I’ve been in Japan for a decade. And it’s changed my life in many, many ways. None of these will be interesting for Japanophiles, but I need to vent.
I’m not really a part of my home family anymore. And the fact that I’m the eldest and we have large age gaps means that the family I remember doesn’t remember me.
My father died and nobody seemed to remember how shitty our relationship was. Nobody remembers the abuse… The yelling, the constant insults and berating. And since he’s dead, I can’t really bring it up. I’d be attacking their dad, and from what I hear, they had a good dad.
Meanwhile I wrote a letter to a version of “Dear Abby” asking how to live up to his expectations and got a response explaining verbal and emotional abuse. I didn’t imagine it. But nobody but I can remember it.
My mother tells two stories of my childhood. The first is me jumping on a bed. Dad says he’ll spank me if I don’t get down. I say “You’ll just forget!” and he spanks me right then and there. This is a funny story, or so I am told.
The other story is me telling a preschool teacher that my parents hit me. My mother explains that I am very lucky that the teacher knew my parents personally. That this teacher knew my parents would never hit me. This story is supposed to be one of a lying little girl.
It often feels like my entire childhood is just being framed as lies. And I’m too far away to correct them. I don’t know the people my family has become, and they don’t know me. The ones who actually remember me only remember a young woman going through hell. They remember me when I was sick, both mentally and physically, but my illnesses were ignored. When I would cry and scream and vomit every morning, as if those were all normal things to do as a daily routine.
The woman is gone. But so is her family. So is her entire country. The US in 2013 is long gone.
So I don’t think I can ever go back.
