It is week two now of radio activation of my left breast, and my 16-year-old self alongside my little 9-year-old brother, Davey are suddenly transported to a zen spaceship circa 1994, with Green Day’s “Basket Case” playing in stereo in the background. Davey annoyed the heck out of me back then, playing the rifts of “Basket Case” on his turquoise Fender Stratocaster over and over again, day after day. What I would give to go back in time and have my 16-year-old self tell him that I love him, that he is the best younger brother that I could ever have. But, back then, I was an annoyed teenager and didn’t appreciate him much. I am sure that Davey either didn’t notice or care about his older sister’s distress from the noise of his electric guitar, but now that I reflect on it, he was actually really good. Little did I know then that Davey was born a musical genius–but more of his story in a later post.
In 1994, I was a junior at Valley Stream Central High School. I was awkward, deathly shy, and still the tallest girl in class. I was a closeted rock ‘n roller, listening to The Cure, Green Day, The Cranberries and Duran Duran. I dreamed of playing the electric guitar and singing like Dolores O’Riordan on stage, but my crippling stage fright prevented me from performing in front of anyone. This was partially due, I think, largely to childhood abandonment issues, but also from my fear of imperfection. I was always rewarded for being the “perfect” child–my aunts and uncles would only show interest in me when I was being sweet, or would only comment about how I looked if I appeared too thin or tired. It was never about my achievements or good grades. Being “smart,” “pretty,” “cute,” “nice,” “sweet” and “kind” were the only adjectives that would make me feel whole or loved. As with many Taiwanese families, mine had a very superficial attitude with girls. With my boy cousins and brothers, they received all the positive reinforcement in the world, and they did whatever they wanted. With that understanding, if I should ever expose myself and become vulnerable to other people’s scrutiny, that would surely have broken me; and, so, I made sure to never risk anything to let that happen. What a waste. Had my childhood been one of bravery and self-confidence, I would have followed my passion to perform for crowds–and rock out!
My stage fright started in kindergarten, when Ì was four years old. I was one of 25 little frogs hopping around on stage while the class’ prettiest and most talented dancer played the ballerina princess. I hated dressing up as a little frog, especially being as opinionated as I was about how I dressed despite my young age. I still have no idea how my mom managed to get me into that green costume and put makeup on me. I cried and screamed unconsolably, tears running down my eye shadow, down my cheeks and onto my lips, carrying the taste of gasoline from the lipstick. The moment I got on stage, I froze, looked out into the audience, and immediately felt like an ugly duckling compared to the ballerina princess who was front and center, the star of the show. From that day on, I never got on a stage again. My ego damaged, I could not bare the thought of being stared at or judged ever again.
So it made a lot of sense when, at 17, I discovered Taiwan’s #1 modeling agency. I had to go through catwalk training which nearly killed me, but I still pushed through, emotional damage notwithstanding. I remembered eating nothing but shaved ice all day in Taiwan and having people compliment me about how thin I looked. Indeed, that environment would, two years later, prove a catalyst for my anorexia–but more on that later. As a whole, my diet was atrocious: I lived on simple sugars, zero nutrients, and a lack of sleep. It was not until I reached 21 that I started drinking.
Sugar is just as bad as alcohol when it comes to ruining your health, and it is the main fuel for CANCER. My breast cancer did not just appear randomly, out of the blue; rather, a storm was brewing inside of me from a long history of emotional and mental abuse–from myself and others, caused by terrible parenting or complete lack thereof, and not surprisingly, no guidance in teaching me how to love and take good care of myself. Instead of pointing out the obvious to blind me living on bubble tea and shaved ice was grossly unhealthy, my mom would simply point out, “You look great! You’re so skinny!” Really, mom?! In her feeble defense, though, she herself had poor body image, so the apple fell close.
All this explains, then, why I almost cried hearing “Basket Case” in the radiation room. It reminded me to be like Davey: to hell with what others think about me. Just do me, be myself, and express myself authentically, without reservation. Who cares if I sound good or bad to other people?
The actual point is to be brave and experience life without looking over your shoulder, even if it means you’ll annoy the fuck out of your sister.
Rajaverse 