Faces in The Train

The dark side of my mental health has made me into a friendly person.
I know what it's like to feel alone even in the most crowded place. I see faces, but they are all blurred in my eyes like they are passengers in a train passing by. The wind brushes through my skin as the train speeds through the rails, then the brake screeches as it comes to a full stop.
It makes me Feel.
It makes me See.
And it makes me Hear.
But by the end of the day, I never felt seen or heard.
A "hi" or a "hello" could go a long way. I always try my best to say "hi" back, give a simple nod, or do something as silly as a salute.
When technology becomes a prominent part of our lives, I thought it would make my life easier; I could finally connect with people, and they had more ways of getting in touch with me.
When I was in High School, I did not have a phone. I shared with my mom's. The early 2000s had made Group Texting a craze. Messengers already existed, but the kind of phones we used was not capable of integrating that kind of technology together yet. My classmates would get creative with the messages they would send. I would pounce on the first opportunity that I would get every time my mother's phone would ping, and the message was for me. That joy, however, was short-lived.
One day, I heard that familiar ringtone. 1 Text Message Received was written on the pixelated screen of my mom's Nokia 3310. I held the phone with great care. People used to believe Nokia was a delicate phone back then. I pressed open, and the phone blinked, directing me to the inbox. The message came from a classmate of mine. He said, "good morning. I hope you're having a great day." A smile rose from the corner of my lips. My fingers tapped a reply that I was indeed having a good day even though my good day did not begin until that good morning text, then I thanked him for greeting me. His next response made my breathing seemed so loud I could not hear anything but silence in broad daylight.
He said I was welcome and reminded me it was a group message.
What followed was convincing myself that I was overreacting, that I should be glad I was important enough to be a part of his group message.
As I stared into thin air, reminding myself to stop making a big deal out of a text message, my overlapping thoughts transported me to that train station once again. That nine-word text message speeds through the rails and came to a full stop.
It made me Feel.
It made me See.
And it made me Hear.
But never seen or heard.
I was just another blurred face in a crowded group message.
I have never wanted anyone to feel that way since that day. Including a person's name has become my top priority every time, I say hi, hello, or any type of greeting at all.
"Hey, Sarah."
"Good Morning, Professor Young."
"How's it going, Alex?"
During holidays, I try my best to greet every name in my phone contacts one by one.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Ali!"
"Happy 4th of July, Ashley."
"Merry Christmas, Anthony."
Sometimes, I don't even say hi or hello. I just say their name.
"Daisy." I waved my hand.
"Hazel!" I saluted like a soldier.
"Charlene!" Waving with both hands.
A little overdramatic, people can say that, but if being overdramatic can save a person's life, then I will do it over and over again every day. I can't count how many times a simple hi have saved my life. Saying people's names take only a couple of seconds, but it creates a big impact. It is another way of saying that you see them, and that couple of seconds you have given to say the word "hi" is just for them and them alone.

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200-Page Notebook and 2 Slaps

It took me twenty-seven years before I could say, “my father is abusive” out loud. I was one of those children living in a fantasy that my family is perfect until I was given a choice to stay in the safety of distorted reality I have created or bear the pain of having an imperfect family. 

One of the most vivid memories I had of my father is when he slapped me with a two-hundred-page notebook. As a child, I was the center of attention, not because I am the first born son or the middle child. My two sisters had always been academically good. Everyone in our high school knew them as the smart members of my family while I was the black sheep. 

But I did try my best to be, if not one of the best, but at least a good student. Back in my days, note-taking was a serious skill that a student must have to be that star student. I remember how people often describe my handwriting as chicken scribbles. Teachers, classmates, especially my family looking at my notes gave me anxiety. But that did not stop me from trying to take notes. I practiced, practiced, and practiced until it improved. The improvement might not be tremendous, but it was an improvement. 

I studied in a Catholic school, and we had a subject called religion (which they later changed to Christian Ethics or CE). My teacher back in middle-school was this woman who loved to wear a black long sleeve shirt. Every time she checked my notes, she would gasp and called my little improvement a big improvement. 

I feel bad that I don’t remember her name anymore. Because of her, I was motivated to go to my CE class and took notes like my life depended on it. As a middle-schooler, one of the achievements you could proudly brag about was using all the pages of your notebook, small to average font size occupying pages back and forth.

The day came when I had one notebook that I could show as evidence to claim that achievement. That day, I got to experience another joy of being a middle-school student— buying new notebooks. And if you were a dedicated note-taker, you got to buy two new notebooks and show your crocheting abilities by binding them up into one thick notebook. 

One day, I was ready to attack a new day in school with a new notebook. I could feel its presence in my backpack as if it had a heart beating. 

My father, as usual, was having a sour mood. One of the many ways he used to feel good about himself was to tell his family how everyone had never seen him as a hardworking father, and that we failed him most of the time. 

Yours truly was a favorite target. My father would often start his tirade by spatting words that I was a lazy student who never appreciated his hard work that he’d sent me to study in a Catholic school. 

His anger issues had taught me to avoid eye contact with other people. It’s true that the eyes are the window to the soul, and it frightens me that every time I would look someone in the eye, I would see rage and unkindness, like the one that I’d had always seen in his eyes. 

“Where’s your notebook?” He jabbed a finger in my direction. “I want to see it you lazy son of a bitch.” 

My arms coiled around my backpack like a mother snake around her eggs while a predator circles her nest, but my tiny body was not enough for him. He snatched my bag and dug through its content, destroying the way they were organized. 

Blood in my veins froze, and a cold sensation trickled down my spine as he pulled out my newly crocheted CE notebook. 

“What’s this?” He flipped through my new notebook. “Why is this empty?” 

His eyes, the blazing anger in it burning into mine. I stood frozen, but I wanted to tell him something that he might be proud of— I had a notebook full of notes hidden inside my room. As I opened my lips to tell him my achievement, I felt the two hundred pages notebook collide to my cheeks. Before I could recover from the impact, gave myself a chance to cry, another slap followed from the other cheek.      

I stared at nothing, tears blurring my vision. My brain told me that I’d become numb, yet I felt everything, from the throbbing pain on my cheeks to the sharp pain digging through my chest. 

People often say that we would find nothing if we stare into the void, but as my breathing became louder, I saw from the void that I was a worthless son, heard how I would never be anything than a son of a bitch that he’d been telling me again and again, and felt that I was broken.

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