The bluest oceans

Trigger warning: This story touches on issues of substance abuse, mental health, suicide and self-harm.

Time heals all wounds, but it also takes a chunk out of your lifetime and—please excuse my French—age is a bitch. Sure, I have the wisdom of experience from more than just one life lived, but I am now effectively residing in the biological body of a worn-out g-string.

They say hindsight is always 20/20. Fair enough. I have been through enough life lessons that, if given the chance to talk sense into my younger self, I would likely take a sledgehammer to her. Like the time my fifteen-year-old self thought she had fallen in love and decided to skip an exchange year because juvenile hormones dictated: "He's the love of my life and you are ugly af! If you leave now, you will never find a love like this again." Or the time I ate fishy fish: "It's fish, right? Of course fish smells of fish—right? RIGHT?!"

Let me tell you, in hindsight: if something smells fishy—even when it's fish—it’s a good idea to let it be and not put it in your mouth. Apply that allegory to all things in life, not just food. Alas, I claim that with the bold confidence of maturity, yet this lesson continues to weave itself into my life like much-needed comedic relief.

In my defense, the "love of my life" was a hunky hubba-hubba of a teen with steel-blue eyes. (I am a sucker for blue eyes.) In some parallel universe, that part of my life probably aired as a Disney Original, with Zac Efron in High School Musical and me as the designated ugly duckling.

Most teens pass through an ugly duckling phase, but for those of us who are mixed-race, it’s a very odd transition. It’s as if our genes don't know how to arrange themselves yet; they just go into an offensive "yikes-mode" before finally blending into a presentable smoothie. I am old enough to have lived through a time when being mixed-race was still something "fishy," especially in xenophobic or homogeneous environments. It doesn't help the illusion of fading youth when I add that record-keeping wasn't a particular forte back then, either.

Without digressing too much: my parents weren't married, my younger sister had drowned, and I carried the name of the man who had fathered my older sister. Ah, the good old times! Most people are born with an identity; I had to fight for mine. At the time of my birth, bureaucracy demanded a name where the gender could be identified easily. My parents? They gave me a porn name. Let’s not dwell on where they encountered it, but here we are.

At the age of five, I was sent to school—not because I was a prodigy, but because the authorities were utterly incompetent. They were inclusive enough to want every child educated, but not switched-on enough to get the details right. My single mother, who could barely pronounce my name, received a letter ordering her to send her daughter to school. The letter used my older sister’s name with the birthdate of my deceased sister. I was the one who had to read the letter and translate it for my mother. How many five-year-olds do you know who translate for the incompetent and interpret for ghosts?

The takeaway: I didn’t exist. That wasn’t the first time I didn’t exist, but that is a story for another time.

One might forgive me for developing what was then called neurodermatitis—or lichen simplex, as it is called today. (Does that sound like green algae growing on me, or is it just me?) It’s essentially chronic eczema triggered by stressors like "not existing" and a whole shit-load of trauma. By fifteen, I was an ugly duckling with confused genes, no skin (because I’d scratched it off), glasses, braces, and a brain suspended between reproductive urges and general anger at the world.

I wasn’t exempt from vanity. When you’re in the dumps, a nice haircut feels like the perfect distraction from overall unworthiness. Unfortunately, my fifteen-year-old brain failed to see the correlation between a good haircut and the fact that my hairdresser was bald. He pushed my attractiveness level to that of a crusty toilet brush from a disco bathroom.

Hindsight 20/20: If you love your hair, don't get it done by a hairdresser who is bald by choice.

Back to Pete, the hubba-hubba with ocean-blue eyes. He cheated on me shortly after. Teens. My "first love" was a clear forecast of that fishy fish. When you’re fifteen, "love" is rarely the real thing; it’s usually just a smell you haven't learned to identify yet. New rule: NEVER let emotions stand between you and your life goals again.

I grew up in a place where xenophobia was actively suppressed—not out of virtue, but out of a desire to hide the guilt of past atrocities. It’s like hiding a moldy sandwich in your desk; you hope it will grow legs and walk away, or that if you never open the drawer, it will eventually become one with the wood. It was a historically curious time to witness social evolution, unless you were the biological specimen for the "others."

When you are mixed-race, you have no home base. One world is intrigued by your otherness; the other is outright suspicious of your existence. Both sides probe you with stereotypes. It starts with the name. To be compliant with the law, my parents chose a name that, when they pronounced it, sounded like a bear sneezing against the wind.

I learned to erase one identity to blend into the other. My mother thought it was better to do one thing properly than two things half-arsed. I learned the language and the culture, but I still felt the non-acceptance. I lacked the vocabulary for my feelings, so I expressed what I wanted instead: Freedom, Independence, Justice. I sounded like a fanboy for the French Revolution. My first original sentence in my new language was: "Get me out of here!"

In school, I was recommended for Year 2 after an aptitude test, but placed in Year 1 because of my "tender age." I wasn’t just bored after the test; I was bored for the next few years. I don’t know if my academic drive was inherent or just my exit strategy. Since they couldn’t downgrade my performance, they downgraded my "ugly" handwriting. No matter; no one needs to suffer through my squiggly worms in the digital age.

I was often overlooked for speaking parts in school plays—parts that required a "look" that wasn't a rock or a tree. I thought others were just more suitable; it’s a "forgiving" oversight that only becomes an ugly reality after years of shouting, "PICK ME!" Eventually, I stopped trying to be a star and became a jock. In sports, I was finally seen.

Hindsight: When life throws you lemons, throw them right back.

But then came the lichen simplex. Every drop of sweat felt like flowing lava, adding salt to the open wound of my body. But I was an angry teen now. I broke the skin’s will to exist through sheer willpower—the same way I’d eventually deal with the "grabby hands" that went for my "fish" later in life. (I’ll leave that to your speculation.)

I decided to go to Law School. Freedom, Independence, Justice! But I wanted to be an athlete more. This is where life threw the fermented lemonade back at me. If life can't cripple you externally, it creeps up from the inside. My sports career ended with a thyroid storm. Imagine your body is continuously guzzling vodka while sprinting up a volcano. You become a malnourished Formula One engine in a hospital bed.

I ended up in law school because I thought that’s where justice lived. I was wrong. Freedom, independence, and justice have absolutely nothing to do with the law. I had clawed my way into existence, unignorable with my porn name, only to realize the "justice" I sought was a mirage.

So, I did it all over again. New place, new name, my terms. I changed my location, rid myself of the ugly ducklingness, and changed my profession. I moved to a new continent, forced into independence. I learned that language is more than words; it’s a code. This new tribe greeted every face they saw. I existed without having to jump up and down.

Then came Mitch. Another blue-eyed hubba-hubba. Mitch was a beach boy who had never left his comfort zone. He was a bit dim—he thought "aquarium" was a complex word—but I was a sucker for those eyes and that jawline.

Hindsight 20/20: Do your research before embarking on a journey of freedom.

Law school had trained me for the substance abuse common in the profession. I was a walking pharmacy—never illicit drugs, just a knack for benzos to keep the high-strung engine from exploding. I had always been a sleepwalker. One night, I subconsciously decided my pills were a midnight snack. I didn't wake up for three days.

When I finally came to, Mitch was in the living room eating cereal. It was Thursday; I had gone to bed on Sunday. "When were you going to tell me I missed three days?" I asked. "I thought you had the shits with me," he said. "So you noticed the blister pack was empty and you didn't check if I was alive?" "You're having the shits with me now," he shrugged, "so you're still alive."

Any person with self-respect would have left. But that jawline...

Eventually, I left for uncharted lands where I didn't speak the language. My new name translated to "insides of a horse"—still better than the porn name. I hated the location, but my independence grew wings. Mitch eventually followed me, trying to prove his worldliness, but he stayed in the expat bubbles. One night, I was actually dying on his floor. I wasn't sleepwalking this time; I was actively exiting. I threw up with such "auditory gravitas" that he couldn't ignore me. I was carted off to the hospital, where parts of me died.

Hindsight 20/20: Don't let blue eyes be your Kryptonite. Learn to love the identity you created out of sheer will.

I am tired of the lessons. One last time, I started over. No more blue eyes, no more academic standing. I just wanted the ocean where my sister had drowned. Life sent me to Phuket. My plan to vanish failed the moment I got on a 16-hour bus from Bangkok.

Lauren, a chirpy American, didn't care about my name or my past. She decided I was an "Australian surfer." I was too exhausted to correct her. I was an empty vessel, hoping to sink, but I found myself trailing four helpless souls who needed me to navigate for them. I held their hands and saw them to safer shores.

Except Lauren. We shared a room in Patong. I filled my void with sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll—a walking "ping-pong show." I didn't want to infect Lauren with my abyss, but her need for my guidance forced me to stay alive. In that chaos, I realized justice doesn't exist; it's just a man-made construct.

Lauren moved on to Vietnam. I stayed behind, reborn in the ugliest but truest parts of humanity. Hindsight 20/20: The truth is found in the ugly places.

I am no longer in Phuket; my liver wouldn't have made it. Time has healed the wounds, but it has worn me out. I look in the mirror and don't recognize the girl I was. People who meet me today see someone ordinary, even young. The substance abuse did less damage than the sports injuries. Now, life tries to get me with allergies—cat hair, dust, but never fish. I still love fish.

Looking back: Pete is now bald (not by choice) and a boat captain. Mitch is probably still dim.

Lauren has suffered a catastrophic brain aneurysm.