When It All Falls Down

Being out of kitchens for five years has really helped me understand trauma in it...

When people talk about trauma, I’ve resisted acknowledging its impact on me. I was very much an “if it didn’t kill me, it made me stronger” type of person until I broke up with my parents at The Cheesecake Factory last November.

Since then, I’ve been noticing a lot of changes in my psyche.

I used to wake up every day and wonder if I had done enough to make my family proud since they almost died escaping from China to Taiwan. I would wonder what I “owed” my mother since she got beat by my Dad for so long and stayed to raise us. Nowadays I wake up, kiss my wife who’s still asleep, and go take a 45 minute shit watching NBA Summer League highlights.

It’s nice to not carry all that shit around every day.

But in the kitchen, ghosts revisit me.

I would be lying if I told you I could pinpoint exactly why it’s happening because there are too many factors.

It could be because one of the first positive moments I remember with my father was when he taught me how to make fried rice with leftovers. It could also be because I worked in his restaurant since I was 15 and one of the only common interests I share with my mother is Chinese food.

Then again, it could be because my Mom would also throw full teapots of boiling water at my Dad when they fought or because my Dad would drag her by the hair out of the kitchen to beat her in their room.

I can’t be sure.

But after not cooking for 5 years, I can definitively say that I am getting closer to understanding trauma by reentering the kitchen.