Alexander Cho is the handsome only son of one of the biggest conglomerates in South Korea. But his world violently spins into darkness after he is forced to split up with his foreigner lover and contend with the shocking crimes of his family's busin...
Warning: this entry includes psychopathy and suicide. Also brief instances of cursing. --------------------------------------------------------
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SUNDAY, APRIL 2nd
Dear Diary,
I've been seeing a therapist in secret.
My therapist—her name is Linda—and I meet every Thursday from 1-2 pm when I'm not busy with work from school.
When I first came to the U.S., I'd discovered her one evening through an online catalog while searching for methods of dealing with stress. I was still getting used to the transition and the wild cultural shock that was New York. It was a lot like Seoul—busy, crowded, the air saturated with street foods—but different in many other ways I wasn't used to.
For one, there wasn't any fine dust in the air, so I didn't see anyone wearing masks which I found a bit strange at first. The people were loud—unbearably so—and sometimes bold enough to come up to you to ask for money. I didn't like that at all. Men and women dressed however they liked; there was no rhyme or reason, no order at all. Shorts, flip-flops, jeans, and the occasional raucous patterned outfits on equally raucous youth. There were many faces of so many different colors, so many different origins that I had been overwhelmed—and a bit nervous. My parents' business shares hadn't yet expanded to foreigners yet, so it was quite daunting to see so many in one place.
It didn't help that my parents hadn't bothered to call for the first few days of my stay (though my maid briefly phoned me to ask if I had been doing well and that Ha-Kun had already notified my parents that I was in America).
By coincidence, Linda lived in Upper Manhattan—only a thirty to forty-minute drive from my off-campus housing. She even had excellent reviews. There was absolutely no reason for me to have hesitated to book my first appointment with her.
But I did. I thought, what if people judged me? No one I knew back home went to therapists—not that I know of. All the high-performing students when I was in high school seemed to silently plow through their books during night self-study. It always looked effortless as they endured the endless pressure to get into a prestigious university with anxious, but overall stable minds. Despite always outperforming them, I always felt weak compared to them.
Even though I was the only one in my grade who got sent abroad for school, I sometimes still feel that was because I was too weak. Since it had been shortly after my second suicide attempt, I knew my parents thought if I wasn't in Korea I was less likely to tarnish their image.
As much as I hate to admit it, they were right: the sheer fear of drowning in a place that was unknown to me pushed me to reach out for alternative options to keep me afloat. I suppose when push comes to shove, depression always walks in tandem with desperation when life threatens to end you without your consent.
