A Long Overdue Introspection

It's always been difficult when people ask me to describe myself or ask me who I am. It may be because of my indecisiveness when it comes to picking my favourite artist or movies. Or perhaps because I feel like I genuinely don’t know who I am. Though I’ve always tried to make sure that my past has never defined me, suppressing it has only made it increasingly harder to remember and thus remind myself of the life I live beyond what I portray to others. Consequently, I have no clue of who I am and it feels like I’ve been stuck in this vague, and nearly fake, reality that I constructed on my own. 

 

Now that I’m confronted with an identity crisis, I can’t seem to find a better way out of it then to reflect on why I resent my past so much to the point where I’ve actively tried to eliminate it from my life. It’s time to relive those memories and all the emotional damage that comes with it. It’s time to rewind to 2010, when life became blurry and my “reality” started to crumble. I vividly remember sitting in the computer lab at my school with my friends, casually learning how to use Microsoft Word, when a teacher had informed me that my mum was searching for me and I was excused from class. At the time, I had no clue as to what would happen, I was just psyched to get out of class.

 

With innocence and joy, I was skipping down the road, following the pavements that have always brought me home.  As I got closer, a black car was sitting at the gates and a familiar face was pacing back and forth stuffing the trunk in such a rush. When she was done, I came to sit with her in the car, and abruptly she said, "Come with me now, or you'll never see me again". I didn’t know what it was, perhaps because I couldn’t fathom a life without her, but I went with her, to wherever it may be. And so did my little brother. Within a few hours, we had arrived at “wherever it may be”. A city 1200 km away, filled with faces I had never seen and places I had never been. Everything around me told me something had changed, that things were now different. But I didn’t actually know why things were different.  

 

Whether I was explicitly told that my mum had filed for a divorce or not, I can’t remember. But what I do remember is being told that my biological father is a cruel person, who had done bad things to her, and so I should learn to now forget about him, eliminate him from my life. I took these words on faith, complied and hated him and his family like it was the holy word. He was no longer part of the family – and now clearly things were different. 

 

Months have passed. My little brother and I have now made new friends at my new school. I was enjoying benteng-bentengan at lunchtime, worry-free, just leaving the idea that I no longer have a father in the back of my mind. 

 

Unexpectedly, as 2010 came to an end, so did my biological father. Down the aisle of the school chapel, my mum and biological father sat opposite one another. And even though the school principal was the only other person there, the air felt stuffy. The uncertainty, judgement and tension filled the space, and it made it hard to think, to feel, to rationalize. But those six eyes locked on me were waiting for an answer, “Who do you want to live with? Who do you want to be raised by?” 

 

Maybe it was because of the pain, fragility, and fear that I saw in her eyes – and didn’t see in his. Or maybe it was just because of what I had been told, what I knew, so I chose my mum. After tears were shed and hugs were shared, I headed back down to class, with relief and hope that my brother would choose the same. But he didn’t, and we didn’t know what to do when he didn’t. I was excused for the rest of the day and again we were off to some place I didn’t know. The car was racing around the city to find my brother. He was gone, and I never got to say goodbye. He left a void that wasn’t filled for the next three years. His laughter, his plump cheeks, and the joy he radiated, gone, just like that. 

 

But by some chance, a little sense of hope and love had been restored. A stranger had taken on the responsibility and committed to raising me as if I was his own. He never wanted me to experience what being a "child from a broken home" would feel like. He became a father who crafted a perfect family, he tried to construct a world where bad things had never existed – he convinced me that my life is utopia. He didn’t care about the ostracization, about the whispers and side-eyes. He only cared about me, about my mum, and about us. 

 

Although utopia was heavenly on paper, the efforts to uphold it were painstaking and they took a toll on me. Constantly switching between homeschooling and public school already made it hard to make friends. Moving between cities every few years made it even harder to retain any of them. And I could rarely be with the friends I did make beyond school hours.  So, gradually, my urge to socialize went away. Because with “hanging out” came the risks of meeting him in public places. Places where he could forcibly take me and get away with it because he’s my biological father. “Hanging out” meant opening up about things I was told to never talk about. Also, having to answer unexpected questions that I didn’t know how to answer, like “do you have any siblings?” I had become accustomed to giving the “right” answers which were often not entirely true. If I were to say the truth, it’ll become evident that my life hadn’t been a utopia, and I would have to deal with the possibility of rejection.

 

But all of that I had to do to become the person I needed to be to maintain my utopia. The girl who always had gone over to her best friends' house after school now couldn't even call others her best friend. The girl who had been raised with privilege and such arrogance as a child, had realised that she is nothing without her parents. The girl who had loved her last name now hated it with a passion and never dared to write it down. I now knew what I needed to do to stay normal, to live in my utopia. 

 

After some time, I did start to wonder whether trying to maintain this utopia was worth all the friends and memories I could’ve made, but I didn’t dare say anything, I just had to hang in there. The reason to resist those temptations became clear in the attempt to visit my brother on his birthday. My mother and I were waiting outside his classroom, patiently waiting for his classes to finish so that we could finally hold him again. But then came my biological father, walking in through the school gates, approaching us. I started to tremble and hold on tightly to my mother, expressing my growing fear and discomfort as he came closer. She stood up, telling him to step back, while also trying to reassure me that things were okay. But while I only remained frozen, he persisted, and so did she. Things escalated once his hand flew across her cheek. And as things didn’t seem to die down, it became clear that we had to flee. The bruise that only faded weeks after, but still lives in my memory to this day. It acts as a reminder of why I needed to shut myself away from others and prevent him from ever finding me. Because once he has me, I couldn't even imagine what my mother would have to go through.

 

Once I was reunited with my brother and we slowly started to rebuild our lives, it really felt like my life was utopia. I actively neglected the dark memories and continuously concealed this story from pretty much anyone I began to establish friendships with. It was so much easier to claim that I had a normal life and a perfect family. Perhaps too easy, to the point where I even convinced most of myself that this part of my life had really been my whole life. I mean this group of four people should be living proof, right? 

 

But as I go out into the world, enroll in universities and apply for jobs, questions surrounding my identity and who I am have come to be inevitable. If my family had been perfect, why don’t I have my dad’s last name? Why don’t I look like my dad? Am I a step-daughter? Who am I? These are just some of the questions that I’ve been avoiding in exchange for a sense of stability, certainty, and a polished image to others, which all felt great. However, things don’t feel as great when those questions come back to haunt you because they’ve been left unanswered. The bliss was only temporary because I had to continuously reconstruct memories and parts of my life to fit with what I've been telling others. The constructed idea of a normal life and perfect family always failed at one point because my life is undeniably abnormal.

 

However, despite how draining it had become, I didn’t want to accept the abnormal version of my life. I knew that with reliving the feeling of loss, memories of abuse, and having to question what I knew about myself, my mental health would decline and I would become unproductive. Besides, these periods of revisiting the past often have become pity parties instead. So I’ve put it off, for as long as I could, and maybe as long as I actually needed to. It gave me time to get into a headspace where I could reflect and learn from my past. It was tough and is still tough to overcome my ego that feeds on self-pity, but I had to believe that it was possible and I had to believe that I could get through it.

 

So, instead of focusing on how many friends I could've made and the things I could've done, I tried to be grateful for what my past has made me become by seeing it in a different light. My darkest memories have turned into the best ones because they remind me of just how strong I can be. The ones that were my reason to cry are now the ones that overwhelm me with gratefulness because I am reminded that I never gave up even at my lowest, nor did the people closest to me. Memories of all the hardships that my parents had to go through also have become testaments to their love.

 

Now, even after the long and much-needed journey of self-reflection and coming to terms with my (ab)normal life, I can't say that I really know who I am. But I can finally, happily and proudly, admit that my life will always be far from utopia and whatever normal may be. And that’s okay, because from such a shitstorm came such priceless lessons and experiences that are unique to me. This whole experience has become my first step into a new beginning and my one step closer to knowing who I am.

 

“Never discourage anyone...who continually makes progress, no matter how slow.”

 

― Plato