I thought I experienced growth when I missed home. Having gone to a school all the way in Berkeley, 360 miles away from my lowly hometown of El Monte, I thought I grew, far far away from my traumas.
Sometimes I forget if the decisions I made was brave or selfish. Was I running away or giving myself distance? Was it self care or was it fear that drove me to be so far away from a place I called home?
I genuinely thought I grew passed my traumas. I was kinder to myself and the people around me. I learned about boundaries and personal retention. All I could think about in my apartment in Berkeley was winter break, the chance of coming back to the place I so wanted to get away from.
Coming back home I felt so out of placed. That was my initial feeling: displaced. My room felt like childhood preserved in place; I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to sit on my own bed, afraid of the wrinkles my body may cause on the sheets. I wandered from my room to the front door to take in everything that I have missed to only wonder what I was supposed to do with myself. This was my home. Now, I feel as though I need to again, redefine what that word meant to me.
Having stayed for about two weeks, the first thought I have is: I want to go back, back to my apartment to be able to be myself.
I left El Monte with what I thought were scars, healed by the distance faded with time. I thought I was safe, safe for my own emotional and mental security and safe to be myself. It was foolish of me thinking that coming back meant saving my own childhood; it was child’s logic to think that I could be a hero to myself.
What I thought to be scars, faded into the pigmentation of my skin, were just scabs. And me choosing to come back home is me picking at them, allowing them to bleed once more, opening wounds of trauma.
Home was always a place I have mixed feelings with. To be honest, it has felt like a prison, veiled in the guise of security and love. This is to not say love wasn't present, but it has always felt both overbearing and absent. Though, that may be just the minutia of Asian parenting.
Being here, had subconsciously told me that it was ok to hurt myself, giving my permission to cripple my own worth and self esteem. In turn, it had made me less patient and conscious of my actions, ignoring my empathy towards people.
I have never felt so dejected in so long. I have told myself to never feel the same way I did in high school ever again, the feeling of being so empty and longing, voided in my own heart. It has been difficult to sleep and find joy. The most I can do is to busy myself until time passes and the day ends.
Coming back home, I learned about a lot of things. I need an environment of people who are careful with the words they used, understanding the power of diction and connotations. I need a space where I can be able to not just express my identities, but to also just be my identity, without the fear of being caught. Coming back home, I learned that I have not outgrown my traumas as much as I thought.
