It's been six years now since narcissist Hispanic rapist manipulated my life. I went for him hook, line, and sinker. He happened when I was with an angry privileged white male. Looking back, I see how confused I felt. It's hard to develop a self amidst family dysfunction and then try to create a confident stable adult life. At every turn, there can be someone ready with critique or an attempt to cut with humor. It can get overwhelming.
Growing up with a Chinese mom and a white dad meant I got the best and worst of two cultures. I learned to adapt and be flexible, which has helped and hurt me along the way. After my sisters left the family in my late childhood, my dad left, too. He chose someone half his age and of the Filipino culture. My mom and I toughed it out for several years before I needed to flee the nest. It was excruciating for me to leave her. I felt immense guilt. I'd observed her abuse and receive abuse. The culture at-large discriminated against her accented English, and I could see how it affected her confidence. Even now, I remind her that she speaks four languages whenever she apologizes for how she sounds. It bruises something inside of me to hear her apologize for what I see as a quality.
Depression and depressive thoughts are so familiar that they almost comfort. It's that kind of messy part about things that are common. Even the negative aspects can become cozy.
I used to feel so lonely that I would befriend just about anyone. It's hard to know that about myself and not send abrasive comments up and down my psyche. When you grow up like I did, it's not a surprising way to be, though. Boundaries and how to differentiate between good and bad intentions from others takes time, attention, and confidence, and that's not always available to us as we change through the years. When we can move ourselves in and out of tears, up and down through pain, we are so much closer to what is: an emptiness that mingles with meaning.
People in general, including my own human self, have confused me from a very early age. I didn't really get why everyone was so awful to each other. I tried to be this better person, a bigger person or whatever. Then friends and family used, abused, and ditched me time and again. My family wasn't the therapy type. It was too expensive or unnecessary or potentially dangerous. So when I first started seeing therapists, I paid for myself to go. I went through a lot of them over time. It was really hard to learn what it meant to feel comfortable with someone because discomfort was the norm in my family of origin. Eventually, I would realize that I didn't feel comfortable with that person, that particular therapist, and I would have to learn how to exit from the bond. It was kind of a huge mess. Worth it, though, because therapy teaches how to redefine stories. For instance, "they ditched me" gradually becomes "they were going through their own issues."
Well hello there.