Detachment from the Past

I recently returned from a short three-day trip to Oahu, Hawaii. While visiting a tropical island may sound luxurious to some, I tend to harbor wildly ambivalent feelings towards this particular destination. As mentioned in my “About” section, I was raised in Honolulu, Hawaii. Under that circumstance, I experienced year-round 70-80 degrees Fahrenheit weather and a familiar cultural environment (i.e., not exhaustively diverse, but a significantly East Asian culture). My upbringing, however, was punctuated with classically anxious-avoidant attachment determinants (e.g., absence of affection, frequent physical punishment, emotional neglect, etc.). Throughout my elementary and grade school years, I had few, if any, “friends,” and I was perpetually uncomfortable around my parents. By around my preteen years, I was sobbing into my pillow on a nightly basis. On a similar daily cadence, I would press kitchen knives against my wrists, leaving indentations, but rarely breaking skin (and I would verbally berate and ridicule myself for not having the “strength” to kill myself). By my mid-teens, alcohol (and occasionally, other substances) became my main coping tool. I didn’t necessarily have words for it at the time, but in retrospect, my social and emotional skills were severely delayed. My continual state of arrested development, self-loathing, and contentious social interactions were evident even into my early 30’s.

Before I digress too much, the purpose of this quick narrative is to demonstrate that my memories of Hawaii are not of a paradise, so whenever I visit, I am constantly reminded of moments that I would prefer to avoid. However, as my parents have grown older, their approach towards me has also softened (though their dismissive behavior and social callousness remain). Regardless, I do sincerely notice their efforts to reconnect with me (e.g., their frequent anticipatory approval-seeking glances whenever they make a comment, their superficial, at least from my perspective, attempts at generosity in cash gifts). Unfortunately, at this point in my life, I lack the emotional connection with my parents that many have forged over decades, and it is difficult finding any source of wanting to reciprocate or exhibit any sensitivity towards them. Perhaps it’s still a lack of maturity, but the disconnection towards my parents was oftentimes a defense mechanism for me (i.e., if I have no feelings towards them, their presence has no effect over me). Not surprisingly, many of my mental health clients also exhibit and admit difficulties in their parental interactions. One of my clients once described their mother’s unintentional and meaningless brush across their arm as “fire on my skin” (an incredibly apt illustration for my situation as well).

While I do not believe a resolution is close at hand, I am in the firm belief that that is fine. There are no platitudes or general morals about this post, and I merely wanted to demonstrate that we are all works in progress.