In The Closet

my parents knew it was bad when i got in the closet.

like, literally. when i turned off all the lights, hid in that tiny room, and pushed my dresser in front of the door to “lock it”, everyone in my family knew i was going through a bout of … something. we couldn’t call it anxiety or depression or ADHD or anything absolutely shameful like that – but it was something worth noting. something that transcended the bounds of Vietnamese responsibility, allowing me to step away from my duties as a daughter to “deal with it” on my own.

i didn’t do much in the closet. i would bring a pillow and a blanket and my stuffed animal of choice, i would lay on the floor in the darkness, and i would cry. i would cry until i was on the verge of throwing up, and then i would force myself to stop (mostly because throwing up would require leaving the closet). sometimes i would think about everything, sometimes i would think about nothing. sometimes i would beg whatever spirits were listening to let me stay in the closet forever. but even at twelve years old, i knew better than that – there were dishes to clean and math problems to finish. so when my parents looked straight through my bloodshot eyes to remind me of those tasks, i would get up, gather my things, and leave.

and nobody ever asked about the closet. everybody could hear the screaming then sobbing then nothing at all, but they never mentioned that either. i liked to imagine that nobody heard me, but sometimes (all the time) i wished somebody would. even in adolescence, i wished i didn’t retreat to that closet and i wished it hadn’t become my only refuge of emotion.

because that closet became my dorm at boarding school, then my car, then my apartment bathtub where i begged a god i didn’t believe in to make everything stop. if i were writing this five years ago, every sentence would have been laden with resentment for the people in my life – i could’ve filled every page of this piece with pure hatred.

five years ago, i didn’t remember the therapy sessions or the clinic visits. all i remembered was the pure, unbridled shame i felt on the drives home.

“everybody feels this way, bé. i don’t know why you make us pay for this.”

“con, you don’t know what it means to be sad. ba and i have done everything for you.” “what will you do in the real world, gái? you can’t be like this forever. what will people think of me?”

in most Asian collectivist cultures, mental illness of any kind is regarded this way. disability is nothing more than weaponized weakness – a child’s troubled mind serves only as a reflection of their parent’s failure. and in a culture so heavily rooted in shame, there’s simply no room to lose face in this way.

and five years ago, i could have wasted away discussing what that did to me. what my parents’ stigma and ridicule did for my adolescent self-esteem. but how can we ignore what stigma and ridicule did to them first?

to most Asian families, trauma is tradition – an entity passed on between parents and children, never addressed because it’s “just a part of life”. the pains of poverty and famine and war our ancestors endured never truly left, but remain innate within each new generation. today, these wounds show themselves in an (admittedly) more trivial light: in ideals of familial obligation, academic success, & honor. and and to admit one’s own fragility is to defy all three. it becomes more than a failed exam or a missed practice. for our parents (and for many of us), to struggle is to deny one’s own culture. and for those who lost everything to survive in this country, culture is all we have left.

to them, every tear that fell from my face reminded them that they were failing. they sacrificed everything for me to succeed – they moved 9,000 miles away from home, learned a language they despised, and assimilated to a culture they didn’t understand just for me to have the chance they didn’t.

at fourteen, i didn’t understand the complexity of my parents’ convictions. “if you can’t even get through high school,” they would ask, “how will you provide for your family? for your children? how will you honor those who sacrificed everything for you?”

we often forget that these questions weren’t asked only of us, but of them, too.

my mother, a refugee before age ten and a caregiver to her entire family, didn’t exactly mean to hide behind the motherly perfectionism and ambition – that was truly all she knew. to live was to endure, and she would be damned if her daughter didn’t think the same.

my father, who left every semblance of his Vietnamese culture so that his family might make a life here, never meant to take out our ancestors’ beliefs on me. to them, the self-harm and suicidal ideation wouldn’t have been worth any more than a demerit on a transcript.

but i still remember my father’s calls to the boarding school hall phone, raising his voice in concern when i wouldn’t explain what was wrong. i remember my mother’s hesitant suggestion of therapy, however much she dreaded that i might actually say yes. i remember how they looked at me – eyes filled with something between disappointment and absolute dread – when i threatened suicide to their faces. it wasn’t perfect, but they were trying.

our parents’ ignorance is the result of forced immigration, conflicting cultural traditions, and a sort of assimilation we’ll never have to experience. and sometimes that makes it easier to forgive them for the perceptions of mental illness they instilled in us.

at the same time, though, we must remember that recovery is a neverending road. hell, i can’t even find it in me to write my own name here – despite countless tears shed and conversations shared with my parents, it often feels sinful to speak so freely about my struggles.

and i suppose that’s the whole point of growing up – to share in your parents’ experiences and realize that it’s their first time living, too.