I sit behind my computer screen. Furiously clicking work windows closed. To not be distracted. To prevent myself from doing what is easy.
To get here. To be with myself.
Closing my eyes.
Crossing my legs, feet atop the round carpet from a friend. Sitting on a cushion, on one of the two chairs I bought for the dinner party. Even now, acquiring when absolutely required, to serve others. Resting my fingers on the cold keyboard. Where do I start, as the piano glides across the black and white keys. The melody of my heart, letting my fingers dance. Heaviness of my chest. Tears fill my eyes. I grab tissues and bring them to my eyes.
Sadness surge like it is full moon. Sobs break across the sea wall and crash into my face, tears spray across the dry and contoured surface of what the world sees. Yet, they don’t see me, as I retreat into myself.
Coaxing myself to face the reality of the past. To see what happened, unveiling the fog of longing and unfounded hopes.
Love embodied in the sacrifice of a mother. Of a grandmother. Of a grandfather.
Only to see that these were result of lack, not love. From having to make do with crumbs. What kind of cake can you bake? What kind of care can you give?
Lunch bell rings. Best part of a child’s school day. Oval shaped metal container contains the white rice. A white plastic unwraps. In it are just crumps. There is no banchan of crispy black seaweed. I quickly crumple the plastic into the bag. Opening the metal container and scoops few spoonsful. The taste of white and sticky rice feels go to the senses.
From that day on, I would check my lunch box before leaving for school. One day, leaving her schoolbag home, with lunch box clutched to my chest.
Was I hungry growing up? I thought no. I was wrong.
I could see and feel the lack around me. They couldn’t take care of themselves, never mind a child. I needed more than they could give. Feeling bad for experiencing lack. Yet, feeling protective of the family. Or was I afraid to become the outcast?
She smelled like urine. Her hair full of lice, never brushed. She never changed her clothes, and she had no friends. Signs of neglect, which we all ignored but could see.
The outcast. I was afraid she would become me. So we all avoided her, and she was alone. Whatever happened to that poor child?
Why did I hide in the closet, in the dark? To escape the sensory overload of the world. TV, light, people, food.
Where was I going? I spent my time trying to fill the gaps of care. Worrying about the world around me that could not provide. This skill of mine helps to pay the bills, for I am the master of seeing the gaps before anyone else. The hyper vigilant child, now an adult, performing pre-mortem audits of major corporate programs.
Why do I eat, when things are going well? When I feel, I don’t know if I have yet found the words to describe these surges of pain.
Impossibly filling the gap of lack. Of not being cared for. Of not being embraced and not be free to play. To not throw tantrums. To not expect to find lunch to eat. To not see a parent show up a field day. The overwhelming response of awe and stupor if she does. The expectation itself is that of a lacking child.
Because I have been hungry for all the things I have wanted and desired. Not wanting to be selfish, for I have been known to be by my family. So unfair. For they only saw the talents and surety of my innate skillset of telling stories, curiosity and working hard to gain knowledge that comes from my love of reading and words. Because I never asked for what I wanted or needed. Because I was focused on keeping the peace. Because I was afraid. Of the noise, the people and all the baggage of expectations. Therefore, seeking solace of solitude. Not wanting to be around so many people. Avoiding gatherings. Becoming allergic to expectations from and by others. Because I had created impossible expectations of myself, which I have now grown too old of. Too tired of.
Because, even though as I was a child. I could see things for what they were. Everyone was doing their best. I didn’t want to add to everyone’s burden. The reasoning of a child.
Because I have been cheating. I have been lying. I have been starving. The most important person.
Taking responsibility for others. The burden of others. My small body carrying too much.
And so, I must have been so tired. And so, I think I must eat. To fill myself in ways that couldn’t be served. And as I write, I know this is true. The painful truth. What does Gabor Mate say? Why the addiction? What is the benefit?
To feed myself. To take care of myself. To become whole. To honor the most important person: me.
So instead of feeling bad about these surges of heaviness to feed myself, I give myself compassion. I give myself praises for trying to take care of myself. For wanting to overfeed, for the fear of not having enough. To protect myself for not standing out and being pretty. The remnants of the past still working themselves out of me. Like the stones I feel below my feet as I hike today. Today is cold, yet the stones hot. Because yesterday, the sun was out.
I write to myself, for myself. Acknowledging my own addiction. My own suffering and sadness that is not all of me. Yet, a part of me. I must honor and take care of, this part of me. That still live within the deepest corner of my heart that is soft and small. Yet the strongest organ that never stops working.