I’ve had a few instances in life where I wanted something but couldn’t have it. As a child, I wasn’t someone who often faced that kind of frustration—most of the things I wanted, I could get. I don’t say this to brag; I mean that I was a spoiled kid. They indulged me without restraint while also abusing me without restraint—otherwise, how else would I end up bipolar? I grew up thinking that if abuse came with a reward, it was justified. That if pain came with a sweetness, it was acceptable. Is that way of thinking pathological? I don’t know. Maybe the pathology isn’t mine—it’s the world’s. I’m just saying it out loud.
There are very few things I truly want. And when I get them, they usually feel like nothing special—especially if they came easily; then I lose interest, even disdain them. But even if something took great effort to obtain, I don’t feel sad when I realize I don’t want it anymore. I already got it, it wasn’t worth it—so what? No need to force it. “Sunk cost” is not something I consider. Time is abundant.
It’s as if I’ve never lacked people in my life—men, women, boys, girls; the few, the many; the strange, the kind; those who dislike me, those who like me. Rarely neutral reactions—always some spark of friction. Social interaction has never been hard for me; what’s hard is my patience. I have none. I have no patience for people because people are too easy to get. People always disappoint me. People, over and over again, are just… that. Given the choice, I’d rather read. Even though books are written by people, at least I can observe them from a safe distance.
I don’t like people, and I also loathe myself. I’m disgusting, filthy, selfish, duplicitous; I want to have it all, controlling and possessive to the extreme—what’s there to like? Others aren’t much better. So what’s the point of mingling with each other? I’m afraid of the collisions that such contact brings; sometimes I feel like I don’t have enough emotions to go around, like I was born with a deficit. And yet, people fascinate me. They’re too complex, too profound, too varied, too beautiful. Books can’t capture their intricacy; you have to observe them up close. I want to observe up close—will you let me? In exchange, you observe me and I’ll observe you. Trust me, I won’t overstep, even if I seem careless. ChatGPT once told me I’m “a nucleus inside, an abyss outside”—boundaries unclear, deep and wide, but touch the core and you crash instantly. I think the “core” it meant are certain bottom lines, though I’m not exactly sure what mine are. But it seems to know.
I’m not someone who often wants but can’t have. Materially, almost never. There were many things I wasn’t allowed to do, but plenty of things I was forced to accept—whether I wanted them or not. Sometimes I even felt they were unnecessary. And even if it was something I did want, if it was handed to me by them, I didn’t want it anymore. I like what I earn myself, not what’s given. In terms of life goals, as a child there wasn’t really any subject I couldn’t grasp, but I did show some talent for writing. And talent alone isn’t enough—I was too lazy and uninterested in study. Talent still requires effort, and lazy me is now far behind others with equal talent but more discipline.
In primary school, my top dream job was novelist. In fact, back then my friend (Yang Fang—if you’re reading this, please get in touch) and I actually tried writing an eight-chapter story. It was about two girls exploring an ancient Egyptian tomb. At the time, I was devouring novels written by a certain history-major girl and started imitating her style. I had just watched The Mummy I & II and was obsessed with that historical period. My friend and I would exchange chapters every day, editing each other’s work. My mother mocked me daily; my father criticized me for wasting time. Eventually schoolwork got busy and I was forced to stop. But that attempt taught me that finishing matters more than talent. Effort matters more than talent. Talent is an advantage; effort is a necessity. In hindsight, I’ve indirectly fulfilled that dream: now I write less-fictional fiction on this blog, pouring myself into pieces disguised as fiction. They’re actually my real thoughts.
I’m not someone who often wants but can’t have. Emotionally, it hasn’t happened often either. Daiga says I “break boys’ hearts,” but I think it’s not just boys—it’s girls too. Though in my view, I never “broke” anyone; they broke themselves. I was in a bad place, busy with family issues, had no time, no mood, no energy for anyone. I had a crush on my best friend who never knew, but I stayed quietly by her side. Boys around me liked me—she thought I enjoyed it, but I didn’t. She didn’t know, but still—I wasn’t wanting but not getting. I wasn’t wanting at all. Being near her, I already had what I wanted.
The first time I truly wanted but couldn’t have was in high school, with the first boy I liked. I filled a notebook with his name and gave it to him for his birthday. He had a girlfriend. I didn’t care. As long as you know, and I know you know, that’s enough. The second boy I liked also had a girlfriend. He didn’t know I liked him—and I didn’t know he liked me, not until this year when I looked back with an adult’s mind. If I were me today, I would have made a move. But back then I was too agitated, too chaotic, too worried about what others thought. Now, I’m still agitated and chaotic—but I don’t care what others think.
The second time was when I graduated from university and realized I really couldn’t finish my physics degree. More painfully, I realized I would never be able to prove to my mother that I could beat her at her own specialty. That what I’m good at isn’t useless, and that what she’s good at, I can do too. This had nothing to do with physics; it had to do with the motherly love I wanted but could never have. As for being understood by her—I’ve given up. It will never happen in this lifetime. Especially when she still sends me messages telling me to have kids, to get a job, to quit weed and cigarettes, that my depression is “just overthinking,” that my bipolar disorder wasn’t caused by her, that she never said the things she said, never did the harm she did. Accepting her would mean erasing everything about myself.
Right after that came the third time: I thought I had finally found the place I wanted to live, but had to leave it to try making films. I graduated in May, but at my graduation ceremony I didn’t get to say goodbye to many people because my parents got into a fight. I couldn’t understand—how could they stay married so long when they couldn’t even agree on something as small as where to wait for me? One stayed put, the other walked off without their phone, without saying where they were going. If it were me, I’d have split ages ago. What’s the point of constant mutual attacks? Later, I realized I could be the same. I used to think my parents were a terribly mismatched pair, but my ex-boyfriend said they must really love each other—otherwise, who stays with someone that difficult for a lifetime? They’ve managed it.
I didn’t leave until September. The campus had been empty for months, and I spent the summer packing my belongings over and over, uncertain about the future. Where was I going, what was I doing, how would I do it? I didn’t know. I only knew I had to go. I had to try. I kept packing, kept feeling unready. I wasn’t ready, but I knew I had to leave.
The fourth time was when I left my first job—a company that started with motion capture, developed its own software and hardware, and, seeing opportunities in film, opened a virtual production division. This tech was niche—aside from James Cameron and Avatar, no one was using it at scale. Even today, most so-called “virtual production” facilities just have LED stages instead of green screens. Soon the company folded. No matter how hard I worked, it was out of my hands. I needed collaborators, projects that could pull me forward. I was new; I wanted to learn. Even now, I haven’t learned much that others could teach. Life has no manual—if only I’d realized earlier.
The fifth time: I fell in love with a married man. I didn’t realize it until much later, when I understood—this might have been love. Love isn’t about how good the other person is; it’s about being able to accept their worst parts, even like them, understand them, and willingly be drawn in. I used to think love needed practice, that it happened slowly. But love is instinct. He loved me, and I loved him. And yet I hated him, and he hated me. I hated his hypocrisy; he hated my bluntness, my “shamelessness.” I brought him trouble; I wasn’t docile; I couldn’t be tamed, much less play the “secret mistress.” People say most Bay Area marriages are open—I doubt it. I can’t share. I can’t be silent. I can’t be the woman who quietly supports a man. He could support me—but with an ego that big? Unlikely. He needs a woman who tolerates him. I need someone who accepts me completely. We don’t need each other.
As of the sixth time. That's a story for another time.
