NYC Story 17: an elegy of my youth.

In my youth, i mean, when i was fifteen, or sixteen, I always thought of growing up into a writer: not intentionally, but naturally, just like birds singing in the morning and squirrels cracking up the nuts. Today I was reading someone’s blog, every short sentence of which contained a word I don’t know. Those nice, soft and elegant simple English words that you would use as a writer. Yes, a writer, not a scholar who produces grammatically correct, structure complicated, and lengthy sentences to prove his/her equally undecipherable ideas.

I grow up into a person with a personality I did not expect, neither did I want. This is nothing new. I have been saying this for almost five, six years. In my youth, I envisioned my future with someone I love but also hurt, with fights in every holiday and everydaylife. Unsurprisingly, neither my expectations of a writer nor my fears of being a horrible partner become true. I grew up into a person who has a hard time socializing with people, as well as being alone. At certain point, people stop asking me the question: are you happy? because even the pigeons in the sky could tell that I am definitely not. How can you be happy when you try to be great? Every single kind of greatness squeezes out the last drop of happiness.

I deserve to live in hell for everyday though. I am not a nice person, I never was and will never be. Today I hang out with two true gentlemen of well manners, perfect humor and genuine attitudes. I though oh how proud their parents would be. I observed these two gentlemen, with my bitter, jealous heart. I am not as nice as sweet hearts, and not as smart as bitches. ORDINARY. the word that I hate the most, the word that sends me directly to hell.

I was never happy, even when i was a little girl, or a pensive teenager. What kinds of people crave for philosophy books when they are 12? And people who did so not because they are smart, but because they are in pain, endless and great pain.

I still cry quite often nowadays, when i miss my grandma who raised me up and died young; when i recalled my pity, shitty childhood full of screams, physical bruises and scares, and verbal curses; when i realized people glowing over this traumatizing process by tagging it into the past and calling to move on; when i thought of the idea that a person who actually understands your darkness might not exist and when will i reconcile with myself.  why not sobbing all day remains a myth to me.

I am still functioning, miraculously, at the expense of having something called life. i have tons of time being dark, bitchy and crying, depressed, because i decided to take it all by myself. while reading, writing, contemplating in the late night, i always see myself laying on the snow in the emptied winter, finally freezing into the past with only one last idea left in my brain: ha, finally, no i can finally stop my brain from killing me.

you know what makes me cry so often? every moment i thought of that sweet, trying her best to be nice, understanding and attentive girl grew up into a person she would hate for her entire life.

I do not like myself, i never liked, and probably won’t like it forever.


About GloriaYuYANG

art historian, writer


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