11/26/23 - It’s not that different from how many people had to grow up, bloody and broken and filled with nameless pain.
An askreddit question, “Why do kids get depressed out of nowhere?”
The top-reply is: “Because of boxes.
There used to be a big box at my house. I was inseparable from it. I slept inside that box. I would line the inside with my sheets, then lay in it and curl up. And when I got up the next morning, I’d put the sheets back on my bed, like the box was my kennel and I was a dog.
I was really little back then, and needed to go to school every day for class. Before I left the house, I’d hide the box in my closet, and take it out again when I got home.
My parents thought the box was cursed somehow, or possessed by something dirty. They hated the box, and thought it was the source of all their problems.
But it was really only a box.
Made of cardboard, with cut tape. A normal brown-yellow box.
The first time the box appeared in my house was when I was in elementary school. It used to hold something inside, like apples or something. I dunno, I forget. And whenever I forget how something came about, I just imagine that it appeared out of thin air as a gift. It’s not so important why it appeared.
And from that point on, the box sat in a corner of my old house.
When did I start noticing it? Le me think. It was probably the first time my parents had a fight in my room. My mom was hysterically screaming, stomping her feet, yanking out her hair with her hands.
And my dad didn’t say a thing. He just sat on a chair, his face blue and grey like he was already dead.
And my grandma? Maybe she really was dead. Either way, the door to her bedroom was tightly shut, and there was no noise inside.
At the time, I knew in my heart that I needed to flee. Or at least open the door to my room and go out. I don’t really remember why, but the desire burst from the bottom of my heart with surprising strength.
But I couldn’t push open the door and go out.
Because my mom was glaring at me with red eyes. Her whole face was twisted. And she ordered in a strange voice that I had to stay in this room, I had to listen to them fight, I had to hear every word that was exchanged.
She said I was my son, and it was my duty to do this.
I figured she must be right. I couldn’t leave. But I still couldn’t understand the cussing and swearing coming out of their mouths, or all the minutiae they argued over from the beginning of their marriage. Like who borrowed more money for the wedding, or what kind of food my mom had after giving birth to me, etc, etc.
So I could only stand there, because once my mom was done cussing out my dad, she would turn around and cuss me out, and she would beat me. She’d say I was useless, I was trash, or something else.
I knew what was coming, but I was still nervous, because it was going to hurt a lot.
What can I do when I’m nervous? I wanted to run, but my body was stuck where it was, bound in place by something invisible.
So I let my eyes run.
My gaze was a part of my body, a part of my life. If I look away, I can pretend like I’ve moved away.
I started glancing around the room, until I ended up staring at the huge box in the corner. I thought, it was really big, I could totally fit inside. I thought, it’d be great if I could hide in there.
I could crawl inside and shut the lid.
It would be dark inside. Nobody would be able to see me, and I won’t be able to hear what’s going on outside. Or even if I could, it would have nothing to do with me anymore.
I’d giggled in there, and fall asleep peacefully.
I would think about that until they were done fighting, and my mom starting cussing me out and hitting me, until it was time for their next fight. And so the cycle went on.
I never had a chance to crawl into the box until we moved houses and I started going to middle school. Then, I would take advantage of when everyone else was busy, and sneak the box into my room.
The first time I crawled into the box, I was excited.
It was hard to describe that excitement with words. Maybe I should use colour—that bright yellow, shining colour with a dash of green would crunch in on itself and then shoot up at the sky in a great burst.
I’d crawl in and shut the lid and be as excited as a rat in that darkness. Or maybe a dog.
I thought that even if I peed in here, nobody would no. And I wouldn’t have to expose myself to anyone for anything.
An extreme sense of safety flowed out of my marrows. All the noise filtered into my ears like the humming of bees. Countless voices were all saying, “You’re safe. You’re safe.”
The enormous sense of safety was like a pool of warm water. I was soaking in it, basking in the warmth, and slowly getting sleepy.
I slept very peacefully.
From that day onward, I couldn’t leave that box.
I had to sleep inside. I had to take it with me everywhere I went. Even if there wasn’t much I could do inside the box, because there was no TV there.
But that doesn’t matter. I could still imagine things.
I could imagine that all kinds of colourful, bright, and happy things can happen here. I can talk to myself. I can pretend my left thumb and right thumb were a couple and talk with them.
I sat in that box and continued my childhood dreams.
But that’s not what my parents thought.
I’ve said before, they hated the box. They thought it was the source of all their problems.
They thought the box made me weak. The box made me useless. The box made me lose my sharpness at school, made me lose my ability to socialise, made me unable to get the attention of my family or teachers.
Made me stupid, made me dumb, made me crazy, made me sick, made me pathetic and wretched.
They thought everything was the box’s fault. Maybe there was some kind of curse in the box that transformed me to be like this.
So one day, while I was at school, they threw the box away.
Many years later, I would joke that that was the darkest day of my life.
In a single moment, I lose all of my sense of safety. I was forced to go back to my bed, where I’d toss and turn and be unable to fall asleep. I was constantly worried that the next second, my mom would come barging in and pull my blankets off of me.
I lost my box, and lost the only place I could secretly curse my parents from.
I got even more depressed. I was forced into the world outside of the box, skittish and scared. I’m sorry, it really was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
I won’t go into detail about this period, because it’s not that different from how many people had to grow up, bloody and broken and filled with nameless pain.
And I became exactly what my parents wanted as I grew up too.
They’d excitedly say hi to me, talk to me about work, then close the door and leave.
Leaving just myself, staring at the sky.
There’s nothing up in the sky, but I knew that I’ve hidden myself inside a bigger box.
It was such a big box that it was endless and filled with subjectivity.
But it was still a box.
See, I’ve answered your question, and pointed out that the reason kids get depressed is because they have a box.
Are you going to tear that box apart now? Or think about why that box appeared to begin with?”
Comments say, “They fed me and clothed me and raised me one diaper at a time. How could they be at fault? It must be the box who’s at fault. It must be me who’s at fault.”
“This box could be the kid’s room too. When kids break down and slam their door, haven’t we all said something like, “Open up your door! If you don’t, I’m going to break this door down!” We force kids to open their door, and in that moment, there’s nowhere for them to hide their vulnerability and hurt.”
“I was already in a bad mood this morning, and such depressed words is making me cry.”
“Why do southerners not like dumplings? When I had a northerner as a roommate, one night, she suggested that we eat dumplings for dinner. I happily agreed.
That night, we stared wordlessly at each other, as she borrowed a rolling pin, and I stood there holding my bag of frozen dumplings.
After a few days, she said that she wanted to eat homemade dumplings.
That night, we stared wordlessly at each other, as she borrowed flour and a rolling pin again, and I stood there holding my bag of pre-made dumpling skins.
Finally, I got to eat her homemade dumplings with homemade skin and home-mixed stuffing. Afterwards, I said that this wasn’t so different from what you could buy in stores. She vehemently said that that was the biggest insult she’d ever heard as a northerner. But as she said so, she started looking less and less confident. And eventually, she decided that the reason I didn’t think there was a difference is because she’s not that good at making dumplings.
Later on, she brought me her mom’s homemade dumplings. It was my first time eating funnel-flavoured dumplings. It was delicious. But I still couldn’t tell the difference between that skin and store-bought skin.
But I didn’t dare to say anything.”
Comments say, “Handmade dumplings and machine-made dumplings are completely different, the same way handmade noodles are completely different from machine-made noodles.”
“I still don’t understand why northerners are obsessed with dumplings.”
“Yeah, why do we have to eat dumplings for New Years? Is there some kind of symbolism behind it?”
“I honestly worry that Jingjiang [Chinese webnovel site with a primarily female audience] is not gonna make it long.
I saw a novel that was…pretty meme-y, but it still had very complex characters, and the plot was very fast-paced.
And I took a look at the comment section and holy shit. On any other website, this would count as internet bullying.
Right now, all the feedback is like, “You dare to write complex character!? Are you looking to die, you peasant!?”
I mean. I’m not saying it was a masterpiece or anything. But the comment section is really almost unnaturally hostile. The angles they’re attacking this novel from is unimaginable.
And what’s the most laughable is that this novel had decent stats, so the audience still likes it.
But why is Jingjiang’s comment section so…fucked up?
This is making me think back to the chapter I posted yesterday, where the female protagonist is being cornered by some baddies. And the comment section asked me, “Why didn’t she call the cops?”
And I want to know too, while a woman is actively being assaulted, how is she supposed to find an opportunity to get in a position where she can call the cops?
If this continues, all the authors will start turning off their comment section.
Or, you know, unless all the authors just left.”
Comments say, “That’s how all my favourite authors have left.”
“Hahahahaha, I guess it’s not so bad updating your webnovel through weibo instead. At least you can write about lovey dovey women and not get bullied. Or maybe it’s just because I’m not that popular yet.”
“I was reading on a different website the other day. The writing quality is shit, but authors aren’t accountable to their readers, so there’s just all kinds of plotlines coming the hell out of nowhere, it was all so lolrandom.”
“Saw a romance novel that was slow burn, with a growing female protagonist. It’s only just started and the protagonist is still only in the tutorial stages basically, and the comment section is already like, “Wow, why is she so weak? Are you a misogynist or something, making the male lead so strongi n comparison?” And a bunch of people were annoyed that there was too much romance, even though this was filed under the romance section.”
A tiktok video and blog article talking about “fishbowing”. The blogger says, “This is some evil shit. Animals are alive. We shouldn’t torture fish like this. It would be much more merciful to just kill it. What do you guys think about fishbowing?”
Fishbowing is a traditional technique in Fujian, and is one of Fujian’s non-material historical relics.
Fishbowing is a unique way to deal with pond fish, and has been in use for over 600 years. After being “fishbow’d”, the fish can survive for 45 days in winter and 12 days in summer. Not only can it keep your fish alive and fresh for longer, it can remove the muddy taste in their flesh.
To fishbow, you must first bent the fish until it’s in the shape of a bow and tie it in place, then secure the fish’s mouth and anus into open positions. Afterwards, you tie the fish to a bamboo pole, and put it back into the water for two days. During this period, the fish will throw up large amounts of mud and absorb clean water.
Afterwards, you can pull it out of the water again and carry it around and it’ll stay alive for a long time, as mentioned before.
I’m…not sure what the general policy is on fish torture videos, whether that’s the same as cats and dogs. But to lean on the side of caution, I guess I won’t show the video?
Comments say, “Does this count as animal abuse?”
“Careful, PETA’s gonna come knocking.”
“If I put it back in the water on the 43rd day in winter, or on the 11th day in summer, and then take it out again, doesn’t that mean the fish will never die?”
“All the girls around me are super smart. I talked before about a highly-educated lady who birthed a son for some high ranking government official. She’s switched from a Mercedes Benz to an Aston Martin now. And she gets a new one every year. She’s got a whole room just for her Hermes at home, and has the top styles from across the globe. We use her VVVIP card every time we go to Hermes.
My best friend said that, “For this kind of man, his wife and kids have to be super low-key. Only his mistress can be so shameless in spending money, because it’s none of her business anyways.” That’s such a smart take.”
Comments say, “Don’t be so envious. She’s gonna end up in prison sooner or later.”
“I’ve got a lot of high ranking officials in my life, and they all have million dollar bags and cars.”
“What are you trying to imply?”
Maybe the kid was actually a cat? Joke aside that was really well written.
The issue of commenters is something I saw an interesting post once about that I will try to summarize. On youtube the ratio of views to comments is 200 to 1 or less. Among commenters there are power users who comment far more then others. Often these power commenters are sadistic trolls, jealous bullies, competitors, people with mental problems or with ideological agendas because they get more satisfaction from their comments than normal people. The result is the comment section can be dominated by unrepresentative toxic commenters who are in reality a tiny minority of content consumers, 1 in a 1000 or even less.
This is not a problem yet on Substack as it's still pretty niche in terms of audience but it's something that can happen on popular websites and is why those stories had lots of views and negative comments at the same time.