Disappear by Jia-Li

3 days ago

4 min read

Jia-Li

“Othered” isn’t quite the word Jia-Li would use to describe their upbringing. Simply put, people outside of them didn’t have to make it apparent that they were different–they already knew. Their mother was one of the only Taiwanese immigrants in rural Texas and Jia-Li went to school with children who had generations of family rooted deep beneath the town. More than anything, they wanted to belong, even if they knew they never would. Sometimes, when they’re trying to wrap their brain around their childhood, they remember praying to God that someone would switch places with them. Always, they would answer their own prayer knowing nobody would.

Disappear

One of my most prominent childhood memories is waking up in mid-September to find all of my tooth fairy money has been stolen. With little effort, I guilted my father into admitting he had taken it to buy a fresh pack of cigarettes at my expense. Anguish poured through my chest and out my tears; I couldn’t believe a father could be so cruel. I vowed to never touch a cigarette until the day I died.

But the thing about making promises to yourself when you’re so young is that rarely do you keep them. In a twisted way, I still like to think I did.

My first real cigarette wasn’t until I was 20. I was cold and alone against the railing of my balcony while people drifted around in the parking lot beneath me. I crushed the butt against the railing and indulged in a second, then a third, and then a fourth until the sickness made me gag. I just wanted to feel something. Anything but the agonizing reminder that life did not stop at tooth fairy money and half-hearted apologies.

I think as a society we like to imagine suicide as some grand spectacle because for those outside of it, there’s a comfort in feeling like you’d see the signs. Maybe cowardice kept me from producing an attempt that matched the turmoil I felt. But in my final moments, it was just me, my cigarettes, and the quiet call of cicadas.

There really isn’t a “good” time to commit suicide. I foolishly felt bad before going through with things because all I could think about was how much I was inconveniencing my loved ones by killing myself on a Tuesday as opposed to a Friday or Saturday, I guess.

Regardless, I pushed my worries aside. After a life of feeling every little good thing drain out of me like an open wound, it was my turn to have the final say. So I did. And for however long I was unconscious, I, in some way, felt like that was retribution.

There was a thing I would say before attempting: “No one cares until you die.” Ironically, when I woke up in the hospital, the first thing I reached for was my phone. When your entire world stops, a part of you hopes the rest of the world takes a moment to grieve. But in the same way life went on after my first, third, and fifth rape–so did it when I tried to take my agency back.

So I’ve since amended my old saying to: “No one cares.” But that doesn’t mean that I have to do the same.

I wish it hadn’t taken giving up on myself to prove that I deserved to be here. A naive part of me hoped that almost dying would suddenly wake the people in my life to the struggles I was going through. I had spent a lot of my time living and feeling “imposter syndrome” from not “struggling” enough. As if I had to prove to other people that my rape was valid. That I was going through it just as badly, even if I didn’t have a running court case. Even if I never saw justice. Even if I only spoke about it in my journals.

Really, I never lost that sense of being displaced and needing external validation. That very engine is what drew me to my rapists and ultimately almost killed me. Almost.

During inpatient, we smoked four times a day. What was a crutch when I was at my lowest became an interwoven, scheduled sanctuary during my recovery. Every inhale felt like a disservice to the younger me, but I kept reminding myself that she had died. I killed her.

So I smoked four to six cigarettes a day and chatted with the other women who found themselves trapped behind large metal doors with nothing to do but watch Disney and color copyrighted characters all day.

I told myself the vice was temporary; just a facet of being locked away and needing something to comfort me. Yet, the habit didn’t stop even when I was discharged.

I still smoke cigarettes and I carry the shame of being a smoker with me every time I walk back to work reeking of Febreze. No one cares, though, so why should I?