Two Two Four

I read some of my posts on here to a couple of friends tonight. The early ones are quite cringey. Not being in that space of intense hurt anymore means that I can’t relate anymore and instead of reading them as meaningful, I read them just as the words they are.

Two Two Two

I’m thinking about how this time last year, I was excited to meet J for the first time. We had matched on Bumble and our conversation was so promising about the connection we could, and did, have. I remember feeling so giddy and nervous about having coffee with him, knowing already that there was a good chance we would be a good fit. I was right. And then I was wrong. We were good. And then we were not good.

I’m thinking about how happy I am with O, the way he makes me laugh, how smooth his chest felt against my cheek this morning. I’m thinking about how different O and J are, and how different our relationships are. It’s not that I’m happier now with O, than I was with J, or vice versa. The two just can’t be compared. They’re so different. There is something to be said about commitment and how that is romantic in itself. When someone wants to be with you, cares about what you want and listens to what you have to say – that is something really special. That makes me feel giddy about my relationship with O. I feel heard with him. I feel him try be a good boyfriend. I feel his commitment to us and our relationship.

Two One Nine

I feel the generation/ cultural gap between my mum and me widen into a chasm whenever we talk about relationships. The way she dated when she was my age is so different from the way I date now and I think we’re both aware of that. I feel her self-consciousness when she tries to relate to me and my love life. What begins as an awkward navigation through questions about me and O, becomes underhanded insults towards me.

Why does he like you?

Maybe he’s just trying you out for the time being?

I know the undercurrent too well. When I was little, my mum would warn me of my friendships with people who weren’t Chinese – they don’t understand us, soon enough they’ll reject you, best to stick with people like us. Now that I’m older, I know that this is her projecting her fears onto me. She did this then and twenty years later, she’s still doing it now. I know that this is an expression of love (in a way), her trying to protect me. She’s worried that O will eventually reject me but all I get out of conversations like this is that I’ll never be enough.

The other day I saw this meme that said immigrant parents were tasked with survival but immigrant children get the privilege of seeking self actualisation. I really love my mum, she is the strongest woman I know and I will never know the extent of the sacrifices and resilience it took to forge a new life in a foreign land. Maybe the way to bridge the gap is to remind myself of this – that my parents are fearful because of their experiences and the fact that I’m carefree is a privilege that’s come from a sheltered upbringing, which my parents gave me.