Context [written Dec. 2018]:
On a cold December night, I was going home on the train, blasting music and in my own world. The woman who was sitting next to the man right beside me was raising her voice, so I took out my earphones and realized that she was accusing the man of taking photos of me in my skirt.
Another stranger immediately took action and tried to grab the man’s phone, practically dragging him off the train to call the police. The 56-year old got hauled off and arrested, while I was taken in four hours of questioning to file an official complaint. And so at four in the morning, I was driven home by the police, my body sore from the sitting and my mind numb with disbelief and disgust. Two and a half hours later, I was sitting at my desk at work.
Two weeks later, the police found 15,000+ photos of various women in the man’s phone, fifty of them of me. I’ve stamped my fingerprints on all fifty of the photos to confirm they were of me (an emotionally grating experience, to say the very least), gone back to the police station twice, and hung up on the guy’s lawyer who had the audacity to ask me if I would be willing to settle and drop the case.
It’s been quite the year — a tumble of emotions, of utter listlessness and frustration with my lack of direction. Of feeling stultified by the stifling banality of corporate life, and being angered by my empathy that was seemingly a glaring weakness in this cutthroat, business-centric world.
January — three months of working in Japan, done and dusted. The loneliest night spent curled up in my bare apartment after a day at the police station, hands shaking in shame and humiliation as I dipped my finger in ink and placed it on each and every photo that had been taken of me without my consent.
February — an unexpected phone call, notifying me of the perpetuator’s sudden death. An awkward pause when I pressed for the cause, one that answered my question. Falling down, down, down a spiral of guilt for a crime I did not commit.
March — the month of my birth date exactly twenty three years ago, spent quietly over a delightfully light chocolate mousse. Dark thoughts swirling around me, ever-present and all-consuming.
April — cherry blossoms in full bloom, barely getting by.
May — saved by eleven days of pure bliss. Of iced beer that tasted like piss, free-poured GTs, and happy-hour mango martinis (no, I am not an alcoholic). Of feeling lucky and loved.
June — third time back in my favorite city. Chills in experiencing one of the first protests that would subsequently dominate the world headlines, feeling a torrent of hot tears run down my cheeks.
July — finally allowing myself to realize that the problem was not me, that it was the goddamn bastard and this misogynist society that calls for mandatory shutter sounds on phones instead of tackling the root issues. Slurping the rich broth of a xiao long bao at a shabby street stall in Kaohsiung, feeling at peace.
August — consumed by books.
September — cheeks warmed by the six o’clock sun, hair ruffled by the crisp autumn breeze, navigating my way through narrow streets filled with churches and decadent palaces. Days marked by the number of gelatos consumed, not by the number of e-mails written (a truly enthralling way to live).
October — adjusting to a new job, but refusing to conform. A particularly tiring activity, especially when you feel as though you’re a team of one going up against hundreds of stubborn men whose faces resemble shriveled up prunes.
November — winter blues plunging me back into disordered eating, of feeling less than enough and back to square zero.
December — twelve months later, finally conjuring up the courage to prioritize myself and to set my own agenda.
I am okay now. Been better, been worse, so just okay.
But I am okay, knowing that I have a handful of friends that I can count on and that my idea of success and happiness does not hinge upon my job title… and so for that, I am immensely grateful.
