A Chat with my Therapist

You should read Can You Take a Joke - Part 1 before reading this just so that you have some context.

High school was a glistening journey for me. I was socially quite well-off. I endured so few of the problems that children in high school generally do that I think it is fair to call myself lucky. Unlike others, who went through heart ache and bullying and growth spurts and whatnot, I remained in a rested stagnantly in a peaceful bubble of familiarity. My friends stayed the same, my teachers didn't change too much, my social status never trudged through hateful gossip - high school was good to me. Of course, I too saw some adversity, but not nearly as much as I could have. I was largely spared by the vicious claws of society and my high school peers. In fact, up until recently, I had no perception that high school, especially the studious, non-Hollywood-like one which I attended, could have caused anyone any sort of social pressure. (Academically, it was a different story because 98% was an upsetting mark to some.)

Upon attending the prom trip with my 3 friends, my eyes were opened to the obvious struggles which I either blissfully ignored, or was not asked to face. The three of them all despised high school; they argued that elementary was far better. Quite the contrary, in my opinion. I hated elementary school; everyone was rabidly cruel. I arrived in high school with a fresh slate, and loads of luck. By having certain important people take an interest in me, I was propelled up the social ranks and came to be tolerated by all -- at least I think so. Nonetheless, my three girlfriends discussed the torments and adversities they faced almost daily in their partly drunken stupor. I, as best as I could, consoled them with hugs and kisses, though I lacked any personal experiences to share.

Each girl poured her heart out, and when my turn came, I had nothing to say. So, I spoke truthfully and said "high school was really quite alright for me". They, still mostly in tears, blessed me and told me how lucky I was. I nodded faithfully along in hopes that their depression would wear off, as their bodies metabolized the alcohol. It did to some extent. 

We all went to sleep and I hoped that the morning would prove more peaceful and joyous. It did. We went grocery shopping and I made some amazing chicken crepes, which the girls said constituted the best "white person food" of all time. We hiked through a forest during a torrential downpour, which made hiking seem more like a water sport than anything else.

The trail

And though I complained an uncountable number of times that we were going to catch colds and regret our decision to do this hike, I really did enjoy it. As we made our way up and down the trail we discussed the events of the night prior, and we came to the realization that the forest was a safe place to vent. So, into the emptiness, we screamed confessions in hopes that they would help us find closure. 

I had only one confession which I felt warranted my vocal strain into oblivion. That confession was to do about my dislike for the only boy who had caused me significant pain in high school. No, surprisingly, he wasn't a romantic interest at all. He was the romantic interest of my best friend. He, after nurturing a rosy friendship with me and my best friend, woke up one morning and decided that he would not speak to us any longer. He never told us why and we could not unearth any plausible cause except that he was indeed crazy, but after 6 months of silence, he found the nerve to come sit next to me in class and speak to me as if nothing had happened; as if those 6 months had been wiped from the time continuum altogether. I couldn't bear this disrespect and I angrily moved my chair to the farthest corner of the classroom to indicate my disinterest in speaking with him. I hated him.

Despite the sincerest wishes of all of my family and friends to render myself indifferent to him, I couldn't. So, I walked through the hallways of my school and felt a stabbing pain in my chest each time I saw him. I couldn't physically, nor spiritually, bear the burden of the hate I felt for him. There was no logical reason to so passionately dislike him for 2 years of high school, yet I did. I think that the reason why lies in the damage he inflicted onto my enormous ego. He was the only stain on the nearly spotless white t-shirt that was high school to me. For that reason, that stain was evermore visible and ugly. 

I knew that I needed to let that burden go. I needed it desperately, so I sought closure in the forest. I yelled that I hated him and felt remarkably better. As if a certain weight had been alleviated from my shoulders physically. It wasn't the closure I had envisioned, but it was something, and I felt decent enough to go forwards with my life in that way.

After we arrived to our house, blistering cold and wet, I had the absolute pleasure of speaking to the budding psychologist in the group. She, after seeing my only confession, wanted to pick me apart in her scientific way. So began an absurdly long conversation. 

From her perspective, the discussion would provide immense material for the university-psychology papers she would be writing in the fall. From my perspective, the heart-to-heart would possibly find me at peace with the one blemish of high school that I had allowed to cause me unreasonable amounts of fury.

We talked. She insisted that I saw the matter as bigger than it was, which was undoubtedly true. She explained that life would throw a great deal of equal, and even worse, people my way and that the only adequate way to deal with them would be to learn through this experience. She claimed that I'd be quickly somatized by every bad person if I couldn't cope. All this was true, but one question remained: why did someone with as fabulous a high school career as me allow this one negative event to over-shadow my existence? We came to the conclusion that it had something to do with the fact that it was my first time experiencing hardship in high school. Up until that boy, my high school social-life was A+ and my ego could not sustain that extremely unexpected blow. This is where my new psychologist said "God dammit, I hate you. Why did high school have to be so good for you?"

Umm, unprofessional! You never say that to a patient!

Regardless, this is where the discussion took on a lighter tone. We began talking about my triumphs in high school. I was far from the best student, but something about my extroverted nature made my social life very easy. Speaking to people came very naturally to me and I never felt awkward in social situations. This allowed for me to carry myself through the halls with a certain air of dainty happiness. In the words of my new-found and dearly beloved psychologist that air made it ok for me to not wear make up, which is something that the other girls had all done for a long time. Apparently, no matter how I looked, and no matter how dark the circles under my eyes were, I managed to exude enough confidence when I walked through the halls that the dark stains under my eyes would be voided. Thanks for that confidence booster, girl!

My therapist now wanted to explore what exactly made me the extroverted, dainty, happy gal I was since, apparently, high school's purpose was to ravage happy children and create insecure conformists. I couldn't answer her question since I didn't know myself. I told her that I felt that it was simply my nature. Just like some people are born blonde, and others are born brunette, I believe that some are born happy and chatty and others are born sad and quiet. She told me that that wasn't the case. The color of your hair is determined by nature, but your approach to life is determined by aspects of nurture. So, to find out what nurturing brought me to the denouement of high school with a happy glow, my therapist went back... way back.

She asked what I remembered of my days before elementary school. I really didn't remember too much, of course, but what did remain in the crevasses of my brain was exceedingly happy. It is literally sunshine and ice cream cones. I remember waiting for the ice cream truck and turning to my father, who always had the right amount of money in his hand to give me. I would get a pink panther ice cream because it was my favorite. I remember playing on the park, being a little bit of a bully to the other kids when I wanted to play on the things they were playing on. And though I did live in a place with distinct seasons, my only memories are of sunny days. I don't recall any gloomy clouds or rains or snows.

How was my familial relationship? Excellent. I told my therapist that my parents and grandma had never been less than supportive. That was the eureka moment for her! Apparently, Asian parents tell their children that they are bad and dumb and whatnot in hopes that they then feel motivated to do great things. That, for lack of a kinder term, seems fucked up to me. 

My parents always told me that I was a very pretty, very smart and very wonderful little girl. And yes, they repeated it so many times that I came to believe it. Despite my staggering height and my adorable beer-belly, I walked with such an unparalleled fierceness. I went to the beach unaware of the fact that the 2-time-daily jumbo croissant with Nutella was causing me to have a less-than-perfect beach body. My body was ideal - that's what my grandma told me when she slobbered my plate with ridiculous amounts of greasy, but oh-so tasty food. I was the prettiest girl in my school - that's what my dad told me when I asked him if my bowl-haircut looked nice. And I was the smartest kid in my entire school - that's what my mom told me when I justified a bad mark on a spelling test by saying I was just plain stupid. 

So yeah, I guess you could say that I had a really happy childhood. And yeah, that happy upbringing stemmed into a happy future.

But my therapist was not completely content yet. She asked if my relatives still say those things to me and if they still hold the same value to me. The answer was that my relatives obviously still complimented me, but in a lesser degree and less frequently. Of course, as I got older, I did recognize that my beer belly wasn't as hot as I thought. I came to terms with the fact that a bowl-haircut was not "in", nor had it ever been. And it also dawned on me that there were smarter people out there.

Now my psychologist found herself at a bit of a crossroads in her dissection of me. She knew that my ego was quite big, but if my family was no longer providing a consistent flow of praises, who was? My family had simply laid a foundation for the person I was to become. That foundation, however, could have been very easily shaken and even demolished by my external environment. For some reason, it hadn't been, and that was why that strange boy's actions crippled me as much as they did. The reason was right in front of me. 

The darling psychologist asked about my friends. They were nice, of course. In my largely Asian school, it had just so happened that the majority of my friends were not Asian, so perhaps they had similar upbringings and we connected that way. I can't be sure.

My therapist was determined to figure out where my tremendous confidence comes from and so she persisted. Do my friends compliment me? Well, of course! Violetta is a prime example. When I read my blog posts to her, she lauds them as being equivalent to best-sellers. Does she tell me I'm pretty? Yes, sometimes! But, I tell her that too. We're very supportive of each other and enjoy dishing out the praises. I don't think that there's anything wrong with that. Well, my therapist firmly believes that those reciprocal compliments allow us to walk through the halls with out heads held high. That seemed logical, but then I recalled that Violetta had recently begun wearing make up , which meant that the psychological Sherlock Holmes I was sitting with would have to dig even deeper to find what exactly made me so whimsical. And the answer lied in the revelations of this year and the last.

Boys!

Wild, I know! I wonder how we had managed to talk for 3 hours and not touch on that subject, but we did. Now it was 1am. The other two girls were washing the dishes, and though we should've offered help, we were both far too enthralled with our own conversation. In the middle of a sentence, we were interrupted. The other two girls wanted to go star-gazing since it was a clear night. It sounded romantic enough that my therapist and I decided that we could continue our discussion on the dock 15 minutes away, under the endless shimmer of the sky, beside the vast glimmer of the ocean. We all left. Once we made it, we laid down some sleeping bags and began listening to the astronomer of the group. She showed us the big dipper and the little one and a plethora of other constellations and celestial bodies. That was too much education for my therapist and me. We were eager to get back to boys. Oh, how hormonal we sound!

What happened with boys this year? Wow, so much. Like I said at the very start of this post, you should read Can You Take a Joke - Part 1 to get some flavor of my predicament. 

They adored me. Up until last year, really, I was an exclusive friend to basically all boys. They thought I was cool like a guy, but not cool as a girl - if that makes any sense at all. The point is that no one seemed to be interested in me in a romantic way, though I had plenty of male friends who treated me very well. They would ask me for my opinions on girls they were interested in and tell me some of their personal secrets - the types of secrets that you don't want your potential romantic partner to know. I was very comfortable with the position I held with guys, actually. Then last year someone had to see me in a different way and start a perpetual cycle of life-ruining.

Wait a second.

You're not supposed to know that this all accumulates with "life-ruining" - you're still supposed to think everything is rosy and my ego is being boosted. Which is genuinely the case, for the most part. Let's pretend that I haven't definitively foreshadowed the ending of this post, though. That will make it easier to follow. But then again, what is there to follow?