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Asian Flower Customs

Asian Flower Customs

"Depressed ka ba?"

This is the question that's been haunting me since years back, when I started showing signs of hating myself, when I started not talking for days at home, when I started crumbling down in the rare moments of weakness. My parents ask me this question over and over and over again, yet every time they do, I can never answer them. Of course, they tell me that it's just a yes or no question, but how do you equate your feelings within those two words when you yourself cannot answer that question that you've been asking yourself this whole time? Am I depressed? Am I just being a pansy? Am I just overreacting and overthinking?

I don't know, and a part of me doesn't want to know. Because if I end up discovering that I have depression, I'd look like a fucking cripple. And with parents who expect you to be strong, to ""get over"" your inner demons because you've ""graduated"", I can't afford to be seen as a disability. But if I end up knowing that this is just some sort of shitty overreaction, wouldn't that just make me look like I'm full of bullshit who feels entitled and attacked by every single criticism out there? That I'm a weak, spineless, sack of jello lump? A millennial as seen by our parents who couldn't give to damn shits about what happens with our lives that they don't find as important as we do?

Funny thing is, I know why I can't answer this question. It's because my feelings have always been disregarded, discredited. I can't feel bad about things because I'm in no place to feel that way because others have it worse. If my siblings take my toys or eat my favorite food or steal my clothes, I'm supposed to let it go because I'm older than them and it's my responsibility to them. If my classmates bury me in a pit of self-hate and insecurity, I'm supposed to just forget about it afterwards because it's a part of our fucked-up societal rules anyway. If my parents do the same to me (which hurts way too much than any shitty asshole classmate, to tell you the truth), I'm supposed to take it as a joke because they love me and want to give me a backbone. Oh, it gave me a backbone, alright. Now, I just insult myself from the get-go so I'm hurt far earlier than anyone can ever make me. And it makes me want to commit homicide or suicide.

I suppose suicidal thoughts is part of the depression package, but I check out on only a small handful of the symptoms. I still sleep pretty okay, I don't really have drastic changes in my appetite (or maybe I eat way too little to make any changes count...), and I'd probably laugh at anything I find remotely funny, and by laughing, as in tear-inducing stomachache of laughter where I can't even breathe. But if a huge speeding bus was on the road, I'd probably stand in front of it without so much of a resistance. I have my possessions sorted out in my head too - what goes to whom - and my social media accounts' login details are all sent to my most trusted friend in case anything happens. Add to that a general anxiety and crippling fear of never being able to prove that I'm at least a functioning piece of shit in this hellhole, yet I've given up trying.

But I can't be depressed. I just can't be. Because being depressed is like a confession to being a whiny, overgrown baby who isn't mature enough to face the world outside my front door and will run home crying ""Mommy"" when I so much as trip over a rock. My parents expect me to be okay, and I'm just being overemotional. I'm just overreacting. I'm just not grown up enough. I just failed at being a proper adult, because there's no such thing as depression in my perfect, privileged little millennial world. Right?

"Depressed ka ba?"

I still don't know the answer to that, because the implication of any answer I give terrifies me."

White Chrysanthemums
2012
AB