When did the past switch from being a memory to a threat

I’ve always taken pride in the fact that I have a grounded confidence rooted inside me, and that no matter what has happened, no matter my struggles, I have always refound this confidence, calling me home like a beacon. Some days it is only a sliver of hope, like squinting at the waning moon, offering only a minuscule solace of light; other days, it’s as radiant as the sun on a blistering summer afternoon. I have learned to be comfortable in my own skin, which isn’t to say that I don’t have my moments of weakness under the thumb of the green-eyed monster, but at the end of every day, I am content that I am who I am. 

I’m writing this as the holiday season winds down, and the new year looms over the horizon with a muted threat, and I can’t help notice that during the past couple of weeks, I have found myself filled with a bitter envy, almost this unmistakable anger that ripples underneath my fingertips. It was a bit difficult to pinpoint this feeling at first, to understand what I was feeling, and then why I was feeling it, but after returning home for a few days, spending some nights in my childhood bedroom, my parents sleeping two doors down, it came to me. It wasn’t a sudden revelation, like an Eureka moment that shot me out of bed in the middle of the night. It was a gradual dawning, like the sun setting low in the sky, and you’re too busy admiring the beautiful colors of the sunset to realize that a chill has come over your body, and by the time it’s fully night, you’re shivering under the moonlight. I realized that I was jealous of my boyfriend. I was jealous of my boyfriend -- my boyfriend, who, mind you, is a cishet white male. I was jealous of him, and not for the more obvious reasons of patriarchal power or dominance in society, but rather because of the life he has every time he goes back home. 

Coming home for the holidays does not fill me with the same juvenile excitement that it used to. Even in the earlier days, while I was in college, coming home was a treat. It meant home-cooked meals, free laundry, time with my cat, and a queen-sized bed, which always beat the hell out of my shitty dorm mattress. I don’t dislike coming home. I still look forward to it, especially for a quick weekend trip to escape the city noise for a brief period. But now, coming home, specifically the holiday months, the days spent wandering around my childhood home during Thanksgiving and Christmas, and the awkward lull before New Year's, instill a stale feeling inside me. As I’ve gotten older, friends move farther away, so the chances of seeing them during these universal life breaks have dwindled as they prioritize time with family, which is only appropriate. The issue isn’t that I don’t see my hometown friends or that I miss Boston, but more so what I feel like I’m missing out on. 

Like most couples separated by distance, my boyfriend and I text each other often. What we’re eating for lunch, this new book I’m starting, pictures of his cats, etc. But as the days passed by, I realized that my updates were far and few between, whereas it seemed like he had an excursion every other hour. Dinner with his cousins, playing basketball with his friends, going out on a Friday night (which, for me, going out in your hometown is unheard of), cooking with his siblings, and all the fun holiday cheer. I read all of these messages from the comfort of my kitchen table, the same one I used to cry at as a child because I didn’t want to do the extra math problems my parents required of me. Our lives were, and are, so different. 

I’m not saying either of our livelihoods is better, but for me, this much freedom while you’re in your hometown is a foreign concept to me. My childhood was gated, shrouded by my violin and trumpet lessons, SAT tutors for every subject, church, sports, and minimal socializing with friends. I know his was much different. Coming back home, it’s almost as if I’ve reverted to this trapped mindset, that my parents constantly have to know where I am, and I can still gauge what mood my parents are in based on the sound of their footsteps. Even the smallest of details, like the fact that sometimes my boyfriend didn’t know where his mom or brother was during the day, was mindblowing to me. And now that my sister is a lot older, living with her husband, and the mother of a cat, her presence at home is sporadic and fleeting. We don’t go window shopping as we used to, too old to play with our stuffed animals. It’s not even that dynamics have shifted because we weren’t close growing up. It’s the same for her, and for us; we are back where we were when we were children, except now we may gossip about friends and the latest episode of that show we both watch. 

I wonder if it stems from my childhood, if my Friday nights were spent more with my friends and not band rehearsals and youth group, that would change the trajectory of many things. I wonder how life would be now if I spent less time bickering with my mom and more time putting my head down and applying myself to my studies. I wonder how everything would be if I hadn’t rebelled against the traditional Asian American upbringing, coveting the autonomy that my friends had, that all the other students in my school had. There are many, many unanswered questions, questions I don’t know how to ask, and answers I’m not sure I’m ready to, or ever need to, hear. 

I don’t look back on the way my parents raised me with regret or contempt. I’m very grateful for the childhood I had, and I understand and acknowledge the privileges I have that my parents granted me with a healthy lifestyle and a wonderful education. But there are many days when I wonder if things were different, how much of who I am today would change. I’m not sure if things will ever change, if coming back home will always leave me in this languorous state. I have no doubt that growing up, maturing with life experiences has altered my view of coming home, of my relationship with my parents. I approach them with grace and patience, but I still feel as if I am owed something, like something was robbed from me when I was a child.