Currently listening to: TiK ToK – Ke$ha
Don’t stop, make it pop, D.J., blow my speakers up
Tonight, I’ma fight ’til we see the sunlight
Tik tok, on the clock, but the party don’t stop, no
When I was a child, some nights felt endless. I’d find myself curled over on the bathroom toilet in the middle of the night, wracked with pain, maybe four out of every seven nights. It could’ve been the cold, something I ate, or maybe just something my body was trying to figure out on its own. Even now, I’m not entirely sure.
But one thing was constant: I never called for my mom when this happened. It was always my dad. I would scream, “아빠 (Appa)!” and somehow, even half-asleep, he would know exactly where to find me—writhing in the bathroom, trying to endure it.
There was something incredibly comforting in that. Knowing he was there. Knowing that no matter how many times I called out, he would always appear without hesitation.
When I got a little older, I started becoming more self-conscious. I realized the bathroom was basically a gas chamber at that point, and I didn’t want to torture him with the stench pouring out of me. So I’d ask him, shyly, to wait just outside the door. He never complained. He’d just sit there nodding off, a silent presence on the other side, close enough that I could still feel safe, but far enough to spare us both some dignity.
This wasn’t a once-in-a-while thing, either. It would happen multiple times a night, each episode lasting anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes. And still, he came every time I screamed like a banshee.
Eventually, my parents took me to Korean medicine doctors. For a couple of years, it was a steady routine of acupuncture sessions and drinking thick, earthy herbal concoctions that tasted like the earth itself—bitter, heavy, and absolutely disgusting. My chi was blocked according to the practitioner.
Now? It’s rare. Maybe a handful of times a year, if that. My body eventually found its balance or the treatment worked.
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