Lately, I've been reflecting on my personal intergenerational traumas. I'm not proud to admit it, but this is a result of many long nights and devoted listens to Kendrick Lamar's Mr. Morale and the Big Steppers. Say what you want about the album, but I think anyone will admit that the work's raw emotionality and candor forces the listener to engage not only with the person Kendrick is, but also how they relate or not relate to the situations and scenarios that brought him to be the person he is today. I know I did.
My family is from Vietnam. Specifically, they immigrated to the United States after the Fall of Saigon. I don't know the full story, only the bits and pieces gleaned after a full childhood's worth of exasperated comments on my relative privilege in my upbringing compared to my mother and her sisters, and I don't really feel right to try and dig up their pain and agony for my own personal gain, but I think I have enough to come to some conclusions. I know they moved around a lot, I know they were poor, I know that they themselves had a lot of internal strife. My mother during my later formative years often used her anecdote of moving out at sixteen due to her own issues with my grandmother as some kind of example of an ability to achieve economic independence at an early age, but considering what I know about the shifting nature of the economy since the late 1980s and how unlikely those sorts of successes are in general, it never really came off that way. But I digress, it's come to me recently that being poor and escaping war in that fashion leaves lasting imprints on how you perceive the world around you. It prioritizes survival and navigation of the decidedly foreign new world over everything else, reinforcing ideas of tight familial units and cohorts, rigid in their structure and hierarchy, without much regard for the feelings of those raised within those environments. Eastern culture is already highly stratified in its domestic arrangements, always placing seniority over equality, and it seems to me that the mental damage and stress of the ordeal of surviving your country getting bombed into the Stone Age, finding your way out of a repressive regime, and the ensuing struggle for economic stability in the new environment only served to amplify and exacerbate the unhealthy aspects of such settings.
Contrast this with my Western style of thinking: Generally, in The West, arguments are won and lost based on the merits and contents of the logic involved, everyone has the same or at least similar value in their worthiness of being heard regardless of their economic contribution to the household, and righteousness is given precedent over peace. I've been subsumed by these values, and I hold them close to my heart because they're all I've ever really known. This is a stark difference with what those raising me believed in, as mentioned previously. This civilizational / cultural contrast caused a lot of bickering and disagreement as I grew up and started trying to figure out the world for myself. They never understood why I railed and protested so fiercely against their attempts to rein me in, to bring me in harmony with what they thought to be the ideal form of residential order. They never really understood why I liked to do things in solitude. They never understood the problem I had with how oppressive it felt at times to be at home or why I reacted so intensely when condescended to. They never understood my limitations emotionally or physically. I think deep down they felt as if I could do anything, that I was a wunderkind, a prodigy within their ranks, and wanted to nurture that potential in the only way they knew how. They only expressed this through backhanded praise during long lectures though, making me suspicious of positive reinforcement in general, which will come up later. Because of this lack of shared understanding, communication was fraught and rarely had, and only happened when it was too late: when emotions boiled over and the unsaid was made audible, where mutually assured destruction was the only possible result. I never really felt loved, either, because of how wide the divide really was between us, despite the fact that at some level I know they were trying their best to express it in the day to day.
My eventual and almost inevitable suicide attempt to come didn't change matters much either.
All of this has stunted and frustrated and confounded my attempts to build meaningful relationships in general. The lack of comfort I felt at home has caused me to engage in the most futile of follies, trying to find a love of self through the love of others. Not only are humans fickle beings, but any endeavors at trying to build me up from those I hold dear were met with deaf ears, I couldn't see or feel or sense any of the good in me that they could so easily and readily find apparent. It is a matter of great serendipity for me that they still have the patience to continually try anyway, despite my repeated insistences to the contrary. When faced with potential for a new friendship, I attach too quickly and too recklessly, stepping over implicit boundaries seemingly obvious to others without much care, because I was and maybe still am that desperate to find someone else to connect to because I've never had that feeling of safety in my relationships for long, which is a sort of self fulfilling prophecy, evidently enough. I'm honest to a fault to everyone who's willing to listen because that's how I was raised, and I never really experienced anything different growing up. I have trouble with tact and diplomatic language, because that's the only way I learned how to express myself to others, growing up in a home reminiscent of a pressure cooker. Now, this isn't the whole truth. Some of the roots underlying my many mistakes have been indeed because of how I was brought up into the world, and some of it was youth. However, there have been points where I should've just known better.
To those I've hurt, made uncomfortable, drove off, etcetera:
I'm sorry, I know I've fucked up.
I'm doing my best to work on it (I've gone to a lot of therapy, I'm actively taking psychiatric medications, and I've even moved out of the toxic home situation at great risk to myself)
I hope you can find it within yourselves to forgive me, or at least sympathize with where I'm at and where I've been.
Anyways, as I sit here, homeless, pondering and writing out the driving factors behind my many mental health and relational battles, broader questions are seeping into my consciousness.
Am I doomed to suffer?
With the the impending anthropological ecological collapse all but certain, Capitalism forever shrinking the amount of those with any form of marginal wealth and therefore power and individual freedom to pursue happiness, and my own recurring mental health struggles in mind, it all seems to be getting worse if not yearly than daily. My life has been a string of unfortunate dice rolls and planets out of alignment, and occasionally it feels as if it's a never ending string of tough luck, fallacious as I know that type of thinking to be.
Am I bound to implode under the weight of this suffering, even if it's not fully insurmountable?
I've teetered on the edge of mental soundness for as long as I can remember, forever dancing just out of the clutches of the black maw of my own self destructive tendencies. I wonder quite often if there's going to a day where it's all too much, where the fighting spirit totally drains from my body, when I finally capitulate to my worst temptations and send myself to the next life. I've already seen omens of this very possibility come to be; When when i was younger, I used to have this boundless passion; this sort of unflappable belief in myself and the ability of the world to bend my way. I previously was so certain in everything I stood for, flawed as those things were. Nowadays, I'm filled with much ennui. I'm weary and beaten down. I'm tired from feeling like a fuckup all the time. I suppose I am also calmer, but that comes at the cost of feeling less alive and less like a person. Somewhere in the crucible of adolescence and abuse and anxiety, I lost a lot of ability to genuinely feel hope in this cold void, and it weighs on me frequently.
Sometimes, it feels as if I don't have any more to give, any more strength to continue, and yet I always manage to find a way to keep going, somehow.
Something else that distresses me is that i the answers to the above questions are both in the negatory, how do I even begin to transcend my suffering?
I don't know, but maybe an answer will present itself in due time, and all I have to be is patient.
I don't know if that's likely though.
The not knowing is killer.
At present, I'm so full of ambiguity and uncertainty about anything I'm going through that I struggle to find any sense of happiness or groundedness in this world.
The feeling is like a boa constrictor in the shape of an ouroboros, forever eating its own tail and tightening the noose around my neck, cutting off the air supply to other thoughts that would keep me sane and coherent.
Perhaps, it's what I deserve.
Perhaps, it's all for the best.
Perhaps, I will struggle with the idea of "perhaps" until the very last of my mortal days, whether that comes sooner or later.
Or perhaps I won't.
I won't pretend to be even close to intelligent or worldly enough to have a succinct and satisfying solution, but I guess that's okay.
if there's anything i've learned in my short time on earth, it's that it's okay to not know. it's okay to not understand the circumstances around you and where they will lead you, just as everyone else doesn't understand the reasons behind the cosmic mise-en-scène that has placed any of us in our current positions in life's grand stage play.
it's part of being human.
and there's really something truly connecting;
something truly hopeful about that, isn't there?