What I Would Cook for My Younger Self
I was 15.
Alone. Once again locked up in my very own head.
I was too young to know that negligence does not always look like abandonment. But I was also too old to nag, to beg, to complain about how messed up everything was. Life seemed to tumble down upon my feet, but only I seemed to hear the dooms. Everyone else seems to be fine with the facade that looks like a happy, fancy, successful life. So I pushed through, thinking I could fix whatever needed fixing.
I was left with no option but to tiptoe on the floor made of eggshells that was laid beneath my trembling feet, making sure I didn’t crack any; making sure I didn’t hurt anyone but myself.
I didn’t know any better that keeping myself safe was something I should have done. I had never done it for a long time. I thought living a ticking bomb was something any wise human would tolerate. I thought the hot and cold hugs, the abundant present, along with the empty words, were the common forms of compassion.
For a long time, obedience was the only language I spoke fluently, not knowing what the life of a minor should look like. I spent most of my childhood running away from one urge to let go of my own life to another. Thinking there was nothing wrong with having a delusional dream of not living for too long. Once again, I was fifteen. A fifteen-year-old is not supposed to think and feel so.
I was 22.
I was too young to rescue everyone, but I was too old to throw tantrums over the accumulated pain. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take it. I couldn't take. I couldn’t… I… could.
I walked away. I took the accountability to rescue me. A huge leap I made while constantly questioned my own sanity. My flame had swept everything it could reach, everything it could see. I walked away with a broken heart, questioning my own worth and value.
I barely walked. In my head, it felt like I dragged my numb head, my numb body, my numb limbs, and my numb soul as far away as I could. Looking back, it was an excruciating scene that I went through.
Growing up, I turned many of those pains into poems. Written by the silky ink, solemnly touch the papers that are made of tears. Tears of permanent sadness that I could no longer brush off. A grief that now stays like a tattoo. A sense of loss even when everyone I love is very much alive. An inability to see a vivid future where you can see me in the scene being fully happy.
I was 27.
I thought everything was going to be better. I returned, thinking we might fix it this time. I was wrong. Humans never change that much, I guess. This time I couldn’t lift myself anymore. No chance for a second try. I was devastated, curling up in a huge uncertainty. I could no longer see the point of being hopeful.
I felt broken, to the point that everything looks grey, everything hurts, and words lose their voices. The future became unaffordable to my soul. Right before I wanted to let go of everything I endured, one tiny voice whispered, “Let’s try again. Just one more time.”. A voice I recognised. The voice that sounds like me from decades ago—a young, childish heart who has not spent much time on earth.
I owe her everything for helping me hold myself back from doing what my mad mind told me to.
I was 29.
A final call I made.
It is no longer a question of what I want to do. It has become something that I have to do. I am left with no choice but to walk away. Brokenhearted, completely brokenhearted. Shattered and scared, I set me free.
I asked myself what I would cook for my younger self. What would she’d like to eat after a long day of sadness and madness? NOODLES. She’d love to devour noodles. Any kind of noodles. So I made her one. It is 23.50 midnight, and I cooked one.
While boiling the water, I was looking at myself on the shiny surface of my kitchen cupboard. "Ugly," I said spontaneously. I don’t love this body.
But this body is the one who’s been loving me. It carries me through 14 years of impossibility. Through health and sickness, through smiles and sadness. Through grief. This body carries me through everything—every suffering, every hug, every helplessness, every blessing, every consolation, every victory, every defeat.
As I was enjoying the noodles, I thanked myself for allowing me to take care of it now. I thanked my body for allowing me a second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh chance to try and reciprocate its love for me. I’ll keep trying. One noodle at a time.
