There was a chapter I left out of the book, though
At the end of each day, week, or any event, I often feel overwhelmed. Lately, I’ve been more fatigued than usual — probably because I just published my book. Processing all the emotions has been exhausting. Honestly, I fear public scrutiny, but now I can finally talk about it openly. Maybe one day I’ll even share the full story. After all, it took me 15 years to confront the teacher who bullied me and bring down her cram school. Time has its way of revealing truths.
There was a chapter I left out of the book, though. It involved my Swiss boss threatening me and then another lawyer — my old classmate’s mother — doing the same when I sought legal advice. To protect those who helped me, I didn’t publish that story. Ironically, the lawyer is married to a doctor and professor, both embodying the misogyny she defends.
When I first consulted her two years ago, she asked, “Who are you to question professors and doctors?” She emphasized how important it was to maintain the stability of the legal system. Until now, I still feel the knife at my throat. I couldn’t help but wonder: What kind of society am I living in? Is it even worth living in?
I asked her, “Have you ever been confronted with authority?” She fell silent. I laughed. She is the authority, yet she didn’t grasp that speaking up against it takes courage. A former judge, now a lawyer helping others, she seemed oblivious to how many voices her “peace first” philosophy has silenced. “Sacrifice,” she called it. But who benefits when the minority sacrifices?
The NGO she volunteers with supports women suffering from domestic violence. Yet, the whole situation felt eerily similar to the movie Get Out. I thought, “No empire lacks the support of its indigenous people.” In a patriarchal society, women who surrender their power first become the ones who suppress others.
In my present life, things are… okay-ish. Sometimes, I fear I’ve exposed too much of myself at work. I recently explained the Swiss rocket science team to my colleagues, and accidentally let them know I speak French. Oops. Now they see me as more than just a quiet, smiley, next-door-girl. I hate that. I just want to be normal at work — silent and unnoticed.
But daily life is hard. Really hard. Even finding peace of mind is difficult. Seeking professional help here in Hsinchu is daunting; doctors shout at me, suggesting plastic surgery as a solution to my mental struggles. At work, there’s an unspoken resistance to discussing mental health — everyone needs to be “normal.” So I hide myself. The writer, the painter, the woman who’s lived in multiple countries and speaks several languages — that version of me is hidden.
Recently, I’ve been waking up at 3 a.m. to work on my projects until 6, napping briefly, then heading to the pool. But even there, I have to deal with grumbling, unpleasant women. I meet their gaze, smile sarcastically, long enough for them to lower theirs. Still, the senior citizens in Hsinchu sometimes drain my energy entirely.
Then there’s this persistent headache. It haunts me. I go back to work, focusing on the elusive mist of ideas — seeing it, sensing it, but never quite able to put it into words.
Yes, I fear that I might fail at my job too. Rocket science! People raise their eyebrows — impressed. Yes, it’s rocket science, but everything starts small. And I can even mess up baby steps.
That’s when my daily life begins to dissolve into fragments of past and future, leaving me stuck in the present.
I hate traffic. I hate eating. I hate long walks. I hate excessive conversations. I hate disappointments. I hate that my old 3G phone is being rendered obsolete. It’s ironic, given that I work in technology.
Even talking to a therapist is draining. I told her how I grew up, how I got here. She nodded. But I realized I prefer writing. These deep conversations suck the energy out of me for an entire week.
The conversation also reminded me of a conflict I still haven’t resolved with my parents. They refuse to apologize for their friend who yelled at me at a reunion while my father smiled and served him tea.
Disgusting. These are the men who preach, “A woman without virtue has no value,” and “Serving your boss is an honor.” Beneficiaries of the very power structures they defend. They even attribute their beliefs to Confucius, to which I reply, “Confucius just means confusion.”
As if that weren’t enough, my period brings more headaches. So, I put on red lipstick and heavy eyeliner, expressing my anger and frustration. I don’t know where I am in life, or if I’ll ever make it back to Belgium.
My mom’s voice sharpens: “Will you commit suicide? Will you go bankrupt?” After my cousin’s suicide and my uncle’s bankruptcy, these are the questions that loom.
Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve rehearsed my death since I was 13, ever since my parents sent me to that Catholic girls’ school, knowing I was being bullied. They watched me suffer, believing it would toughen me up for the real world.
So yes, I’ve considered suicide for longer than they ever imagined. But another part of me desperately seeks help — trying to form genuine connections, learning to stand, smile, and cry in the right moments. Some faces I reserve just for me, others for the world. And the detached version of me only appears when I write.
Billy has 24 versions of himself. Me? I try to detach because I can see the downsides of every version of myself.
For example, I couldn’t wait for my tea at Louisa’s the other day. The wait was 10 minutes, but after 8, I was ready to walk out, empty-handed. That’s happened twice now. I can’t stand crowds or waiting.
And an artistic event I was looking forward to? It was so abstract, even the university staff didn’t know where it was taking place. Nothing seems to meet my expectations anymore.
But last night, working silently on slides with my grad school mates over text, I felt something close to peace. Silent companionship. That’s all I needed — to know someone was there.
Finally, I could breathe and sleep, feeling safe and sound. That’s a version of me — one who still believes in love.
