The way I felt ... feel

I hate when people try to make me feel small - whether they intend to or not. I've worked too hard to overcome the road blocks placed by mean or ignorant people in my life while growing up. I know I'm not your white person. Or your black person. I don't have perfect vision or teeth or hair and my face is flat. I'm short and round with wide hips and have no butt. I wasn't raised in your culture, but that doesn't automatically make me inferior or stupid or incapable of understanding things. I might tell jokes differently than you do ... or have my own sarcastic way of saying things. I don't drink alcohol. Yes, I eat strange foods; but go to India and tell them you eat cows and you'd be the outcast. I wish my mom would've told me I was pretty growing up. (I wish my husband would tell me I'm pretty now.) I wish my parents let me join extra-curricular activities so I wouldn't be so shy, awkward and have anxiety about meeting new people. And more crap. But eventually I got tired of all that. Of feeling like I was nothing but a huge dart board - a target for being ridiculed and made to feel small. One time in math class in high school, I let a kid copy off my answers ... cuz I'm Asian and smart, right? I didn't mind because I didn't know the answers. I pretended to be surprised when I got it wrong, while laughing inside. That kid never asked again. Again in high school, I wore this floral spandex bell bottoms that I sewed and this girl told me it was ugly with the nastiest look on her face ... while we were all standing in a group outside class. I wasn't embarrassed or mad ... I was just speechless at how much she hated my pants to be so nasty in a group of people. Then this cheerleader said, "I like her pants. They're cool and I'd wear it." That other girl just shut up. I'll always remember that moment in my life of having someone stick up for me. It took until the 10th grade - seriously?! But that was empowering and I wore those bell bottoms many a days after that. Kids used to make fun of my culture and say the infamous ching, chong, ching, chong. So one day I told them they just called their mom a bitch. They stopped while I, again, laughed inside. I realized being beautiful shouldn't be based on needing to hear it but rather needing to feel it. I can't control what the world sees of my face, but I could control what I saw in myself. I could be the most beautiful person in the world and attract people who only wanted to be with me because of how my beauty made them feel about themselves ... or the ugliest person and keep people at bay ... but I had to like myself first regardless if I had 1 person who genuinely liked me or 100 flakes. I see it that life is supposed to throw challenges at me, but it's what I do as a result of those challenges that will help me stand tall or fall. And I've learned to love myself way too much and worked way too hard - and know that I deserve the best - to allow anyone to make me feel that small again. Go ahead. Try. I'll just laugh inside at your immaturity.

Two Truths and a Lie -- A Thanksgiving Thankfulness

Warning: In typical Vong fashion, this is a very long blog post.

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If you’re still reading this, you’re in for a treat.  A very personal Vong treat. A very ugly personal Vong treat.

 

This is some pretty raw stuff, so you might turn back now.

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Still hanging? Well alrighty then.

 

A friend and I were talking yesterday about finding strength to forgive wrongs in our lives and truly free ourselves of the past. So here’s my story of freedom and liberation.

 

Two truths:

1.      My mom never told me I was pretty.

2.      I was molested as a kid by an uncle I trusted.

 

And a lie:

As a result of the two truths above, I lived most of my life thinking I was ugly; I felt very much in shame of my body; and I thought I was unworthy of a lot of things. Up until I met my husband at 25, I never felt I deserved to find a man because no one would want an ugly “damaged” girl.

 

The first truth above is part of the culture. Hmong people don’t show much physical affection or don’t use words to encourage. Not my mom’s fault, really, but not ever hearing I was pretty put a huge dent in my self-esteem. Once she told me since I wasn’t pretty, I should find a handsome husband. I guess that was the closest thing she’d ever said about me being pretty – that I wasn’t. LOL.

 

Truth 2. Molestation occurred maybe in the summer of my 3^rd or 4^th grade year. I can’t place the time anymore because I was so young … and then had blocked it from my subconscious mind. I remember in 5^th grade learning about molestation in school and how to find help for it if it happened to you and thinking how I felt sorry for kids who were molested – when, in fact, I was a victim too.

 

But eventually the shadows of repressing those memories lifted and the flood gates opened. The shamefulness grew. The feeling of unworthiness and ugliness got stronger. I hated my body. It took me a long time to look at my naked self. And to this day, at 37, I’ve never examined my body because I’m too ashamed by it – disgusted by it.

 

By high school, I’d reached the peak of my shame. As an active participant in the youth group, I was in closer proximity to my uncle due to all the church activities and found myself agitated and falling deeper into the dark expanse of my personal hell. My heart would pound through my ears whenever I saw him, and I’d get clumsy with speech when he spoke to me.

 

Then I attended an Amy Grant concert and before she sang “Ask Me,” she shared a story about a friend who’d been molested, and while crying out to God in those moments of abandonment, she felt that God was there with her. In her pain. In her experience. And she wasn’t alone.

 

Facing myself, one day I shared my experience with a friend, and lo, the same thing happened to her. You mean I wasn’t alone? I wasn’t the only one who lived with these demons raging war inside my heart that made me believe I was damaged goods?

Then in college I got braver and started sharing more with girls … and again, every person I spoke with had the same experience. They, too, were stripped of their innocence, experienced the fear of physical touch and had a distrust of humanity.

 

College was the turnaround point for me. It was a very trying time for me. It had its wonderful ups and gave me some of the best memories … but along with it came a lot of heart ache and realizing things about myself, my world and my God. And it also taught me a lot about the grace of God. There’s something about being in the forests of northern Georgia that makes one think too much … feel too much. There was just too much time to be alone and ponder. But amidst all my reflections, I came to face the two menacing truths and the lie that plagued me and reduced my self-worth to zilch.

 

Back in those days whenever I was heartbroken over some stupid boy, I escaped to be alone. I remember one of those times I was alone … on a rock ... somewhere by some body of water – whether it was the waterfall or creek … reading from My Utmost for His Highest by Oswald Chambers. I was at my most vulnerable and looking up for comfort. Calling out to God … appealing for some kind of coverage of His cloak over me to guide me out from the hurt I thought couldn’t handle anymore. And in those moments, buried in my sackcloth and ashes, the devotion empowered me to take a giant leap toward freedom to accept who I was … and the realization that I could never give my heart to anyone or feel worthy to love and be loved if I didn’t let go of my past and allow myself to be renewed.

 

I remember saying to myself:

 

“I was molested. It happened to me and I can choose to forgive him and not be a victim anymore. Christ died on the cross and took with Him the sin my uncle committed against me on His shoulders just as He took all my sins. No sin is greater than the other. And this is who I am today – it’s my life story and what happened defines me. This is my testimony and I know it happened so that I can use my experience and strength and be a witness to help other girls who went through the same thing. I forgive him. I FORGIVE HIM.”

 

Would you believe, in that moment, all the darkness immediately faded away. Gone. Poof! Instantly in my heart, I forgave my uncle. My acceptance freed me of the shackles that heavily weighed down every part of my being from the last 15 years. It didn’t immediately take away the shame I still felt – that took more time – but I am happy to say I’m completely emptied of any shame, self-pity or self-loathing caused by my uncle. And there’s really no way to explain it except the typical analogy of feeling like a bird in flight: high, weightless and free. For the first time, my spirit was no longer in bondage.

 

And I knew, if I could overcome that hurdle in my life – having forgiven the biggest sin against me – everything else was just a small grain of sand.

 

So on this day, November 7, 2013, I’m thankful for the God-given strength to forgive and fully comprehend what the Bible says is the peace that passes all understanding. I’m thankful, in an odd way, that I had to suffer through what I did because my strength can be someone else’s strength. I know a lot of women who have never dealt with what happened to them and continue to be a captive of their past. I pray, too, that someday they will find their release.

 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t mean now I suddenly feel beautiful on the outside – because I will always have that struggle within – but I feel beautiful on the inside because I am a child of God, made in His beautiful and perfect image. And I will not continue the cycle of never letting my daughter know that she is beautiful and worthy.

 

So when I have come across this photo through the years, it reminds me of the time when my body and mind and trust were violated and I feel sad for the little girl who had to endure all that in silence. It took me a long time to be able to look at the pictures from that day – and see the little girl who had to grow up too soon. The memory of this day is embedded in my memory forever … running around the rose garden with my brothers and having fun, but also being forced to pretend for the camera that I was genuinely smiling – but with such sad and embarrassed eyes – as I looked at the face of my uncle behind the camera and feeling the burn of shame on my cheeks and disgrace imprinted in my heart.

 

But this picture is also a reminder of True Love, forgiveness and healing and their spiritual, physical, emotional and mental cleansing power. Above all, it’s a testimony of God’s grace that has renewed me and he who I believed didn’t deserve it but earned it nevertheless.

 

P.S. If you’re a victim of molestation or abuse, please talk about it with someone. Sweeping it under the rug and trying to forget about it doesn’t mean it never happened.  

  

Bricks

Rolling around awake last night ... each hour asleep felt like 4 hours ... so that made the night go by even slower every time I woke up and saw that only an hour had passed and I still had to make it through the next 5 hours.

And the dream I had didn't help. It continued through each segment of sleep I had. And each time I woke up relieved to think the dream was finally over and I could erase the bothersome feelings ... nope ... it continued right where it stopped.

So I'm in a mood. The kind of mood that makes you wish it'd just rain ... cold, sad rain on a cold, sad night. Not a pouring rain. A constant almost mist-like rain that carries a feeling of melancholy with it. The kind that exasperates you because it's not just sprinkling ... and it's not pouring either to satisfy the beast inside waiting to be unleashed into the wild emotions. 

Walls.

Walls are so frustrating. I effing hate walls. 

But I'm pretty good at building them. Aren't we all? 

At the end of an argument, when you've hit a fork in the blame game, the conclusion is that you're selfish. That's.just.awesome. Another brick on the wall.

When you can't find the right words to say  ... or enough confidence to say what you feel ... or are afraid you'll be misunderstood through the jumbled thoughts that make sense to you but never had to others ... you surrender yourself to the always-growing confirmation that no one "gets" you. Another brick on the wall. 

Then there are the times when you're feeling too sensitive not to offend others when all they needed was your honesty. Your brutal honesty. The kind that momentarily infringes on their cockiness and angers them ... because they thought they were better than that ... then after some reflection - if your relationship is based on truth and honesty - the anger subsides into a soothing realization that your words aren't to tear down but to bring awareness and build up and make better. Transform them into the better version of themselves 5 minutes ago. 

But when things don't turn out that way and they turn you away instead, another brick on the wall.

And touching. A touch that goes beyond a passing gesture ... that comes with it the kind of warmth that allows the other person's soul to penetrate your tough exterior to calm you through a hug. Hand holding. An arm around your shoulders. A beautiful touch ... like that of a child holding on to her parent's finger that speaks of guidance. Trust. Protection. Love. A transfusion of love from one to the other. 

But when touch is empty - or lacking altogether - another brick on the wall.

So many bricks, until we're standing inside a tower of our own making ... feeling scared, yet strong and protected inside ... looking out at the world, taunting almost to no one who really cares, convinced that our walls are tough ... and unbreakable.

And there we are. So many of us ... building walls ... hiding behind walls ... peering through tower windows just long enough - far enough - to see faces come and go, while life inside gets colder in its separation and loneliness.

So I'm in a mood tonight. I've been in my tower all day, pushing against the world ... digging around for another brick to add to the wall. Sinking into emotional songs that make me feel the same frustrating yet satisfyingly good sadness that rain does.

All because of some stupid dream that should have broken my heart but didn't - and only awakened my instincts to protect myself even more. But really ... I wish I was strong enough to tear my walls down.

Just.Like.Me.

It's a pretty cool thing when your kid wants to be like you.

Toccoa is naturally a very teachable kid. Show her or explain something to her once, and she'll get it. If she doesn't, she'll try her hardest to get it.

She wants to be a "woman of God" like me - but she'll learn soon enough how far from godly I am. She wants to play the sports we've played - so she's gearing up for T-ball soon and patiently awaiting the day she can play volleyball. She loves hiking, biking and running because those are things I do. She loves to swim because her competitive nature drives her to want to beat her dad in swimming as she thinks he's a really good swimmer and brags that her dad's stomach can touch the bottom of the pool - and ... she wants to be a mermaid one day.

She loves watching TV with her dad and sitting on the couch, basking in the gloriousness of eating popcorn. She loves to read because I've instilled in her the magic of reading - that you can learn about anything you want and escape into your own imagination and interpretation of what a story looks and feels.

And she is a lot like her dad in that music plays a huge part in the enjoyment of her car rides. We can't leave the driveway until a certain CD is in and playing. Between the two of them fighting for their music choice in the car (he created a monster, yes he did), when I drive alone, I prefer turning the music off and enjoying a quiet ride.

And so, I was taken aback when she made a comment about the current CD playing in the car. I'm not even sure who the artist is, but she said, "Mommy, I love this CD. It makes me feel happy."

But the strange thing was that the song was far from happy. It might've been Fiona Apple or someone Fiona-ish ... with that solemn melody that kind of reaches far into your heart to find any brokenness inside you and wraps itself around your soul and squeezes until it hurts so much you feel good - like a good memory ... reviving you in a way that makes you feel intuned to your emotions. And empowers you to feel ... and makes it okay to be sad and emotionally weak. Just for those few moments until the song ended.

Then I thought, "Wow - yep, that is definitely MY daughter there."

I didn't teach her that sometimes music can make you so sad it makes you happy ... she didn't know that's what some melodies do to me. Nope - that is my dark, depressive nature revealing itself through my daughter ... something unteachable, but ingrained in her spirit just because she's my daughter ... born of my nature.

And that is pretty darn cool when your kid is like you ... down to the bones of your hidden Self.

Update on my 2012 List

I'm not tooting or untooting my own horn. I just have to keep track of this stuff lest I forget. I've already forgotten one extra new thing I ate - my mind is very forgetful these days. Anyway, 2 1/2 months into 2012 and looks like I still have a lot of work to do.

·         Find a new place to go hiking.
·         Put my head completely under water at least 5 times.
·         Have dinner alone.
·         Make a new recipe at least once a month (that's 12 new meals this year).
      o   January – baked chicken nuggets
·         Organize Toccoa's paper things since birth.
       o   Separated into folder; just need to organize
·         Send a card or letter to someone once a month through snail mail.
       o   January – Uncle & Auntie Lala
·         Keep a daily (weekly if not daily) journal of Toccoa's life. I did this the first year and stopped.
·         Organize all my photos and burn to CDs and clean out computer and hard drive files.
·         Declutter and get rid of things (everything and everywhere in the house) -- and live simply!!
·         Watch my portions.
·         Find time to play piano more often.
       o   March 16
·         Spend quality time with each of my nephews and niece and parents.
·         Make a music video of Toccoa singing.
·         Take a train ride.
·         Go rock climbing.
·         Make desserts for Dave at least 3 times (that's just once every 4 months - c'mon, surely I'd be able to pull that off!).
       o   February – Strawberry shortcake for Valentine’s Day
·         Take a sewing class ... and make something Toccoa can actually wear.
·         Pay off my student loans off before summer.
       o   Paid off in March!!
·         Go on a weeklong vegeterian meal plan at least 4 times during the year.
·         Cut a pineapple.
        o   Done in January
·         Eat 10 food items I've never eaten before.
       o   Ecuador: Cornuts, cherry tomato that tasted like a grape
·         Do at least 5 new things with/for Toccoa (these are just ideas I'm writing down so I don't forget)
        o   March – underwater egg hunt
        o   March – Paul Mesner puppet show of “Rapunzel”
        o   April – plant a tree
        o   April – theatre production of “Sleeping Beauty”
        o   June – Shatto Farms family day
        o   October – run a kids’ marathon
        o   Teach Toccoa to bike standing up
        o   KidScape at Joco Museum
        o   Ceramic Painting
·         Put monies into a credit union.
·         Take a class - any kind of class about anything.

What could've been

I caught a glimpse of what my life would've been like ... and I felt a peace and curiousity.

Peace because I suppose it wasn't meant to be ... it wasn't meant for me.

Curiousity because I wonder if I would've been very good at that life. At being his wife.

I don't eat squirrel. I don't know how to cook fish. I can't kill chickens. I would've made a terrible daughter-in-law. And to some Hmong families, a good daughter-in-law is a trophy the whole family gets to wave around in public and brag about.

I'm really not the domesticated type. Dave reminds me of that all the time ... yet, he knew that about me when he married me. I don't yell at him about the cars needing maintenance or the trash needs taking out. But he likes to remind me all the time about what a terrible wife I am ... and that I should be like other wives. Going as far as naming the ladies too. Yeah, buddy, that's really gonna get me to do stuff for you.

I don't know why I hate domesticated stuff. Maybe this isn't the life for me. Maybe I'm not cut out for wife things. I think I'm a great mom ... but I just have to keep things in order, have fun and make sure Toccoa is learning. I don't have time to balance being a wife on top of that. And I hardly have time to find time to like myself these days.

So lately I've thought about what could've been ... should I have been that lonely self-martyr I always thought I'd die young as? Life is pretty easy now because I hardly do anything, but had I married young, would I have been a better wife than I am today, or would I have hated my life of wife and daughter-in-law slavery?

I don't know. I wish I gave a crap. And maybe ... that'll be my downfall.

The puzzle

People use to ask me if I'd ever wished I had a sister and I thought it was the most ridiculous question. Why would I want a sister? The thought wasn't even something I could comprehend. I was content with my three brothers ... and I didn't feel out of place running around with them and their friends.

In every stage of my life, I always had just 2-3 girlfriends I'd see at school or church; but for all of my single life, my brothers were my best friends. So want a sister? That thought never even crossed my mind.

It wasn't until recently that I understood why that question meant more to others than it did me. Ladies tell me all the time, "I don't know what I'd do without my sister(s). I couldn't imagine life without that constant closeness I have with my sister(s). It's my deepest, best relationship."

Then I started to wonder ... hey, was I missing something in life? Did I get robbed?

But then again ... I very much enjoyed growing up with my brothers. I would never trade any of it and cherish all the moments we got in trouble and ran around barefoot and wild in the neighborhood. And there was very little emotional clashes - you know guys. What you see is what you get; don't try to figure it out.

I remember hearing my first sister fight over a bra and thought, gosh, seriously ... they're fighting over clothes? And then they just took each other's clothes to get back at each other? Man, we used fists, wrestled and threw stuff at each other. But we were friends again in 5 minutes too; no grudges. Forgive and forget.

But I do admit that perhaps in high school, it might've been nice to have someone to talk to besides laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Michael Bolton and feeling sad and depressed because nothing about (thinking I was) falling in love made sense. You can't talk to boys about relationship stuff - although I was a great listener whenever my brothers needed to be heard about some girl. But I never talked much about boy problems with them.

Anyway, now, as an adult, things have changed.

I've learned to invest in relationships that allow me to emotionally let go. I realized that if I wanted good soul-filling conversations, I had to find quality girlfriends to confide in. Men would rather cut out all that feely-talking stuff if they could help it. Although Dave attempted to tune in, at times it just frustrated me more because of the differences in how we "listen."

I have a lot of great friends - but very few close friends. There are lifelong friends ... and sadly, friends I thought would stay forever ended up just being seasonsal.

Recently I thought I could get two friends whom I was close to to hang out and get to know each other. If I got along with them, surely they'd get along with each other too. Unfortunately, my friendship-making skills were off. They merely became Facebook friends and that was it. But it was a good lesson to learn.

And I realized, just because I'm good friends with them doesn't make them compatible. Each person who crosses our path meets our needs in a unique way ... just as we meet theirs.

And we are a different person around different people. Not to say we put on masks and never show anyone our true self. But each relationship is a piece of the puzzle that makes us whole. Each person who comes into our life sees a different side of us.

I have friends I can complain to and know they'd understand and share practical wisdom with me. I have friends I confide in about my worst dark secrets and know they won't judge me. I have friends I mostly laugh with because they make me feel good and forget about the stupid things in life. I have friends who pray for and with me. I have friends I could talk about God with - while others I don't even mention the name God at all - but I'm also ok with that because Christ didn't call us to commune only with believers. I have friends I am a very good listener to. I have friends I know appreciate my honesty and advice. I have friends who crack me up so much, I get ugly-faced laughter. But very, very few can I share the silly things my heart desires - and boy, it's been a very long time and I'm very, very much in need of dreaming.

I have friends from all walks of life ... and I appreciate the special effect they have on my life. And how they fit into the big picture that makes me whole.

Men and women have different needs - and women's, obviously, is conversation and quality time. And I couldn't imagine how much lonelier I'd be if I didn't have the good friends that I have to talk to and have around.

So in that way, I guess had I had a sister growing up, maybe life would've been a bit smoother for those times I could've used someone to talk to and be listened to. My brothers were my bestest friends ever ... and my husband isn't so bad either ... but having good girlfriends and sharing laughter is pretty darn priceless.