Kimchi Mamas

To Every Thing There is a Season

Earlier this winter we celebrated warmer, spring-like days here in South Texas. There was so much happiness and hope in our little family – the way spring is supposed to be. What spring is supposed to mean. But as all South Texans know: if you don’t like the weather: stick ‘round, it’ll change.

With a fierce, biting wind reminding me it was still winter, my world became cold and barren.

My daughter confessed to cutting.

 

We are the definition of a normal, modern, blended, American family. We struggle with schedules, negotiate the school-work balance, commute to and from extra-curricular activities, schedule social time among adolescent and adult friends, cope with extended family matter dramas and move through our daily lives as a family living alongside two ‘tweens.

What I had written off as normal ‘tween girl drama I can retroactively see now as warning signs. Stereotypical signs, too! Tumbling grades (check!), increased arguments with us, (check!), a new passion for fighting with her brother (check!), yelling matches and hurling hurtful words (check!), periods of deafening total silence (check!).

As a hip, consciously-aware, educated, socially active mother (certainly not like the old-school Korean mother I grew up with!) I knew and understood the stage of growing up she was going through.  She was in the early stages of adolescent spring! The winter of child childhood fading. I could even empathize with the season of adolescent spring: the bright sunlight moving from family to friends, chores and homework to trips to the mall with friends and PG-13 movies in giggly, awkward groups. 

And yet here I was am trying to understand. I’ve Googled. I’ve read. I’ve Tumblred. I've seen and read things that have broken my heart a million times into a million pieces. I’ve gone to see our family therapist. I’ve cried. I’ve begged. I’ve pleaded. I’ve prayed. I’ve overdosed my daughter with “mommy and me” time(!) not because I particularly enjoy spending countless hours talking about My Little Pony, cats and watching Animal Planet, but because I’m too scared to leave her alone. Too scared what I may find when I come back.

Knowing what I know about Koreans and depression; knowing what I know about my Korean parents, depression and alcoholism; knowing what I know about my own struggles with depression, alcoholism and addiction I wish I knew more about how to help my daughter. 

Sometimes I think we are moving through this season of hurt, but then I am reminded of the very meaning of seasons and that cutting isn’t just a one time thing, a one hundred time thing, or even a one thousand time thing . . . it’s a lifetime thing. 

But like the approaching spring, there is hope.

There has to be hope.

 

Hope springs eternal in Texas.

 

 

Houston, We Have a Problem...and a Confession

To my beloved Kimchi Mamas,

Please do me and our community a favor by reading this short article on self-harm and violence in the Korean American community

I know this seems like a big bummer to post this during the holiday season, but 'tis also the season for a spike in suicides, suicide attempts, and domestic violence.

Does this ring a bell for you at all?  It definitely did for me:

Grace Yoon, executive director of the Korean American Family Service Center in New York, told The Huffington Post that Koreans come to America with high hopes of acquiring wealth and providing a good education for their children. When their expectations are not met, some feel like they have let their families down. Yoon commented that the problem has gotten worse since the recession, "especially with Korean fathers and heads of households whose small businesses are not doing well."

The article goes on to say that the intergenerational language barrier as well as the cultural taboo against seeking mental health services may contribute to the higher-than-average suicide rate in Korean Americans.

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If this helps anyone at all, I'll just put myself out there as someone who did try to kill herself when she was in the throes of what she now recognizes as a major depressive episode.  

I was 21, feeling exhausted and beaten down, not doing well in school, but instead of seeking help, I just ignored my health and soldiered on, terrified of delaying my graduation by yet another quarter or year.  It got to the point where I stopped talking to my friends and stopped checking in with my parents, unable to keep up the lies when I claimed I was okay.  As I got more and more insular, my whole world consisted of my classes and my inability to attend them, my lack of focus, my inevitable failure.  So a few days before my first finals, hating myself for letting my parents down, they who worked so hard and sacrificed so much so that I could go to a top-notch school, and I couldn't even repay them with simply succeeding, I tried to take my own life.  I honestly thought I was doing them a favor, relieving a burden.

I was so, so lucky that my attempt was feeble at best, and my roommate was in the apartment.

After that, I was hospitalized for a week.  For some reason, I had this stereotype against psychiatry and didn't consider it a fully-valid field of medicine.  I could not have been more wrong.  Thanks to the medication, counseling, and support I received then and afterwards, I finally graduated from university.  My grade point average was barely enough to scrape past, and my department might or might not have overlooked a single missing requirement, but I did it.  And my life instantly became easier once I stepped foot outside that damn campus and moved on with my life.

Did I at 21 have even the tiniest correct inkling about how life after college would be like?  Absolutely not!  My instincts and intuition that I relied on so heavily turned out to be completely off; I think it was because I was completely biased to see only the negative.  That's what depression does; it skews your outlook on everything to just remember the negative and completely ignore the positive, and that small shift in perspective is what makes depression so dangerous.  It was actually quite a relief to discover that my "lenses" were off and needed readjusting.  

The turning point for me was my dad tearfully telling me that he would rather have a non-college-graduate daughter than no daughter at all.  That he would have let me crash at home for as long as I needed in order to get back on my feet again.  And that he was truly sorry that it had to come to this for him to tell me that, that this was completely uncharted territory for him, that we would get through this together.  My mom was too overcome with emotion to speak to me then, but as time went on, I came to realize that she felt the same way.  And believe me when I tell you that my parents made the Tiger Mom look like a kitten; that I was pushed very hard all my childhood; and if you had asked me before all this if I truly believed they loved me, I would have a hearty laugh at the mere notion.

But it turned out that my Korean parents, as stoic and strict and cruel and physically punitive as they were, were still parents.  And now they are very demonstrative, nurturing, giving, loving grandparents.  

And now, daily I think to myself, "I'm so relieved I'm not dead.  All the fun I would have missed out on!"

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If you at any point feel as hopeless as I did that summer, please know that you aren't "crazy," that you are struggling alongside countless others, that there are other solutions besides death, that people love you and are rooting for you, that honest-to-goodness there is light at the end of the tunnel.  Or at the very least, there are enough points of light inside the tunnel to make it worth sticking around to observe.  DO NOT MISS OUT ON THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

Call a friend and tell them you need help, call 1-800-273-8255, go to the emergency room, connect with people online, just don't leave yourself alone with the thoughts you are thinking, the same way you would try to save your friend who is trapped in a house with someone who is trying to kill them.

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If you got this far, thanks so much for reading.  This was difficult to write.

--Julie

Al-Anon

Given how prevalent alcoholism or "drinking problems" are in the Korean American community, I thought I'd get the word out about Al-Anon. It's basically like AA, except it's for people affected by friends or family members that are alcoholic. You know how they say that alcoholism is a family disease?  Well, I didn't really get that until I started going to Al-Anon.

My dad was and is an alcoholic. He can down two bottles of soju with dinner and see no problems driving home. I grew up with him drinking but didn't realize how much it affected me until I started going to Al-Anon. I'm sure my "problems" are not ALL from his alcoholism but I find that many of my behaviors are classic symptoms of having an alcoholic in the family.

It's like group therapy. There are meetings all over the place and probably one not more than 1 mile away from where you live. It's free, anonymous, and tremendously full of hope.

Chicken?

I find myself in a game of chicken with my mom. A very twisted one. It's a strange situation so I thought maybe doing a Kimchi mamas post about it would clear some things up.  

After living with me for about a year and a half and taking care of my first son for us, my mom moved to Boston to live with my sister. Why you ask? We fought. A LOT. And she's a little bit crazy. =)  Just kidding. She's a LOT bit crazy. 

Comfort Food

When Cadence finally started eating solids other than Cheerios, it was Korean food that she learned to love first.  To this day, she devours my mom's chigaes (soup/stew), and when all else fails, she seldom says no to rice and kim (nori).  Although she still shies away from the spicy foods, I'm amused at how she never tires of chigae with rice.  That has always been my comfort food and something I just don't get tired of.

After we immigrated to the U.S. when I was almost 6, my mother didn't cook Korean food exclusively.  She would try new "American" recipes, and when she found something she could make, she'd make it constantly for a couple weeks.  Pepper steak, corned beef hash, reuben sandwiches, and polish sausage with sauerkraut were the most frequently served non-Korean dishes that I can recall.  I suppose I could mention the fried SPAM sandwiches, but for some reason, I would have to categorize that under Korean food.

Despite my mom's forays into "Western" cuisine, I still loved Korean food the best and would often eat chigae or guk (soup) and rice for breakfast before school.  Quite honestly, anything beyond a sandwich, or to be more specific, anything that required the use of a fork and knife, made me nervous to eat in public well into adulthood. 

When I was in the 8th grade, I went to an awards banquet for our school district at a hotel with my mom.  I think this was the first time I ate at a sit-down cloth napkin type of affair.  I had no idea what to do, and I remember feeling my cheeks flush.  I looked to my mother for guidance, but immediately realized she was as lost as I was with the fancy tablecloth and napkins and multiple utensils.  Somehow, we got through the meal by copying what the others at the table were doing, but I never forgot that feeling of "otherness."

I've been doing a web-based read-along of Brené Brown's book on shame resilience for women called I Thought It Was Just Me (But It Isn't): Telling the Truth About Perfectionism, Inadequacy and Power.  As I've been reading the book and looking through the online discussions on Brené's blog, I've been thinking about what my personal shame triggers are, and I realized that a big one is this feeling of being "other," of not knowing proper etiquette, of not understanding certain idioms, this fear of doing something "improper." 

Brené's book points out that talking about our personal experiences of shame is helpful in working through our shame, and that the antidote to shame is empathy.  I know there's a lot more to my "shame baggage" than merely not knowing which fork to use and when or the fact that I'd rather eat chigae and rice (and yes, kimchi) for breakfast than pancakes or waffles.  Nevertheless, it's a start...

- Sarah-Ji

Is it possible?

I JUST had a thought in my head.

Is it possible that my mother resents my existence?

Is it possible that she resents the fact that I was born?

Is it possible that she wishes that she never had me?

I think the answer is yes.  Well, maybe not today, but yeah... maybe when I was younger.  Don't worry, I am not having a pity party over here.

Educating My Therapist

In my usual modus operandi of sharing TMI (Too Much Information), I would like to share with you a thought I had during therapy.  Yes, I am temporarily in therapy.

Therapist is not someone I picked; she was provided via EAP (Employee Assistance Program) which means she gives me 3 free sessions.  Although my personal blog is still my "poor woman's therapist", I sought out therapy of some kind initially for Little Nabi - she recently had a traumatic experience - but was urged to see one myself due to all that was going on with my divorce.