Since moving,

I have not been myself. I felt like a ghost moving through veils of smoke, and only on Christmas, a holiday completely far removed from my own belief, had I found my glimpse of hope.

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The beginning

I arrived in Rotterdam in mid-August, when stretches of clear sky still meant summer and the European sun would not set earlier than 9. From the metro station, I had dragged my two big suitcases all the way to the hotel front, passing by the campus that I would later return for the international students day. It was 45 kilograms of miscellaneous and almost a kilometre of walking in the raging sun, but I don’t remember feeling tired. Nor was I ecstatic knowing that I have made it to the Netherlands. I remember only feeling proud: I was wearing a tank-top and very comfortable, breathable pants. I did not sweat as vehemently as the other Vietnamese who were in hoodies, that gave me some sense of accomplishment, as if I’m already one of “them”.

Weeks turned into months, and loneliness becomes a recurring topic. I lament about it often with the people I met - sometimes the friends whom I have come to trust, others, the most random souls I happened to sit next to in a bar or in class. I had wished to pen it down, this acute, chilling sense of loneliness that sometimes felt like it could freeze me to death. Disappointedly, though, to this day no written form of it has been completely produced. If this piece was to ever be published, it would be my first.

Loss

My dog passed away in November, a fact that I still find difficult to talk about or accept. Grief, for me, is a new concept, although as the days passed it has gotten easier to manage. I talk about it with my friends but avoid the topic with my family. When I thought I have completely gotten over it, I started howling and catching breaths, trying my best to not choke with tears or let myself drown in regrets.

This is years ago, when he still had his fourth leg. After he died, I wish often that I had gotten him more toys, that I had spent more time with me when I still could.

Recently, I had the thought of dying my hair red. One time, on a train going back from The Hague, I had looked at my reflection in the glass and decided that red would look nice on me. Though, I wasn’t sure what motivated that thought: had I always wanted to dye my hair, or was it I could flex about it to my classmates when winter break ended? People will come back in January with lots of exciting stories to tell; if I come back looking the same, I fear I will be bland.

I acknowledge quite often, that I’ve been trying to “blend in”: I’ve come to talk in a certain manner, adopted a certain way of thinking that somehow feels detached from my own brain, and scheduled in my head the next occasions I should go out for drinks. Even dying my hair, if I’m being brutally honest, has low-key been a scheme for public acceptance. There is so much I dislike about myself, so much to feel inferior about. I have not liked the way I dress, or the fact that I don’t know much when it comes to European history or the best Southern beaches to visit in the summer. I tried to tell myself that I need not be ashamed, that I need not to change myself so much only for the sake of being liked. Yet, I can’t quite stop it.

So I painted my nails black, made my friend promise to dye my hair red, celebrated my birthday by pushing myself to drink, even when I knew before hand that one glass of beer already makes me nauseous. I tell people now and then that I’m different than my 18-year-old classmates, “I’m more self-assured, less affected by the peer pressure and the need to be perceived as cool”; yet, when I go to bed drunk or ride my bike home after a social event, I wonder if I had been truthful.

December…

This Christmas, I booked tickets to Cologne, then Paris, Antwerp, before returning to Rotterdam. Some people (mostly Vietnamese) gasped at the fact that I was traveling alone; they supposed that I must have had a very eventful holiday. After all, I am going to new places, meeting new people, having the time of my life at such a young age!

But that wasn’t really the case. The truth is, my trips were a mix of shades of grey. I celebrated my 20th birthday with my housemate in Cologne - she gifted me with a Frank Kafka and put the “20” candles on my Vampire cocktail, for which I deeply appreciated - but my family did not remember the occasion. Then I spent Christmas in Paris roaming the streets alone, watching couples dine in fancy restaurants, while cafés where lonely people go were closed. I have a dear friend in Paris whom I was hoping to spend Christmas with, but they did not seem very enthusiastic about the idea. In the end, I did not push, and we end up did not see each other at all.

To be fair, Cologne and its Christmas market have been quite nice. I would have included videos for you to see, but Substack has not had that feature yet.

I can’t say I’m entirely unaffected - by not receiving any birthday wishes from my own family, or that the friend whom I treasured so much was not as fond of me as I them - after all, had I been completely fine with such facts, I wouldn’t have rant about them here, would I not? But I know for sure I’m not angry at them. If there is any emotion left in me, it is only sadness, perhaps with a scent of despair. Other than that, I felt indifferent.

… and its magic

Yesterday, though, I was in Antwerp, in a hostel situated near the city’s bus station. Earlier that day, I had gone to the bookstore and got myself three paperbacks. The days rolled out quickly, the slowness of time paired well with that of my inner being. Some magic happened, unexpectedly, and it motivated me to write this piece. That afternoon, I had stood in the hostel’s bathroom and was looking in the mirror, when I felt, for the first time in so long, that I don’t hate myself all that much. I looked like how I’d like myself to be: black hair curbing my boney shoulders, my big nose stationing at the centre of my face, my textured skin always looking quite yellow under European lights. Other than the girl in front of the mirror, I saw and heard nothing else. It was as if the chaos in my head has also gone away for Christmas, and I was left only to myself, a person whom, in that moment, I’ve come to like much more than I have in months.

Antwerp has been like home. Here I found peace, and I found company.

I don’t know how long this will last, this state of mindfulness and peace. Perhaps I will go back to be mindless and trying-way-too hard-to-fit-in as soon as tonight, when my feet land in Rotterdam and I step out of this false reality called Christmas break. But it has been a while since I felt like Hân, and I’m so glad that I’ve found her again after all these months. I could not be more grateful. For making it here, for being alive.

Let 2023 be a year of kindness and patience, of love and self-acceptance. Happy New Year!