Content warning: This article contains references to suicide and eating disorders. If you or someone you know needs assistance, please, contact your physician, go to your local ER, or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-TALK (8255), or message the Crisis Text Line at 741741. Both programs provide free, confidential support 24/7.
Unlike most Chinese families, my dad took care of all things in the household.
Every day of my early years began and ended with his cooking. I would come home from school to a rhythmic “chop-chop” on his wooden cutting board and the distinct smell of his meal-prepping: oily, but not unhealthy; generously seasoned, but never with MSG.
I remember picking at my dinner at home in Shanghai — a bowl of untouched rice, topped with neatly chopped cabbages.
“What are you doing all day, locked up in your room?” my dad had asked, in an obviously discontent tone. I dared not look up. Instead, I continued examining the uniform cut of each cabbage stem and counting pepper specks.
“What on earth do you want?” he raised his voice, slamming chopsticks on the dining table.
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I gathered the courage to respond.
“I want to kill myself, Dad,” I said. I was 17.
My dad cried with me, a rare scene indeed for an Asian family. His tears immediately dried mine. Ashamed of worrying him, I quickly regained composure, but I kept this a secret from my mom, who was away on a business trip. They were both doing the best they could, I thought; I needed to fix this myself.
I ended up seeking help afterward, but an unprofessional therapist only worsened the struggle. I dreaded every session, where I was forced to unpack my psyche with sandbox toys and watercolor prints. I never knew what to say, but that didn’t stop her from making me.
A few years later, social media inflicted anorexic tendencies. For a while, I prided myself upon disciplining my stomach. I felt powerful, in control. I lied about having a tiny…
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