Us—Remember

Instructor Introduction

The author’s essay “Us—Remember?” is a masterclass in how to write about conflicting realities. The essay—and the narrator—tears apart at the seams. Halfway down the first page, caught between a fearsome desire for greatness and a wrenching vision of self-disgust, the author’s voice splits from ‘I’ into ‘we’. The essay that follows is delivered in brief windows, short sections that offer narrative fragments, clinical/diagnostic memos, snatches of conversation, bits of memory. The selves collected in the author’s use of ‘we’ are dis-integrated by pressures and forces desperately out of the narrator’s control, but the essay gathers these parts-of-self together with a marvelous coherence. Written during my advanced essay course titled “Acts of Strangeness: The Lyric Essay,” this piece puts into practice all the craft and theory we discussed together. ‘Lyric essays’ use associational leaps to disrupt more linear ways of thinking and writing; it’s what happens when you let poetry into the gears of narrative and analysis. “Us—Remember?” isn’t just the kind of essay an instructor hopes a student can produce—it’s the kind of essay that a writer, a real writer, hopes they are capable of. The author’s writing is surprising, unsettling, courageous, and savvy.

— David Ward

Us—Remember

(1)

I am not like everyone else.

Believe that you were born to be great, Munnu. Believe it, and it will become true.

Born to be great. I was born to be great. I know I was.

 

(2)

I am not normal. I want to shout it from the rooftops.

Look at me – do you see me? Do you see this disgusting, horrendous creature? I am listening. I am speaking. Look at me.

I want to make people hear. I want to make people listen. I want to shout it from the rooftops, shout until their ears bleed.

I want to slam their heads into the edges of wooden tables, twist their necks and laugh as they yell in pain, beat their brains out with cement bricks until their battered foreheads can’t help but be level with mine. I want to stare into their cold, dead eyes and tell them: This is who I am. Make me behave.

I want to shout it from the rooftops. Scream until my throat is hoarse. Shove my fingers into their blistering, bubbling mouths to make them stop talking. I want to pound the concrete until my hands are disfigured stubs of plaster and they don’t think, no they know now, just how crazy I truly am.

I want to do this. Shout it from the rooftops.

And then I want to take a good leap and jump off the building.

 

(3)

I never thought I’d be depressed. In fact, I still can’t admit this is depression. Who did we used to be, Munnu? Who were we? Not this. When my friends ask me what I was like when I was younger, I tell them to imagine the complete opposite of who I am now. They laugh and say, “No, really, what were you like?” And that’s when I realize that this is simply another one of those moments where I shouldn’t be honest – where I should instead create a neat pocket of lie and place it primly into its predefined space within the false universe of outside perception. I smile, then, a gentle smile. I tell them I was quiet back then. Quiet, demure, and good at school. Just like I am now.

We know the truth though.

We were a rowdy who terrified her mother and reveled in the power that came with that – proud, outspoken, angsty, blatantly uncontrollable. Even though we secretly pined for Amma’s love, not just her fear, there was never a question of admitting that to anyone – not even to ourselves.

We were a person of color who never quite fit in with our white classmates and knew by kindergarten that we didn’t fit in, might never fit in. Someone who spent many a moon questioning why we hadn’t been blessed with Lauren’s blonde hair or Kristina’s blue eyes so we, too, could be popular like them and command the same, easy authority we had at home inside the strange world of American school. Or, simply, to not feel so worthless.

We were someone who loved art and wasn’t afraid of making a mess, scribbling all over the walls and laughing when Amma yelled helplessly upon discovering a new creation. We were someone who wrote wild, crazy stories in notebooks, fantasizing about worlds hidden behind closet doors and mysteries lurking beyond the horizon. We were someone who played Tag with the boys at recess, periodically packed a suitcase to run away from home, didn’t like appeasing teachers, and secretly wanted a teenage man to kiss her senseless. Someone no one could figure out, but just assumed she would do it herself once she got older. Until then, everyone around her simply needed to endure her overt, larger–than–life personality.

We did it. We grew up.

We stopped writing on walls, much to Amma’s delight. In fact, we stopped making art altogether. We no longer had the patience required to create something beautiful.

We stopped writing stories. We knew now that there were no hidden worlds behind closet doors – only old clothes draped languidly upon creaky, plastic hangers.

We stopped speaking up in class, speaking up at home, speaking at all. What was the point, really, if no one understood?

We stopped dreaming, imagining, believing that there was space in this world to be our true selves without feeling like a shoddy replacement for the nonexistent, perfect girl everyone wished you would simply try harder to be like.

Instead, we got good grades. We quit the school play to join Science Olympiad. We perfected the art of pleasing. We learned to shrink and submit and subjugate ourselves to the demands of the world around us. It no longer mattered what we wanted so long as we could just keep them happy. All that mattered was that they were happy. So they would finally stop hurting us.

“We did it to make the pain stop”, you whimper.

Yeah, baby. To make the pain stop.

Except, well now, we only made it worse, now, didn’t we?

 

(4)

It’s that time of day again. The strange 5pm in–between of southeast Michigan in November, where it’s not quite dark but not quite light. Where it’s too cold outside to stand comfortably, but too stuffy inside where the heat has already been turned on. Where you aren’t quite sure what emotion circumstances are demanding at the moment: content and peaceful, or on edge and restless. Alpine edges of spruce and fir dot the bottom left corner of the window. White clapboard from the house next door fills the remainder of the view.

Suburbic hell.

Pinpricks of light dance at the edges of your vision. Dust bunny bric–a–brac dots the crisp lines where drywall meets dirty carpet. A lump of grayish sludge sits at the back of your throat, passively threatening to choke from the inside out. This morning, you awoke to a dark sky with no sun at all, eyes bloodshot like you’d never attempted sleep at all. It is certain now that the perpetually–hazy boundary between fall and winter has officially been crossed.

Internal hell.

 

(5)

The facts:

1. Asian American college students report higher rates of restriction and cognitive restraint than their white or non–Asian BIPOC peers.
2. 20% of people with anorexia remain chronically ill their entire lives.
3. 5–10% of those with anorexia die within 10 years of being diagnosed. 18–20% die within 20 years.
4. 54% of college students report feelings of oppressive loneliness.
5. Among those who struggle with anorexia, the leading cause of death is heart failure. Second is suicide.

 

(6)

I never thought one day Akka and I would just stop speaking. That we would live in the same house, just the two of us, for 2 whole weeks and simply – not speak. That one would be cooking dinner at the stove, one would be washing dishes from the dinner she’d just made and eaten for herself, and not say a word. Cold. Crippled. Silent.

The dumbness is too loud. My ears are ringing, ringing with the cacophony of facelessness. Years of jealousy, frigidity, and pain swirl in the liminal space between my lungs as I climb the solid wooden steps inside our dark, soundless house. I take my sandwich upstairs.

She used to play tent with us, remember? Oh, she’d complain, of course, hate that it took so much effort, what with collecting dozens of Amma’s chunnis and Daddy’s long towels. Grumble at remembering whatever names I’d assigned to us for that day’s adventure, scoff at cuddling our dolls like they were our younger sisters, whine about having to clean it all up before the day’s end. Yes, she would declare constantly how much she hated it all. But I think she secretly loved it.

It was hard for our older sister to use her imagination. That was a skill that came easy to us, though, and I think she rather liked that it did. Because it meant that she could experience all the wonder, beauty, and excitement our mind created without needing to do it herself – so long as she gave a begrudging sigh and helped us carry the bundle of chunnis back to Amma’s room. I think she realized, even back then, that no matter how hard she tried, she would never be able to have this privilege of a rich inner world on her own.

Which is why she gave up so soon. Why, at the age of 8, she dismissed all play and childhood fantasy as useless pastime and committed herself to a life glued to a desk and chair. Why she spent her middle school years pouring over books and homework. Why she memorized the dictionary and competing in spelling bees so she could feel good about herself.

I never thought I could hate her. Even when her ego soared after she won all those bees and every family in Michigan knew her name. Even when Amma made it clear she had hit the jackpot on the first try, bummed out on the second. Even when Akka told us she hated us: first when we were 10, and almost every day after that until the words stopped altogether. No, I always knew our heart wasn’t capable of harboring hostility toward her.

Because Akka was our sister. We cared about her.

“No, you cared about what she thought of you.”

Shut up.

I cared about her.

 

(7)

I may begin

 

“Tired. Bone bloody tired.”

The old glow of satisfaction

hurled against the walls,

“Ego always gets in the way,”

to mock me in the shadows

But

In the core I see the light again, an opening in the darkest of caves,

I assured myself that

I have to learn for the sake of

Family

sound health

good moral character,

And

Peace

 

(8)

Do you remember when we were younger, maybe 8 or 9, and you used to open your window and sing? Most often, it was a song called “The Autumn Moon” – something you came up with on a meaningless Tuesday evening after you had done homework with Amma. You used to wish that the animals and birds would love your song so much, they’d come land on your outstretched hand and chirp along like they did to Briar Rose in Sleeping Beauty. You were sad when they didn’t – were you not a good singer?

You used to sing songs to yourself as a baby when Amma left you alone to drop Akka off at preschool. You would listen for the garage door opening and know that Amma was back. When the sounds of nearing footsteps became too loud, you would stop singing and cry for her. She only understood that you used to do this when one day, you were too absorbed in singing to listen for her and didn’t cry on time. She had paused in the doorway, surprised, then amazed.

This voice kept us company in the friendless years of grade school, roaming the playground and snow–filled soccer fields alone during recess, singing songs to keep the silence at bay. This voice began to chant Vedam from the age of 5, pronouncing and emphasizing each syllable with such care that soon enough, you had memorized it all and could chant any prayer in your sleep. This voice spoke Telugu to our grandparents in India, stretching across the prodigious spaces of oceans, time zones, and telephone wires to keep the connection to our family alive. This voice won us 2^nd place in a singing competition freshman year of high school, allowing us to finally attain our parents’ stamp of approval.

I wonder why I can barely stand to hear our voice now. Why it always feels too jarring, too wrong, too late to listen to. Why I don’t believe I am a good singer, can ever be a good singer, despite 13 years of formal training. Why it’s too late to make better, too late to appreciate all this voice has done for me, too late to have hope. Too late, too late, too late.

That performance last February broke me. I hadn’t learned the song. I practiced nonstop for a week. I still hadn’t learned the song. I couldn’t keep my arms from shaking. My voice cracked. I forgot the words. I failed. I went up on that stage, and I failed. And everyone saw us and knew us and understood that we had absolutely no business being up there.

Look at me. Look at me and tell me that I suck. Tell it to my face if you dare.

I came home that night, put my face on the dining room table, and sobbed. I sobbed hot tears onto the cool glass of the round table in front of me because in that moment, I knew I could never sing again.

The sweet gift of song you had given me, that esteemed treasure you had nurtured so tenderly throughout the years, was gone. I had broken it. And I could never put it back together again.

 

(9)

Today I am a presence in a wooded trail I never knew existed behind my home. There is a house I would like to own one day on the left side of the road. Dark wood, shutters, flower boxes at all the windows, empty now at the beginning of fall. There is a cornfield to the right, a deer galloping back into the woods. I am in Amma’s magenta Columbia fleece, the one she purchased years ago at the same time I bought my dark green one. It’s too big for me, sleeves extending down to my knees, zipper hanging loose around my stomach and thighs – just the way I like it.

I breathe deeply of the crisp, cold air. It rushes past my cheeks. Out here, away, just me and the trees and this space that has nothing but everything in it at the same time, where the world seems suspended on the edge of a mystical precipice, where I want and need and crave to be – there is nothing wrong with me. My shoulders thrust backwards, my gait is strong, my eyes glow with curious certainty.

I know where I am. I know who I am. I know I was born to be great.

 

(10)

We write poetry in the strangest of circumstances. That one came from a mansion located on the cul–de–sac of Corinthian Street, Plano Texas. On the 2^nd floor, at a white wooden table. Cutting scraps of words from a collection of randomly–printed pages of paper, surrounded by equally–miserable strangers who encouraged you to read what you made, hoping for a distraction from post–dinner guilt. You did, reluctantly.

They were shocked. They said it was good.

We were more shocked than them.

 

(11)

Eleven for eleven.

Current Health Issues:

1. Eating disorder:

Started 3/10/2018

2. Anorexia nervosa, restricting type:

Started 3/14/2018

3. Other constipation:

Started 6/7/2018

4. Postprandial abdominal bloating:

Started 6/7/2018

5. Secondary oligomenorrhea:

Started 8/13/2018

6. Generalized anxiety disorder:

Started 8/22/2018

7. Parent–child conflict:

Started 9/21/2018

8. Mild protein malnutrition (CMS/HCC):

Started 2/19/2020

9. Moderate major depression (CMS/HCC):

Started 4/15/2020

10. Irregular menses:

Started 8/31/2020

11. Enuresis

Started 2/11/2021

 

(12)

There is a hole in my body. A black hole is in my body, right there in the center of my chest. Can’t you see it? It’s taking everything away, sucking it all beyond my reach. My hopes, my dreams, my belief that one day things will get better. It’s right there, right there in the center of my chest. Why can’t you see it?

I am tired. Bone, bloody tired of all this. I want to sleep and never wake up again. A death that easy, however, might be wishful thinking. I wouldn’t mind a little pain when I go – it would make death seem like it’s worth it, that I worked hard for this release. I think I’d rather like that. To feel like I worked for this escape. That it didn’t come easy. That nothing comes easy. That I don’t like things to come easy.

The black hole is right there, right in the center of my chest.

Do you want to see it?

 

(13)

We didn’t keep much from that time. Only a singular black binder that was currently sitting in the corner of our closet. Next to old Barbie dolls and Akka’s hand–me–down sweaters, buried at the bottom of a red, crusted Lego box filled with dust–collected toys that hadn’t felt touch in years. Yes, there it was: chock-full of unfinished dialectical behavioral therapy handouts, “Letter To My Body” prompts, and family–based treatment fundamentals.

When we moved houses halfway through college, it felt like the perfect chance to leave those behind. All those half–hearted attempts program after program made us complete during group sessions: painfully silent time–fillers between endless meals and snacks.

I wish I could remember what was going through our head when we tossed that binder into the recycling bin. Vindication? Nostalgia? Relief that the remaining ghosts of those false, gentle promises – “it’ll get better soon” – would finally stop swirling around us every time we glanced down at those slightly yellowed pages?

Numb?

When we moved into our room in the new house (the bigger one this time, well– deserved after weeks of enduring searing glowers from Akka) and realized that our slippers, childhood art, the 100+ teddy bear collection we’d been amassing since we were babies, and our wallet – were all missing, I wondered how we could have been so absent–minded.

I told myself it was because of Amazon. Those grueling hours staring at a computer screen, logging into stand–ups, coding furiously to meet impossibly–ambitious deadlines. But that was a lie. An excuse. Because Amazon really wasn’t a thing that summer. No – that was the summer of walking on razor edges until the clock hit 5pm so we could slam our laptop shut and walk for hours around the neighborhood, listening to random podcasts or FaceTiming the boy we loved back then. That was a summer of believing we were happy, that we had everything we ever wanted, that the pain of forced smallness had all been worth it because it had made our dreams possible. You know – the ones we’d stolen from a tried–and–tested template for success during that phase called “Growing Up”.

That was the summer where we were there, but we really weren’t. You, especially, hadn’t been there for a long, long time. I simply hadn’t realized that I was doing life without you yet.

 

(14)

Once a week, I drive to Canton to get my eyebrows done. Because it’s cheaper there. I like the pain of thread slicing the hairs out of my skin. When they told me not to come so often, to give the hair time to grow back, I got angry. “Just tell me you don’t know how to do your job,” I whisper indignantly to the cracked windshield on the 30–minute drive home. The hair was right there, they just didn’t see it. It was right there, making my face imperfect, why couldn’t they see it? My fingers grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles turn white. My breathing becomes heavy. I was paying them, what’s it to them, why couldn’t they see it? Why does no one see how terrible I look?

Why does no one see me?

 

(15)

Prompt: Have a conversation with your eating disorder. What is it saying? What insights can you draw from this?

 

Hey eating disorder. How are you?

I’m good. Not eating, running 7 miles a day – I’m happy. How are you?

 

I’m not happy. I’m hungry. I want to eat more, but I’m afraid you’ll get angry at me. Why do you get angry when I eat enough? Why are you so angry at me?

Because you are a waste. You need to be thin to be pretty and popular and the best.

 

Why do you want to be the best? Why can’t you settle for anything less?

Why should I? I deserve to be the best. I get angry when you eat because not eating is a sign of strength. Because not eating will keep you thin. And thin is better because you will look attractive when you’re thin.

 

What is it about the world that scares you so much? Why are you so afraid?

I’m afraid you won’t make it if you’re not thin. Thinness gives you beauty, which gives you confidence, which gives you protection, which lets you win.

 

Win what?

Life.

 

Can you be confident without being thin?

Thinness was – is – the only thing that ever gave you confidence. Back when you had nothing. When you had no friends, when you were bullied, when the only thing Amma said you had ever done better than Akka was being born with good looks. When you were disregarded by the world. Now let’s show them who’s boss.

You can win, Munnu.

You can be thin, and you can win.

You can finally be loved.

 

(16)

Did the parent– child conflict truly start on 9/21/2018 like the medical chart claims?

Maybe it started on 8/9/2007, at 5 years old, when we walked into the living room with a too–full glass of tomato juice? Right after the contents of the glass inevitably wept onto the white carpet and Amma hit us so hard our face turned redder than the ruddy juice on the ground?

Maybe it was on 2/13/2012, when we sat furious and seething in the backseat of the van after a long day of 4^th grade, burning daggers into the back of Amma’s head. Hating her dark skin, her Indian accent, her lack of social awareness – her total and complete inability to understand that she was the reason we could never fit in?

Maybe it was on 7/23/2018, when we threw Amma’s phone at her with the force of a javelin Olympic medalist, shattered her solid gold bangle, then launched ourselves at her like a raging beast, shoving our hand against her mouth, screaming “Shut up, shut up, shut up”?

Maybe it was on 3/10/2021, when we finally told Amma about the boy who had once been everything to us but was now kissing another girl at the party you didn’t go to and she had said, “What do you expect – you’re not as pretty as her”?

Or maybe it started on 10/10/2002. Our birthday.

Maybe we were just doomed from the start.

 

(17)

When we were in 7^th grade, Amma picked us up from school and took us to a doctor’s appointment at IHA. They gave us a questionnaire as part of our intake paperwork. The first one: “Rate your quality of life on a scale from 1–10.”

I immediately picked a 10 and handed the form back. After we were taken inside, I asked Akka what she put. She shrugged.

“Meh. Like a 7.”

“What? Why?”

 She looked surprised. “Why, what did you put?”

“A 10. Why would I put anything less? Life’s great.”

She waved a hand at me. “Life’s overrated. It’s not good enough to be a 10.”

I scolded her. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with your life. How can you be so ungrateful?”

My sister cut herself for the first time a year later. It was the night after she checked her ACT score for the 6^th time and realized she didn’t get higher than a 30. She screamed “Fuck you” when our mom tried to console her, then locked herself in the bathroom for hours where we could hear her wails down to the basement. Amma was scared. She called Daddy. He was scared but he didn’t show it. He got her to come out. Akka’s face was ashen white. Her wrist was marred with crimson.

In that moment, as I stared hollowly at the ghosts of my family, I told myself I would never do that. That I would never allow an exam, a college, anything outside of me, to define my worth. I told myself I’d be stronger than that.

I lied.

 

(18)

A life comprised of fractured moments of illustrious self–delusion. We take a crisp bite of apple – only to discover it is not the sweet, sugary juices of fruit that flows down our throats, but rather, the bitter poison of its seeds. A life not wanting, not willing, to face the deceptive cage we’re bound in. One that you, my dear, were oh–so–lucky to have escaped.

I can’t help but ask – why won’t you speak to me? Why do you sit silent and sullen on the side of the road, just beyond my reach, staring at me with eyes I don’t recognize? Why won’t you come to me, speak to me? Remind me of who we once were, who we used to be? Fill me with innocence and joy, make me happy again? Why won’t you help me?

“Because – you never helped me.”

 

(19)

Our Nature

 

The sun falls on the notebook in my lap

Kissing its pages and wishing for better words

that could decipher the scent of pine,

the shimmering snow, the lilting chirp of birds

I see in me.

 

A rain–soaked earth, filled with curling roots

that twist and turn and churn and burn,

Commanding their way into a harsh new world

To find a voice that will flourish beyond return –

But soon becomes a plea.

 

For in me, there is not only a clear sky

and cool water, meadows of lavender and green grass,

But thunder, hail, and jagged cliffs,

A dark, roiling ocean filled with broken bits of sharded glass

That threatens to pull me under

 

I cannot explain this lightning that blinds me,

Nor the shrieking, howling wind that tears my insides apart

I am lost in a frozen land with no way out

Crying cold, helpless tears from a long–since departed heart

Until I am torn asunder

 

(20)

The day of the final. We were up till 3am last night – not studying but watching TV. And eating. At the present moment, it is unclear whether it’s the nerves of under–preparedness, or the peanut butter sandwich, yoghurt parfait, avocado dip, and unlimited Goldfish that are the cause of the gargantuan whirlpool of muck that is our stomach.

Yeah, I’m eating now. Make me stop.

I wonder how we were ever hospitalized for starving ourselves. Multiple times.

I wonder if I’ll muster the guts to look myself in the mirror today. Place my hand on the distended bloat of my midriff, venomous evidence of my sins against hunger, and look myself in the eye.

I wonder if the grief will be too strong for me to even attempt the first question on the thick, white packets being distributed in front of me.

You are weak.

There is a seat in the corner. There is no pencil in my bag. There is a good chance I will fail this exam.

I wonder if this will ever end. This cycle of stuff–and–starve, of good–and–bad, of life–and–death. I want to make someone besides me feel this pain, this illogical, disgusting, pointless pain. Pain that’s like cold water dripping down your sleeve when you bend to wash your face at night. Pain that’s like a squirt of hand sanitizer touching a paper cut you didn’t realize was on your hand. Pain that’s contrite, colossal, and totally, utterly meaningless.

I want someone else to feel this. I want to make them hurt, make them cry, make them scream themselves hoarse. I want to watch as they drown like I did, dying a terrible death every waking moment, rotting in the tortured silence of putrid hell. I want to shout it from the rooftops.

You have 2 hours. Good luck.

But more than anything, I want to someone to hear my story. And, for once, I want them to understand.

 

(21)

            Today is April. Today is sunny and warm, the spring sun beating down on my back. Today is filled with the cries of birds whose names I do not know, winging their way towards a slowly–sinking sun in the west. Today I sit on a log, my back to the end of a new day, face tilted towards the tops of barren tree branches still awaiting spring buds – watching, listening, waiting. I feel my cheeks fold into themselves, my jaw unclench. I am aware of my hot neck, my mouth tingling from the taste of air, my lashes scraping the ever–present black holes under my eyes.

            In this moment, I am afraid. Nothing has ever felt quite so real to me as my fear. I am so, so afraid. I wonder why my life is like this, and I wonder what I did to shape it this way. Is there a way to stop being so uncertain about who I truly am?

            The sky is really blue today. I can almost taste it, like it’s rich, clear water. Little leaves emerge from the plant in front of me. A fallen branch extends its dead limbs to the sky, as if asking for reparation for all it could not accomplish while living.

            There is a lot I need to do today that I am not doing. There is a lot I need to do that I am afraid to do.

            I feel my shoulders shift inside my shirt. I’m thirsty. The footsteps of others resound around me – it’s time to go back. I don’t want to. Where else can I find such stillness? Such complete openness to be who I am? Freedom to allow my bones to sink deep into the earth and write down exactly what I feel, observe, taste and smell?

Maybe this is what it feels like to be grounded, to be at peace. Maybe this is what it feels like to be great. And maybe this is the last time I’ll ever feel this way again.

 

(22)

Hey, little one. It’s me. It’s us.

We’re 22 now. We’re an adult. We grew up.

You’re still young though. You have those 2 long braids, those crooked teeth, the round face you haven’t yet learned to detest. You have a wild mind and a loud voice, unbridled joy and laughter that never runs out. You have thoughts and feelings that don’t always make sense yet, a budding understanding of your place in our complicated world, and an unshakeable conviction that you will do great things one day. Remember?

That’s good. You keep those things.

I’ll be here. I’ll be the adult. I’ll be 22.

I’ll be here.

And I’ll be alone.