In fact, there was a time when I found myself yearning desperately for others' approval. As an only child in a typical family, I grew up with a unique set of challenges. My parents had me late in life, navigating their own balance of dreams and responsibilities amidst the cultural backdrop of the country I grew up in, which adhered to a strict one-child policy.
In our society, deep-rooted social norms dictate the dynamics of family and marriage. It was widely accepted that once a girl got married, she would seamlessly transition from her birth family to the embrace of her in-laws, almost as if she were being cut from one vine and grafted onto another. In contrast, boys were expected to carry on the family name, stepping into the hereditary roles of the family business and preserving the lineage.
As appalling as it is to acknowledge, the grim practice of quietly abandoning newborn daughters in hopes of producing a son was, unfortunately, far too common in some communities. Even in the absence of concrete evidence, whispers of such tragedies circulated, embodying a harsh reality that unfolded far too frequently. In a peculiar twist of fate, I found myself fortunate; my mother, having given birth to me later in life, faced significant complications that would prevent her from having another child. The choice loomed before her, fraught with peril—a potential life-or-death gamble for a 50/50 chance of actually getting a boy. Yet, despite this stroke of luck that allowed me to cling to existence, there were moments when I questioned the value of life, wondering whether it was worth living in such a precarious world.
To my father, I was perpetually inadequate, no matter how hard I tried. I poured my energy into sports, earning trophies and accolades, and I studied tirelessly, consistently acing my exams. I put in more effort than anyone around me, yet it was never sufficient. Whenever I fell short on a test, his dismissive words echoed in my mind: "If only I weren't a girl." And if I excelled, it was overshadowed by the sentiment that I would have been celebrated with the words, "if only I were a boy. Each achievement felt hollow, overshadowed by the weight of expectations that seemed impossible to meet.
My mother, it seemed, couldn't even bring herself to utter my name; I was merely a manifestation of her anguish, a demon spawn in her eyes. To her, I represented the crushing disappointment of lost potential, a bitter reminder of her inability to give my father the son he desired. This perceived failure did more than diminish her self-worth—it stripped her of status within our household, leaving her feeling as though my mere existence forever tarnished her.
No matter how I choose to dress in styles typically associated with boys, or how much I adopt behaviors and mannerisms that may mirror theirs, I understand deep down that I can never truly embody what it means to be a man. The essence of masculinity eludes me, remaining a realm I can only observe from a distance.
The harder I struggled to fit into the mold of a boy, the more disdain my mother seemed to direct toward me. Her disapproving glares felt like daggers, piercing my efforts to conform. Meanwhile, my father watched with a furrowed brow, convinced that something deep within me was amiss, leaving me caught in the crossfire of their judgments and expectations.
The more I struggled, the deeper I sank into despair. No matter how hard I tried, nothing felt enough. I hacked away at my hair in a desperate attempt to reshape my identity, bound my chest tightly, and immersed myself in the intensity of martial arts and the exhilaration of basketball. I aimed for high marks in school, seeking validation in every corner, yet it all felt hollow. Even when some girls praised my achievements, secretly handing me love letters and other boys casually calling me "bro" or "homie," I was haunted by the glaring disapproval of my parents and grandparents. To them, I was not just a disappointment; I represented the severing of our family's bloodline.
You know how, when you hear something often enough, it begins to seep into your very soul and transform your beliefs?
At first, I couldn't fathom the thought of being a disgrace, a burden, or a waste of space—someone who would never be good enough. But as I found myself submerged in the relentless tide of my family's disdain, their scorn, and their neglect, I began to question my self-worth less and less. The words that once bounced off me like raindrops on a roof, where I attempt to show my efforts in rebellion, in denial. Their words took root, and their cruelty became undeniable to me. It's a chilling sensation, really, when you stop fighting against the current and surrender to the belief that you are unloved. You almost become numb to it all, like a statue molded by time, accepting your role in the shadows of their disappointment.
In some ways, it felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders, yet simultaneously, I was left with an overwhelming sense of emptiness. After fighting my battles for so long, when I finally reached a point of exhaustion too profound to continue, I became nothing more than an empty shell, aimlessly drifting along the currents of life. I went through the motions, appearing normal on the surface, but inside, I was slowly fading away.
All the goals I had diligently pursued turned to dust, and I found myself apathetic, no longer striving for good grades or excellence. My sudden disengagement did not go unnoticed; my teachers quickly alerted my parents, igniting a tumultuous storm of shame, humiliation, and disgust that rained down upon me. It felt like a relentless whirlwind, leaving me feeling as if nothing I did was ever right, as if I embodied everything wrong in the world. Each accusation cut like a knife, deepening the chasm of despair I found myself in.
I have often found myself pondering whether the experience of being alive truly has any worth.
…
I gazed up at the sprawling clouds above, lost in a dreamy haze, when a whisper, "sweetheart," stirred my senses. The warmth of a breath caressed my ear, prompting me to turn towards its source.
As I did, the rhythmic sound of a heartbeat echoed gently in my ear, a soothing lullaby that brought me back to the moment. I realized I was sprawled comfortably atop Shanks, his strong arm encircling my waist, holding me close and secure as we sank deeper into the embrace of my lounge chair. We were nestled together, the warmth of his presence contrasting with the coolness of the shade provided by the beach umbrella, even though two other lounge chairs lay invitingly side by side where he usually sat.
Shanks seemed to have discovered immense pleasure in sticking to me like toffee candy, his presence both sweet and annoyingly persistent. At first, I felt a flush of embarrassment as he clung to me like an overzealous puppy on a leash, eager to stay by my side. The crew didn't outright laugh at our amusing predicament, but their teasing smirks and mischievous wiggling eyebrows spoke volumes. Men. If I had the energy, I would have given them a good kick into next week, but that would require far more effort than I was willing to muster.
I still can't shake the irony of it all: the moment I became a man was the very moment I found myself enveloped in a whirlwind of love, affection, and care. Yet, despite this newfound embrace, the nagging feelings of self-hatred, a deep-seated sense of worthlessness, and an overwhelming desire to surrender to despair still cling to me like shadows.
Was the absence of love truly a result of my identity as a girl? The thought lingers, especially when I consider Uta—radiant and adored by everyone fortunate enough to cross her path. My heart swells with affection for her; she is a beacon of warmth in a world that sometimes feels cold. In contrast, it leaves me wondering: Was it truly my biological gender that led to me being scorned, or was it simply that I was never truly wanted from the start?
Even when I recognize the irrationality of feeling this way—internalizing the disgust, disgrace, and disdain that my family has directed toward me—I can't seem to shake the deep-rooted beliefs they instilled in me. Their words have woven themselves into the fabric of my self-image. I often find myself grappling with my worth, even after experiencing kindness and validation over the last 2-3 years with the Red Haired Pirates. Unfortunately, the scars from the past linger stubbornly; old habits die hard, and the echoes of a painful upbringing resonate within me.
After all, all their words were things I truly believed.