Can I be me?

 I am not proud of the person I was.

I was ignorant. I was arrogant, just like how most teenagers are. You know, that massive early teenage years ego. Looking back now, I have to admit that those were very odd years of my life. I thought I knew who I was. I thought I had figured it out. I thought I knew who I wanted to become. And most importantly, I thought I knew who would stay and who wouldn't. Funny how at the end of my teenage years, I was wrong about most of the things mentioned above. It turned out that the person I was, was only an insecure and pretentious version of me. It turned out that I did know nothing. It turned out that the person I wanted to become wasn't myself, it was the person I thought I needed to become. You know, the kind that society tells you to become regardless of who you truly are. Because apparently, I can't be myself and be happy at the same time. Last but not least, the thing that hurt me the most when I got it wrong, the people I thought would stay for me, didn't. The people I thought didn't care for me, did. 

I think I had always been jealous of other people in my younger years, whether I wanted to admit it or not. For the longest time, I wanted to pretend like I didn't care, of judgment, of comparison, and anything along those lines. But I did. They got into my head. I always wished to be skinny. I admittedly still do, to some degree. I experienced so much fat-shaming that now I can't even step on a scale. We had an annual health check-up at school at the beginning of the year in Vietnam. It was my biggest fear. Not a physics exam, not a calculus exam, not an overdue essay, it was the health check-up. Because we had to step up on a scale and then the medical assistant would read our weight out loud for the nurse to write down on our health records. I remember vividly, how some laughed at me. I remember the skinny girls saying along the lines of: "oh no, I gained weight. I am fat now." I remember how a lady made fun of me at the park because, well, I was fat (more of the story here in our podcast). I remember my dad told me that he was embarrassed by me and that I should lose some weight. 9 years have passed since but every time I wanted dessert, I think about it. I don't think I will ever recover. 

I was jealous of other people in middle school who had their parents wait for them outside the school gate to pick them up. My parents rarely did. They were either late or they didn't come at all. I don't think they even knew when to pick me up. I am not mad about it, well, not anymore because much time has passed and I have other things to be mad about. I have to admit I was annoyed seeing them picking up my sisters on time pretty much every single time. A part of me gets it, they were busy. I was the oldest kid, meaning I was the least of their concern. I totally could go home by myself. It was not a big deal, you know, who cares if I was picked up or not as long as I got home and did my homework. I get that they did the best they could. But a part of me doesn't. That part of me just wished that on some splendid days, the moment I peek over the school gate, stand there my parents, waiting to bring me home. 

I was jealous of American citizens and those who had green cards. Not anymore now. Those days were long gone. But in the beginning, I wished I was born in America. I wasn't ashamed of being Vietnamese because quite frankly, I am probably not Vietnamese enough. I just wondered was it really worth it to come all the way to this country and being treated by the system like an atm. I still don't have the answer to that question. I hope I could make it worth it. 

I was jealous of my sisters. Big time. I wished I was skinny like my 2nd sister. I wished I was as bright and extroverted as my youngest sister. I wished I was picked up by my parents like they did. I wished my family was better off when they first had me so that I could have proper cow's milk instead of the cheap soy milk my mom could only afford (thinking back now that probably foreshadows me going vegan years later). 

I spent so much time just wishful thinking. I couldn't accept how flawed I was. I always wanted to be someone else.

Can I be me?

At the end of the day, can I be me?