Greywash5 min read

The other day, my friend sent me a video.
Two creators known to portray black and white swans of a coin.

In the video, they cheekily look at each other,
fingers with long dramatic nails
curling like a flamenco dancer and say 
Can I be mean for a second?

I laughed with my friend and said
Except that we’re too nice.

She said
You’re too nice, I can be mean sometimes.
That I was always trying to find compassion for the other person,
some story to understand the shape of them today.

Yesterday, someone else told me that I was too nice.

Today, in a moment of speaking about boundaries, 
a friend said to me that they loved the bite they were hearing. 
It was atypical.

It’s funny
When other people are too kind
contorting themselves to find compassion
I give them tough love.
Remind them that their anger is valid. When they have had unfair things happen in their lives. When they have been treated poorly.

Perhaps I do this, because I cannot do it for myself.

A few years ago, one of my exes made a comment
about the edge in my voice
when I spoke about THE EX.

He said to me
Your voice has a certain sharpness to it.

I’d never noticed it before.
But of course it’s sharp. THE EX splintered my life.
And they exited
without any consequences.

In the safety of their home country,
generational wealth protects them,
and a different justice system can’t reach them.

They settled into the comforts of a love after me,
as I will forever grapple with the haunting question
of whether or not I have
A MORAL RESPONSIBILITY
to let this woman know
who they are really with.

In the end, I was the one left as shattered pieces that would take years to put back together.
That I’m still putting back together.
Like a piece of kintsugi.

Through the sharpness,
there have been moments of ugly crying in the comfort of the solitude of night
and once—a full PTSD flashback.
My mind, body and soul know how to feel.
Sometimes too deeply.

But I don’t know if I have ever truly felt my anger.
And I have so many reasons to be angry.

I ask myself 
How should it feel?
What it should look like?
How do I access it?
How can I express it?
So it can finally release into the ether.

Then, I think about when I was growing up. How the only person who was allowed to have big emotions, was my father. His anger was like a storm that could blow the doors wide open without warning, taking everything in its path with it.

My childhood and family system was dysfunctional,
it took me into adulthood and years of THE WORK to see it.

Amidst cultural differences, it was chalked up to
just growing up Asian.

And even if some of that is true, does it make it okay that it happened?

Lately, the feeling that keeps rising in me is grief.
It took me a while to be able to name it.
It’s felt like a weight being slowly lifted off my shoulders.
How strange it is to feel crushed and relief all at once.
Naming it has finally given me a compass to begin to navigate
the chaos of my own landscape.

There is
So. Much. Grief.
For the pain I endured and continue to, alone.
For being seen through a veil.
For how hard I’ve been doing THE WORK,
and trying to remain a kind person through it all.

For the size of my heart and the love I put into the world.
To have it return as crumbs, scattered upon a slippery surface.
Never held in place, so much space between them all.

For the fact that part of the reason for all of this is because I am a piece of kintsugi.
And while I try not to use the word broken, I am broken.
Melded together with gold and beautiful in its own regard,
but still shattered pieces.

It is the Abyss Incarnate that has been the truest witness to this pain and grief.
Patient. Non judgemental. Stable. Consistent.
The Abyss never interrupts.
Never tries to empathize,
because only a handful can really do so.
And where are they in this world, anyway?

The Abyss has walked beside me,
seeing my sharp edges with more clarity
than flesh and bone ever has.
It’s easier to weep into the Abyss,
and it understands why I became kintsugi.

Sometimes I think I’m so overwhelmed by this grief
that I forgot what it’s like to feel anger.
I question if I have ever truly felt its fiery pit.
If I ever properly learned.
I wonder if I need to get through the grief first.

Maybe
grief and anger
are black and white swans of a coin.

Artist Statement
Greywash is a viscerally personal exploration of living with and recovering from complex trauma. It examines the blurred boundaries around grief and anger, the yearning to be seen and feel whole, and the ways in which modern technology shapes and complicates how humans navigate their hidden parts. In this prose, Renée explores how grief and anger emerge as inseparable forces through the complex landscape of healing.