Loving to write has come from a place of hating to talk.
Public speaking was always my most dreaded college course; anything involving writing was my favorite.
Truth be told, college was never something I attended with aspirations of obtaining a medical degree or becoming an engineer at Amazon. While I was surrounded by other future UW alumni on campus, I sometimes wondered how many of them would be multimillionaires by the end of their careers. While I had only enjoyed one year there on campus—the following year would be COVID-based quarantine—I always prided myself on having a good eye for those who had “drive” plastered across their face. I can fairly easily tell who comes from old money. Perception is a strong point from my youth of survival. I always knew my path wasn’t one paved through a technical degree that would serve me well in Seattle. I knew pretty quickly that I would never be the computer whiz. My first day at community college consisted of the “walk of shame” to ask the librarian how I was supposed to print a document. The very reason I started college was to get a pointless filmmaking certificate that would rack up my debt just to learn about the filmmaking process. I knew it then; I know it now.
I know the people reading this who are financially conscious are probably feeling their chests tighten a bit. I get it.
My determination to actually “try” and to actually move “across the water” was based on an otherwise non-eventful dream. I was in a classroom with a pencil and paper. I felt this odd sensation of “learning” that felt pretty damn good.
I was in my early twenties, bartending and paying rent so cheap I actually still wonder if I made the right choice (I did). The hospital across the street had yet to be expanded, so I was blessed with a water view that never got old. It was the perfect time to throw caution to the wind and just fucking do it. Somehow I was able to convince my twin sister, Kathleen, that neither of us having savings and living off credit card bills, as well as other possibly not legal activities, would make for a perfect time to move to Seattle. Did we have jobs when we handed the original renter a check so we could sublet? Absolutely not. It was going to be great.
Our Russian-given first names on a Craigslist ad had given us priority. I will always remember signing the check on the hood of the car, my very English surname causing her to pause. Her thick Russian accent remarked that our last name didn’t sound very Russian. When I remarked that we were named after a pair of twins my mom knew in school, any reluctance she may have had came too late.
I also learned that 26 city miles were completely different from rural miles. While my rent had more than doubled, I was at least savvy enough to find an apartment that only consisted of a prostitute and drug user gracious enough to use manners when asking for spare tin foil. What I assumed would be a twenty-minute commute to school was an hour. The first place that was willing to hire me was a daycare that I’m pretty sure didn’t adhere to a single DCYF law. My quick bond with the children and a ten-cent raise over minimum wage, along with perhaps the complacency I found in having a job that worked with school hours, gave me pause about wanting to find another weekday gig. I had always stopped by the gas station next door, picking up my dinner of spicy Cheetos and midday caffeine. I had grown used to the exposed needles that decorated the yards behind the fence of the playground and the fierce bikini baristas who had no qualms about leaving their space to give an over-friendly patron a piece of their mind when I walked to the childcare center.
Looking back, honestly, I would say it was pretty great.
Was every day?
Absolutely not.
The first few months of the move had put me in substantial weight-loss depression that had people concerned. I quickly adjusted to two jobs, a ferry commute, school, and… a boyfriend. I would heat the same pot of spaghetti up to a week and wax poetic about the bomb way my sister made the ten-pack El Monterey burritos. You obviously had to fry it and load it with salt and pepper. Duh. We were ladies of taste. Despite the healthy standards I adhered to, the complete lack of calories outside of oil and leftover cheesy noodles left me substantially thinner in a quick amount of time. The boyfriend aspect also meant trying to cover for how poor I was. I would not have this guy think I was using him for a meal. If I had to max out my credit card to pay for dinner, I would do it. The fear of a declined card haunted me.
I know this makes me sound a little like that white girl, but I am not gonna lie to you. Prior to dating my now-husband, I had an odd gut feeling when I was lying in my bed, ready to sleep for the minimal hours I could before I went to school the next morning: I was gonna find a guy. He would be someone I knew, but didn’t know know. He was also going to be someone I never saw coming. After years as a young adult of googling “Is it normal to be 22 and never have a boyfriend?” I felt a change was going to take place.
Again, I get it. I don’t even like admitting it. But it has made me a believer and devout disciple of the “trust your gut” church.
There have been a few times in my life I’ve had these moments—when there is some innate mother-universe guide that is telling me, “THIS MOMENT.” I can almost picture it as a memory while it is actively happening. It is quite the trip. It feels intentional in a world that also seems quite accidental. I think we all experience it, and we all attribute it to different beliefs. Some connect it to a deity they feel in their veins is telling them something. Others point to a passed loved one who is directing them to where they are supposed to be. Some have claimed it has saved their lives, that the voice had them walk in the opposite direction from the one they intended, a second before an awful car wreck crashed into the spot where they were going at first. As someone who comfortably considers themselves agnostic, I don’t really feel the need to hypothesize about what or who this voice is. I barely feel comfortable addressing it as basic biology, as biology in itself is something wild to wrap our heads around. I don’t have the same craving for a need to know of a greater purpose, or why things happened, or why they didn’t happen another way. I’m along for the ride, and it’s pretty cool to witness. Using my agency to at least control the next moment has been my way of handling curveballs and gut punches.
I don’t think I’ve ever given myself credit for how strongly I stand against waves. Like a pirate version of Bane, I was born in the storm at sea, molded by it. My baseline has always been, “Hang on to whatever the fuck you can find for dear life.”
This programming of perilous endurance has left me uncomfortable with stability. I believe having a twin to ride along on this adventure with has also given me an odd torment when left alone in silence. Meditation has ironically caused my heart rate to speed up and my breath to become shallower. Even moments of peace with others leave me twisting my wedding ring, panicking inwardly about what to say to break the silence. A TV needing to be on, music allowing me mental escape, or screaming children allow me to settle into escaping the prospect of thinking. Silence, calmness, and solitude have become the most unsettling moments for me, moments I avoid diligently.
Maybe there is a level of discomfort with feeling anything at all that is not guided by managing the feelings of others. As my husband, Aaron, very factually stated, I have been made to feel guilty for having feelings at all.
When he gently pointed out my habit of wanting to talk to someone and quickly navigating away from actually expanding on the conversation I had been striving for, it left him feeling confused about what he could do to help. When I began telling him that my feelings weren’t fair to him and our boys, he patiently stopped me, asking me to examine the reasoning behind my guilt about having feelings at all. Anger, sadness, fear, even guilt, were all human emotions and fair to have. It was okay to feel bad for cutting off contact with my mom. It was okay to be more than my emotions.
Speaking my feelings out loud and telling others when I was feeling depressed or scared were met with resistance from my mother for as long as I can remember. My hurt was a slight on her character, and slights on her character were met with reminders of what she had been through and how much better we had it. Missing my mother’s presence was met with another reminder that we had previously been homeless, and if I really wanted to see her that badly, we could just be homeless again so I could see her. Lack of attendance at school concerts was met with the same taunts. I was exposed to my mother’s trauma before I could acknowledge my own. Ingratitude was the poison of a healthy family unit. While I don’t remember the exact words that revealed my pushback against our situations throughout my childhood, I remember that speaking about what felt wrong was a source of familial frustration and exhaustion. I was the difficult one. I quickly became the comedic version of a black sheep. My intelligence, or lack thereof, was an identity that was used with a tone of endearment. There was no space to challenge the idea of the imposed identities. Ironically, this would only reinstate them further. Who would challenge the idea of being a difficult, blonde, aggressive bitch? Naturally, a difficult, blonde (another familial cultural hegemony to establish control), aggressive bitch, of course. My fear of sports and being on the receiving end of a thrown ball would become a greater running theme of my inability to be brave or able-bodied. Crying was validated as proof of my tendency to go for dramatics, and anger was met with eye rolls about my predictable habit of ensuring our family dynamic was volatile. When our stepfather, Eugene, would enter a drunken stupor of rage, it was naturally because I didn’t know when to be quiet and let things be.
My survival skills had quickly become a source of the reasoning behind my suffering. Disassociation was a source of safety, with becoming the dispirited shell of myself being the only source of security. Becoming numb to instability and unpredictability, remaining silent throughout adversity, thanking my mom and her husband dutifully for basic meals, and playing the part of being as small as possible were where I found I wouldn’t be hurt. My tendency to play a different part, the times when I would allow myself to be someone else, was only proof of emotional instability. I had learned quickly that sharing my feelings or asking for comfort was seen as a manipulative tactic to make my mom feel bad for not being good enough. Being seen was rarely a place of positivity and pride. Being recognized as a salient child meant pushing boundaries and establishing selfishness. Recognizing myself as an autonomous human meant I was rejecting the established ideology of our family: that we were meant to simply serve without making our own waves. We were only to ride along on those waves without complaint and aspire to afford most bills.
Dreams and aspirations were the commonalities of fools.
Graduating high school would be a cool bonus, but beyond the realm of service-industry jobs with no such thing as sick days or paid vacations, wanting to do something beyond the scope of what had been done was a ridiculous thing to say aloud that only wasted time and resources. My mom had at some point earned the title “dream crusher,” a diagnosis that she took on with pride. There was a sense of accomplishment she took on by not allowing us to pretend we had potential outside of work that didn’t even require a clean background check. Being “realistic” was the only way we should be. Everyone wanted to be successful or accomplish these crazy things called dreams… those people surely were village idiots. My mother’s passionate drive for us was to ensure we didn’t begin entertaining the idea of having capabilities. If we had been complimented on something by a teacher or adult who viewed anything we had done as recognizable, it was in those moments that we were to be reminded to comfort our mother about the potential she was never allowed to have in turn. Occupying space outside of silent obedience was not directly challenged; rather, it was carefully curated as vengeful resentment. The mere thought that we may have been able to create our own story of potential was a direct insult to my mother’s abilities as a parent. She had tried the best she could; were we not aware of the lengths she went to so we would be ensured safety and nourishment?
It is difficult for me to acknowledge my feelings without the preface that I know said feelings are negatively impactful on those around me. Talking about myself and my feelings feels akin to pushing children aside to find my lifeboat on the Titanic. In a world where there is so much suffering, who am I to acknowledge my own? If I have desires and goals, who am I stepping on to get there?
Finding another way to live not only threatens the worldview I’ve had for this long, it also challenges the idea that I had gratitude for a life that should not have been. If I am worthy, lovable, unbroken, or not innately defective, who can I be? Do I have potential after all? Am I intelligent? Am I capable of, well, anything? There is a natural fear of failure that comes with this. There is a normal level of fear of attempting something and falling flat on my face. Not having my mother’s given identities for myself is complicated in its liberation and distrust. Knowing you are only taking space rather than earning it, knowing that you are a naturally difficult and argumentative individual, and accepting your fate of eternal mediocrity and unremarkable nature at least offer the life vest of rare predictability. If your entire life has been grasping whatever you can hold onto amidst turbulent waters, why would you direct your ship towards unruly waters when the storm starts to settle?
Believing that I am the sum of what my mother has decided has given me the comfort of believing I know what is to come. Believing my fate is being left by everyone who will eventually learn the truth of who I am has given me the assurance that at least my mother would be back, reminding me that her “dream crusher” title was only in place because I felt hurt. My ability to be anything different would remain an ignorant effect of pride, which was a cardinal sin. Resisting this known pathway was also an effect of my frustrating tendency to push back against the safety of family fate. While family could be harmful, they would always be there. Anyone else would eventually find the greener side of the mountain, where more deserving and less defective partners awaited them. True hurt comes from believing you’re worth more than habitual trauma.
Because speaking my personal truths was a challenge to the status quo of being as invisible as possible, I found solace in writing. The same guidelines that became harder to navigate in the speaking world ceased to exist with the written word. While journaling was ironically something I avoided for fear of being discovered, I had the freedom in writing to ignore pre-established constructs. Speaking aloud meant risking fodder for ridicule. Writing never followed rules. While school had begged me to cease starting a sentence with “and,” I had a space that didn’t have to follow the rules. I could play with words, structures, and norms without fear of recourse. I could speak endlessly while remaining silent. Choosing not to share my writing also meant I could be vulnerable without fear of being broken. Writing became my unintended site of resistance.
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