times of being harassed and bullied, I told no one but tried to deal with the problem by myself. When my dad decided to move on, my life turned to a new page, though not a much cheerful one.

My dad’s new wife gave me all the love, care, and attention I’d been craving from a mother. For a short while, she made me feel so assured of my happiness. I turned a blind eye to her evil deeds, always looking for reasons to justify her wrongdoings, because I just needed a mother figure aside. She extinguished all the dreams and beliefs I had as a kid, ruining the miracle and wonder of my childhood.  She made me believe that the world was cruel, and that I was a mistake. Not only did she deprive my privacy rights, but she also prevented me from seeing my biological mother. When I was in fourth grade, she gave me a knife and forced me to end my life. Even when she sent me into a self-destructive spiral, I mindlessly loved and trusted her. At times when I hit rock bottom and asked her for a hug, she called me crazy and that I deserved to feel that way. “She is the last person I would ever trust,” I told myself.

In middle school, I learnt to make friends and to be in relationships. I opened my heart and trusted others so much that I just ended up being trampled on again. Once again, I believed the wrong person, letting that person torture my already-broken body.

I came to believe that I had no rights to go out on the street, no rights to buy clothes, not even to look or to touch, and especially no rights to have a crush on anyone. I came to believe that not having muscles and abs like other people means I was fat, resulting in my starving myself. I came to believe that no matter how hard I try, I would never be recognized and I would just fail in life.

My grandma was my only motivation to live. After she passed away, I carried on living. There was this invisible chain around my neck that kept dragging me to places, forcing me to continue even when I had no strength left in me. I believed in everyone and everything, but in the end no one believed in me.

It was 2018 and three days before the high school entrance exam; I failed to hang myself. Sitting next to the mess of broken walls and paint chips, I realized the only person who could save me was myself, and I wouldn't let anyone hurt myself anymore. By putting all the faith in myself instead of others, something I should have done way earlier, I got accepted into my dream school and the school’s most prominent club. During that time period, there were still a lot of anonymous insults on social media directly attacking me. Fortunately, I managed to turn myself away from that toxic environment.

Entering high school, an environment often known as a "microcosm", I tried to act tough because I was afraid that my new school, class, and friends would hurt me the same way. 

I changed my appearance to match the beauty standard for girls at that time: doing cosmetic surgery, styling my hair, doing make-up, wearing dresses, and learning to keep my thoughts to myself instead of saying them out loud even words. It was fun in the beginning because other people started to notice and admire me; they looked at me in a different eye. However, I came home every day feeling empty: I don’t know who I am or what I want; I could no longer freely express myself. Day by day, I felt suffocated trying to maintain a perfect image, questioning every word I say on social media for fear of being judged. I began to detest this new person, disgusted at the foreign version of myself.

I recalled a compliment someone used to tell me: “You have the kind of beauty that no other girl possesses.  You bring such a new and fresh look, defying the very standard that other girls chase.” When people asked me why I don’t keep my old tomboy cut, I just wanted to tell them how much I wanted to; I was rather afraid that my new appearance would not be accepted and loved. No matter how much I loved that hairstyle, I was terrified of reliving my middle-school years. I was simply not brave enough. 

I kept asking myself: am I living for myself or for whom? Am I even myself at this point?

To be continued…