Control

I wish I could control every aspect of my life. In my youth (and I realize some would argue that my youth is now, although I feel very old and so tired sometimes), I had this vision of myself when I reached the age of 22 as a brilliant, beautiful and jubilantly happy individual; A woman who never felt restrained by the world and people and all the emotional pollution that both produce so prolifically. Once I became an adult, I would not be haunted by physical insecurity, I would not be terrified of looking people in the eyes, and I would have a group of close friends who dropped in to see me in my fabulous and immaculately clean apartment on a daily basis—just like on television.

I was having a conversation with my mother on the phone the other day, and I mentioned to her that my boss recommended I touch the children more—apparently I am too humourless as a teacher (they just don't get sarcasm, is all…) to also be so sterile-seeming as well. I realize this sounds strange, but I am just not used to touching people. My mother is a teacher and she said that with "problem kids" teachers always make physical contact (a hand on the shoulder, or tousling the hair, etc). Well, I was never a "problem kid" and I can't think of a single incident where a teacher laid a hand on my shoulder (a physical reminder that there will be consequences to actions?) without me looking alarmed and pulling quickly away…I was one of those children who "didn't like to be touched." I hugged my grandparents when I saw them because I knew they expected it, it was the chore to remember, my brother, my sister and I, as we patiently waited our turn to participate in this strange and semi-embarrassing hugging ritual. But I never really hugged out of genuine affection for anyone. I refused to be hugged by my parents, as I hated them. Hugs from "the father" (who had a very Machiavellian perception of affection: Fear=Respect. Respect=Love) felt like suffocation; a stranglehold that would cause me to lose my balance on the eggshells we were all walking upon. Hugs from my mother felt unemotional, staid, an action performed more out of her notion of what a mother should do rather than genuine maternal feelings towards me (her depression and my unaffectionate personality allowed her to accept my silence and seclusion as complacency with our "relationship"). I disallowed all physical contact after a certain point, but I think by then, no one in my house really felt much like hugging anyone anyway.

Today, even though I am extremely sick, I went to E-Mart in search of a pharmacy. I explained myself as best as I could, and spoke so the technician could hear that I have laryngitis (I've got next to no voice right now). I was given a couple of boxes of something or other and she threw in a bottle of Korean medicine gratis—a token for the pathetically sick westerner with the runny nose. I tried it—it's repulsive. Anyway, after that I went and sat in the park for awhile, as the weather was actually mild today. I observed people, mostly other women about my age. I felt like comparing…I saw girls with their friends, giggling like maniacs, women with their boyfriends, looking quite comfortable holding hands. Ladies with their babies, bouncing them up and down. These people all looked pretty happy, I thought. These aren't the sort of people who need to work up the confidence to order at restaurants (they butt in front of me in lines and push me out of the subway….lol). These aren't the sort of people who pretend the doorbell isn't actually ringing like mad, if the house is messy and no one is expected. These people don't need to get drunk to make friends. Korean girls hold hands with each other all the time, I've noticed. Drunk Korean men walk down the street with their arms slung over each other for physical support. And that's fine.

I just thought that one day I'd reach a certain point, have a sort of epiphany, see the goddamn light (without going blind like Oedipus Rex), and just not give a fuck about what other people thought about me. One day, I would roll out of bed, realize my place as just another living person on a planet inhabited by 6 or 7 billion more individuals who, when closely examined, were really not all that different despite the latest and greatest in sociological research. I would go about my business approaching life anew. I would be a human phoenix; proof that people can change for the better, proof that youth and beauty can be a reward for destroying a less vibrant self. I would get a kick out of interacting with people—other members of my species. I would marvel at how amazing it is that on a daily basis, I breathe the same air as innumerable people, make fleeting eye contact with possibly thousands. Maybe, that brief second of eye contact or watching someone wait beside me at a pedestrian light will be the only time I ever see that person in my life. And maybe I'll remember what they look like, let that face get imprinted in my subconscious and allow it to somehow work its way into all those dreams I just don't remember. Perhaps in all those lost dreams, we are friends and get together and watch terrible B-movies, and drink Bloody Marys every Wednesday night.

Yes, as a child, I figured that one day I would be in control. My hands wouldn't shake, I wouldn't get headaches, eating wouldn't be an ordeal or ritualized. I wouldn't wonder about how many floors I would have to jump from to still stay alive. The only pills I would take would be bright orange multi-vitamins in the morning. I wouldn't feel inferior to just about everyone. I would grow up and be able to look people in the eyes. Every laugh I heard wouldn't spark paranoid thoughts and potentially unfounded inner seizures of utter humiliation. I would recognize the strengths that I did have and be okay. I would forget the horrible moments of my life, and not hide behind the defence of being a complicated person who didn't get enough attention as a child primarily because she was afraid to ask… When I became an adult, I would be perfect. Nothing would be beyond my grasp. Perhaps I was never really childish enough to actually ever grow up, emotionally. Maybe if I'd been more naive, less exposed to bitterness and rejection, things would be different. But maybe the idea of "perfection" has just become so convoluted in my mind that it itself is my restraint. Maybe my own mind is what's holding me back. If I had never had a vision of a proper life filled with happiness, confidence and purpose maybe it could have happened by now, as I wouldn't have spent most of my life lamenting its failure. Is hope really a constraint then? If I stop hoping for anything to change, will I get what I want—will I have control? If I want to be sociable, if I want to be wonderfully self-satisfied, I can have it, you say, crazy mind of mine…? And if I want to disappear then, I guess I should be able to do that too.