Fixing Broken Mirrors

By Taesung .

Fixing Broken Mirrors is the horrific retelling of one child's journey through physical, mental, and emotional abuse. It is a testament to what lies behind everyday smiles and how we never know the truth hidden behind closed doors.

Travel with Taesung as he shares his message of hope mingled with his pain as he rememb

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Degree Press
• Release date: May 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798885042550

Book preview

Uncertainty

For as long as I can remember, my father physically and mentally abused my mother and me. When I was eight years old, I wanted to run away. I often fantasized about suicide. Then came thoughts about my father’s disappointment about having ruined his reputation as the proper head of the household if I were to die by suicide.

Loneliness often consumed me because I felt like no one protected me. No one told me my father’s parenting was wrong. No one taught me how to guard myself against abuse. No one even told me what abuse meant.

So there I was, a Korean-American boy of eighteen years finally diagnosed with Persistent Depressive Disorder, Anxiety Disorder, and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) after a decade of symptoms.

I hated my life. I hated myself.

I also hated minority cultures for often painting mental illness as a sign of weakness. People going through trauma simply need to get over it. Bullshit. I’m tired of watching this epidemic spread. Mental illness is a real disease.

By definition, a disease is any harmful deviation from the normal structural or functional state of an organism (Britannica, 2020). Depression, anxiety, PTSD, addiction, and alcoholism all affect the entirety of an organism and are even correlated with effects like heart disease. Modern solutions to these diseases generally consist of some pills and therapy, but who is to say that years from now they won’t be cured the same way a tumor can be removed.

Admitting to having a mental illness is extremely tough. Hell, there are times when I still get uncomfortable admitting I need help. The reality is life can feel like an extremely steep hike, but at life’s peak, everything paints itself to be perfect.

Depression is a liar. Depression told me life would never be worth it. Depression told me I was alone. Depression told me I was broken. Depression told me so many lies that became my truth.

Except depression forgot to lie about the most important thing: that starting in an abusive place didn’t mean I had to end up in one. I could choose to crawl out of depression’s throat. I could choose to find my way in the dark, to walk out through its mouth, to shout my story to the world before depression swallowed me completely.

Communication—written and verbal—is what brought me back to reality, to life. Since telling my story, some of my friends have become part of my family, and for the first time, I felt loved for who I am.

To those of you who feel alone, I hope this book reminds you that you are in company, always, even when you don’t know it.

Existing

1

Together Forever

I gently gazed at Mikaela as I asked her how I could improve as a friend. Her feet shuffled from side to side, her mind deep in thought. Her eyes fell on the ticking clock on the yellow wall. I promised I wouldn’t get upset no matter what she said. I really did want to be better for her.

You minimize other people’s problems, she finally offered. I know you’ve seen some rough stuff in life, but still, you make other people’s problems feel small.

But most people’s problems are pretty small.

I paused. Ah. I saw Mikaela’s point. And of course, who was I to judge how a person feels? We’re all taught that there is no correct way to feel; identities are unique, experiences are individual, and everyone feels such experiences deeply and personally even when they overlap with others’. But I understood then that Mikaela was helping me be a better friend. She reminded me in her own subtle way that no one has a right to compare struggles; any problem is still a problem.

2

Unforgettable

Leaning against the shower tiles, I felt the warm water rush down my body. As my eyes closed, my father’s yelling boomed through our small apartment. I didn’t think too much of it; he was easily irritable. I stood there for a moment longer to enjoy the serenity and warmth of the water. Once I was ready, I turned off the water and grabbed my towel. Five minutes passed, but my father’s bellowing continued to roar. His words scrambled with the water dripping too loudly. I patted myself dry, but the hairs on my neck stood up as a scream pierced through the house. My legs tangled as I rushed to put on my clothes.

The screams amplified as I opened the door. Around the corner, I saw my father’s right leg towering over my mother’s body and repeatedly stomping on her, my mother’s arms crossed over her face. Each strike looked ready to splinter her body. Tears rushed from my eyes.

Stop! Stop! Stop! I cried in Korean, the only language spoken in my family. My father saw me running toward him and hesitated mid-bash. He howled one last thing at my mom, stormed into their bedroom, and slammed the door. My mom had tears streaming down her face as she mourned in silence. My eyes darted between her and the door as my mind tried to process what the hell I had seen. I was only six years old.

This is the earliest memory of my life. My mom says she’s five feet tall, but she’s really only four foot eleven. She weighed a little less than eighty-five pounds when my father—five foot eight and 185 pounds—beat her at the time. The situation only deescalated because of my screaming. I couldn’t have held him back physically; I was six.

One of the brain’s natural coping mechanisms is to forget the most painful memories, but I will never forget how I felt that afternoon. My father told me he loved my mom. But if he could do that to someone he loved, I couldn’t imagine what he could do to me.

3

Depression Is Confusing

Depression’s general connotation is synonymous with sadness, but it is so much more. Depression is a kind of feeling that makes a person feel deflated and hopeless; they truly believe life will never get better. Sadness refers to a feeling of regret or distress, but depression kills feelings.

Suffering from depression doesn’t mean a person can’t be happy; it’s the same concept as a sober alcoholic. None of my friends or adults in my life knew how I grew up, let alone the fact that I had depression. I didn’t even know I had it. I thought that emptiness existed in everyone. Even when diagnosed with depression, I didn’t acknowledge it for years.

Most people still have no idea how to understand depression because of its complexities; I’m still trying to figure out what it means to me. It is especially confusing for people who have depression without an obvious cause. Depression affects every type of person imaginable—billionaires, people with perfect skin, happily married people, people who seem to have no reason to be miserable.

The silver lining is that depression will always be smaller than its victim, no matter how all-consuming it may seem. Depression, like a virus in a living organism, resides inside its victim. A virus needs a host to survive. But with proper treatment and support from the immune system, a virus can be treated and fixed. In parallel, depression needs a person to survive, but a person will thrive without depression.

4

Conference

At the annual parent-teacher conference, my second-grade teacher didn’t have anything negative to say about me; I never acted up during class. She suggested to my parents that I should read slowly to avoid carelessness because I made simple reading comprehension mistakes, often racing my friends to finish first. I saw my father’s lip quiver at her suggestion, and as soon as we got into the car, he made me continuously repeat the phrase, Read slowly to avoid carelessness.

Louder! he yelled when I wasn’t projecting to his satisfaction. As soon as we arrived home and the front door shut, he slammed his fist into my head and kicked me in the chest. I stumbled on the ground while my mom told him to stop. He glared at her while punching the top of my head.

Shut the hell up. Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?

I felt only shock then. My father had never physically beaten me before, but the only image echoing in my mind as he yelled was his attack toward my mom only a few months earlier. It played over and over in my mind—a broken record on repeat.

Face the wall and pin your arms to your head. If your arms don’t feel stretched, I’ll kill you! Keep screaming what your teacher suggested, he demanded.

He walked over to the window to shut the blinds, and the hairs on my arms rose.

He stood nearby watching me yell, but eventually, my head started to spin. The taste of blood bloomed in the back of my throat as I wondered when my father would be satisfied. My arms numbed, but my father punched me in the back of the head if they relaxed even slightly.

After what felt like an hour, I choked, Can I have some water?

My father threw another punch at the back of the head while screaming, You deserve to die! Fuck your water. You don’t deserve any water. Hurry up and die so I can kill myself too!

My tears, glistening pearls of shame, melted any lingering feelings of comfort. If only they could drown me into the shadows, into nothing.

I don’t remember how this night ended, but I remember believing I would die.

5

Memory Loss

Depression and anxiety have been linked to memory problems such as forgetfulness or confusion (Healthline, 2019). People with depression have poor prospective memory, which recalls planned activities in the future. This means people with depression are more likely to forget things like taking daily medication.

While these details and prospective memories suffer, traumatic events remain vivid, particularly for those with depression.

I had an especially hard time writing some of the details of this book because, frankly, there were too many events that I had simply forgotten. To write this book, I had to return to past journal entries that triggered suppressed memories.

Memory troubles have largely affected me in the following ways:

Blocking out traumatic events.

Forgetting details of a conversation.

Losing general knowledge.

Not completing my identity.

Forgetting social events.

Forgetting conversation during the discussion.

Forgetting essential habits such as taking medicine.

To all my friends and loved ones who have dealt with my poor memory, thank you for your patience.

6

Second

My math homework stared at me as I tried to keep myself from dozing off, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood up when I heard my father roaring. Whipping around from my desk, I checked if he was in my room, only to be met with the echo of my own panic.

The living room was the only separation between my parents’ room and mine in an apartment of no more than a few hundred square feet. I tried to focus on my homework, but his yelling rang through my head; then came my mom’s scream. I knocked my chair over getting out of my desk and ran.

Stop! I screamed for what seemed like the millionth time. I ran toward them only to be met with a kick in the chest.

"Who do you think you are telling me what to do? You’re seven years old."

The nightmare repeated, a reality on replay.

I continued to scream, but my father shoved me into the restroom and blocked the door with his body. Helpless, I fell onto the tiles, flooding the floor with my tears. I did not pound on the door for fear he would come in and start hitting me too. The sounds of the beating continued outside, and I stayed there, trapped, helpless, and hopeless.

7

Don’t Minimize Depression

Statements that make a hard time worse:

Think positive.

Just snap out of it; it’s a mindset.

Stop attention-seeking.

Smile.

Everyone gets sad.

You are ungrateful.

How do you have depression? I saw you laugh an hour ago.

It could be worse.

If you aren’t going to fix it, don’t complain.

Statements that make a hard time better:

I’m proud of you.

You are not a burden.

Let me know if you need time and space; I know it’s not personal.

If you are okay with this, I’d love to do some errands for you.

We got this.

We don’t have to talk; I just want to be next to you.

Thank you for being in my life.

I’m not going anywhere—maybe unless you want food.

Your feelings are valid.

I love you.

8

Blue

My throat burned, and my arms grew numb; they’d stood in the air for two hours. I panted from physical stress, and my tongue swiped across my chapped lips. Part of me expected the pain. I was eight years old then. The routine settled in.

The corner of my eye caught my father walking into my room, and panic shot through my face as my mind replayed my last beating. I shut my eyes, and my breathing grew shallow and rapid. Before my father said anything, he landed his blows on my body.

He yelled out, Taesung! before his leg came crashing onto my back. My chest lurched forward, hitting the wall I faced

My arms hung in the air, too numb to move, and I stood ready for his next hit. My mom flew into the room, begging my father to stop.

He stared into her pleading eyes and said icily, I’ll fucking kill you if you get in the way. You weren’t able to raise him correctly. You’re making me do this.

I croaked, Get out, terrified he would touch her.

My mom’s silent stance spoke for her; she waited for him to face her. When my father noticed she didn’t move, he pulled his fist back, and just as quickly, she walked out of the room. For a second, I thanked God my mom would not be beaten, but in retrospect, I wish that prayer had included me. My father continued throwing his fists and landing his feet wherever he could, but he lasered in on my head, back, and butt—places where hair or clothes would hide any injury.

How the fuck, growled my father. She’s the reason you need to get your shit beat. Both of you are stupid fucks.

My face stuck to the wall, and my ears drummed from his continued screams. You need to die! There’s nothing you are good at!

He paused a few times to catch his breath, and each time, my face unstuck from the wall. I tried to tell myself that none of this hurt, but each time his fists and feet crashed down again, I crumbled. I wanted to die, just as he wished.

The burn in my throat had not gone away, but each time he hit me, I tried to let him hear what he wanted. I didn’t have any thoughts, so I screamed, I’m sorry. I will do better.

If he responded at all, he’d grumble his repeated veto, You can do better after I’m done beating you.

No thoughts crossed my mind—simply a wish for an end. My world felt timeless, the consistent blows making the only audible rhythm. Eventually, one pause seemed longer than normal; he panted almost as hard as me.

Lower your arms and look at me, he puffed.

A sharp pain ripped from my shoulders and traveled down my back as I tried to lower my arms. For a second, they wouldn’t move. The bottom of my father’s fist connected with the top of my head one more time, and he slammed my door, huffing as he left the room.

For a moment, I stared at the ground without any thoughts running through my head. I slowly picked up my feet and walked to my bathroom. My throat felt parched. Terrified to see him, I refused to get a glass of water. Instead, I overlapped my hands and scooped water from the bathroom sink. Every swallow ripped down my throat as if it were filled with glass, filling the dry crevices. My eyes watered, and I tried not to wince in pain.

As I hobbled out of the bathroom, my mom stood waiting for me.

Are you okay? she asked. Show me where he hit you.

I’m fine, I told her.

She didn’t move; she wanted to see. I didn’t have the energy to argue, so I turned around and told her to lift the back of my shirt because my arms hurt too much to do it myself.

She whispered, I’m sorry, between her tears.

What was an apology going to protect me from? Frustration built within me, and her arms squeezed around me as if creating a wall of security. I let the frustration go. What was the point? She was also a victim.

Your body is completely blue,