I am a walking contradiction.
Sometimes the music in my ears sounds especially cheerful and all I want to do is drink iced colas and eat candy: and I want to find out who a stranger is and listen to their story. Other times, I am somehow depressed and barely utter a word all day. I will find words futile and silence my remedy.
Sometimes, the empty room is suffocating. Other times, it’s therapeutic.
When I was a boy, my parents thought of me as a quiet, introverted child, who never misbehaves. My teachers thought I was a jokester, who would not treat homework seriously and should focus more on school. Some teachers and friends thought I was lively, constantly talking and joking around, disrupting whatever room I was in. But if my mother was on the bus with me to school, you will not hear a single word out of young Yang.
Who am I really?
I am everything – every interaction, every event and fact, every relationship, and every thought. I am both the sentimental and the factual – both the things that happened to me and the thoughts I imagined. Both the young boy who was too shy and the older teenager who just wanted to laugh and make others laugh – I am a walking contradiction.
On July 15th, 2024, I wrote the following:
“Yesterday, or the day before, for the first time maybe in a decade, I cried.
I was by myself. It happened in the bathroom. It lasted for around 3 minutes. Though I know what made me cry it was still strange looking in the mirror and seeing red swollen eyes on myself.
Later that night I sat in the car for around an hour blasting music – which, a pro tip, is the best remedy and better than any therapy. I would trade everything I have for a singer’s voice.
I think that was June 14th, 2024. An ordinary day really.”
It was in response to my something my mother said while I had an argument with my dad. I forgot exactly what she said. But I think it was something along the lines of, “It’s true. You were always a good and quiet kid. You never caused us any trouble. And you made our lives incredibly easy. Our friends would always tell us how surprised they were when you would eat by yourself at a young age and never made a scene. And your teachers would always tell us how lucky we were for having a kid that was smart and reserved. I remember praying before you were born that God gift me a son that would be easy to manage and make our life easier….and he did…But at the same time, you grew up in an oppressive environment, you never smiled at home and I think you felt a lot of pressure….But despite that, you never caused us any trouble and said nothing…” My mother was emotional as she said all this. My father did not utter a single word, as if it was his way of concurring.
That made me a little emotional. And I cried later. But it was for myself. For the young boy in me.
The other day I saw a family portrait. I was dressed well, with clothes that were too old for my age. I had my hands in the pockets of my jacket. I was standing next to my mother, while she sat, and my dad was standing next to her. It was a beautiful photo. But while I look closer, my parents both had a smile on their face, I did not. I did not see happiness nor childish wonder in my eyes. I saw a kid in clothes that were too old for him playing a character – standing there because he was told to stand there and had put his fingers in his pockets because the photographer told him that was the “proper” pose. I saw a kid that was just doing what he was told and was still trying to figure out the world around him; I saw a lost kid – a kid that just needed a big hug and be told that “everything will be okay…”
I remember once when I a kid, and I had friends over to my house to play. A few hours later, in the evening, I took a shower. After cleaning up, I was told they left without ever saying goodbye. I remember being heavily let down, and I was very sad. A deep sadness that a young boy should never experience. It was in that moment where I started to question everything, whether it might all end like this. Ever since then, I always had the tendency to do proper goodbyes with friends – not allowing myself to feel that deep let down again. I was both running towards my shadow and away from it.
I am a walking contradiction. I am still a young boy, immature in a lot of ways. Yet inside a grown up body. And doing grown up things.
Some habits never changed – my favourite thing to do after being home from school was eating dinner by myself. I loved it. It was like the one thing where I had all the freedom in the world. I would sometimes order takeout, or eat a home-cooked meal, whatever it was, and watch a show that I loved with it, by myself. Sometimes my parents would be home and they ate upstairs, but it didn’t matter, my little room and table was my spot. And my spot only.
In a way, that was the cope.
I wish there were no mirrors in this world. And the only chance a man can gauge at himself is through a rough and broken reflection off a river and never have to look himself in the eyes, wondering what he is made of. I wish God had not made men so reflective that every time one is bored there would be no inner voice questioning his existence and validity. I wish memory would only serve happiness. And I wish I was really my own man, and have habits that are created out of creative exploration rather than passive acceptance; I wish, if I was cursed to live my life, as I now and have lived it, innumerable times more, with nothing new to it, I would be thankful for such a divine gift and not gnash my teeth. I wish, that young boy would get what he deserves.
But until then, I am a walking contradiction.
Alistair's blog 