I’m trapped, wanting to cry, yet tearless. I feel awful for you, for enduring this. My mind races with desires for normalcy, happiness, gratitude. Instead, I’m an ungrateful mess, swinging between smiles and sudden despair.
I’ve never been truly happy. My life feels like a performance. I smile for you, suppressing my true feelings. I tell myself I should be grateful, even subservient, but it feels like a lie.
I’m too depressed to genuinely show affection. I’m envious of your happiness, trapped in a cycle of resentment. I’d smile, but I hate myself. I can’t cry, except to melodramatic Korean Dramas.
I’m privileged, grateful, and sorry. This must be my “craziness.” Only in that moment is that the truth as I share a room with your white family and no one actually seeing me. You never saw me for me.
I sense freedom coming: a life of joy, creativity, and self-love. It’s close, but not here. Maybe then, I’ll be lovable. Or maybe, I’ll just give up. I know this is not the life for me. Your mother will barely lift a finger to offer help as I struggle to take my moving boxes out and mock my presence with a, “Oh, that looks heavy,” indulging herself with glass after glass of vino.
The real insanity? This nation. Do we even think?
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