On My Own Time
How many “almost”s will define me?
I never notice when seasons begin to change. It just gets a little cooler each day; I’ll start wearing socks around the house more often and the hooks in my closet become more burdened with coats. The leaves will pile, its colors change. But I don’t acknowledge the presence of fall. I don’t want to be promised the temperate weather only to wake up the next morning crushed by the weight of summer’s humidity, to have its slimy hands wrap around my body, its enduring presence which thrives in my air-conditionless apartment.
It’s a delicate balance, between denial and fear, but I’ve come to master it. I’ll reject reality, let it play out in front of me. Nature will guide me into this new way of being, because eventually, time will erode whatever mountains I had erected in my mind. I do this subconsciously now, and it has found its way into every aspect of my life: I won’t declare it’s fall, won’t label a feeling, won’t set a date. Such acknowledgement makes the abstract concrete. The kind that solidifies every imperfection it has weathered –the falling of a leaf, the footprints of a bird. And I’ve learned, nothing in my life is that concrete.
To identify the emotion, is to claim every part of it. To identify a date assumes a before and after. I’d have to surrender myself to this word, dedicate my entire soul to this new identity, and embody this new way of living. Fall means no more floral mini-skirts and summer means no more tweed. Depression means 5 lines in the DSM5 and anxiety means 6. Rock music means Pink Floyd and classical means Beethoven. Being a singer implies some kind of mastery and being a runner some kind of commitment. Jan 10th means I’m a year wiser, and Dec 31st means the end of an era. So what am I, if not those things?
It feels like I’m a liar, because no words in the English language could possibly attempt to describe how I feel, or who I am. I’m perpetually living on a precipice of every adjective in the world.
How many “almost”s have begun to define me?
Teetering between two, fearing it will overwhelm me, fearing that I’ll never grasp it. Because hating rock music doesn’t explain why Don’t Look Back in Anger and With or Without You are two of my most favorite songs in the world. Calling him my “ex” makes it seem like I’m over him. I can’t say I’m depressed because I can still get out of bed, and I can’t say I’m a runner because I haven’t ran in years. I don’t want to read Crying in H-Mart because I know I won’t relate to any part of it. I know I won’t because my mom is alive, and I’m not Korean, and I prefer to shop at 99 Ranch, and well, we are two completely different human beings. And it will crush me, because if that’s what people think the Asian American experience is, then that part of my identity will transform into another one of my meaningless “almost’s.”
I’m drowning in fear now — a fear that no one will understand me. That my hesitant words muddy my fury, passion, and vigor. No one will know who I am, what I like, who I love. They won’t know that I didn’t mean it, that I really did love him, that I’m stupid and made a mistake, that I’m trying. I want to scream like an infant and whine like a dog. Let everyone else figure out what I want or who I am because I’m utterly lost. I can’t fit into the cookie-cutter, and I’m too feeble to make my own. Oh, how nice it must be. To say with the utmost confidence, “Yes, this is what I feel, this is who I am.” How clean, neat, colored-within-the lines.
But not until Macy’s has poured its resources in Thanksgiving ads and Starbucks finally releases the pumpkin-spiced everything. Not until society has dumped so much investment into the aura of Fall, that there’s simply no way I can deny a reality begging for my attention. And only then, will I finally release the breath I’ve held and say, “Okay, fine, it’s Fall.”
