Dreaming and regreting process my past. It’s not about making time go back, since I have my passion for focusing on cognitive neuroscience.
I learn to accept the broken youth that made who I am today.
The verbal bullies, from both the classmates and teachers, of my yellowish teeth, being overweight, and rotten grades that dragged down the average grades.
The time I had been questioning why I was still alive, being unable to stare at myself in the mirror.
The cold marble floor when I knelt for one more chance in a job, bowing for at least getting an opportunity.
The shouts my dad was demanding me to have some self-respect and stop saying the damn word, ‘sorry’.
The words my mom apologized for giving me such a miserable depression genes.
Cut short of the school uniform skirt above the knees; try pinky mascara and cherry Chopsticks, tie a knot of the white shirt, spray enough perfume so that it lingers everywhere you go.
At 34, I still have these kinds of dreams of me being the main character, although I was far from such a glamorous figure in my teens, being overweight, paranoid of eye contacts, and had a celebration for any school’s graduations.
College? (I was admitted to a garbage university, as my mom put it) I wore more baggy clothes and thicker glasses than Billie Eilish but only knew music of Mozart's; I started a conversation like Ed Sheeran losing his guitar; and I had a cynical arrogance to hide my self-abashment.
After two decades and five years, I love rebellious music, horror movies, tough interrogations documentaries, solo travelling and staying in a 36-bed room in Hungary, and the anatomy of brains, acknowledging how resilient I was to get through a treacherous journey to become someone who knows how to value and forgive.
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