20. Stress and History

Dear London Fire Snake Scorpio,

Stress. People are divided into two categories about that one: those who thrive in it and those who wilt in it. Or so people like to believe. People LOVE to believe they are special, unique, and that their bodies are an invention new to humankind. When in fact, as diverse as we all are, chemistry is chemistry is chemistry. We all need stress, and we are all eroded by it. Optimum arousal, they call it.

Stress is not a bad thing, and most of the time, I am that one person who is half-dead and then jumps just before the ball drops and makes the move that saves the game. But at what price?

Apparently, social isolation is a slow-burning stressor. That boiling frog thing again. And I have been isolated for many, many years. My last meaningful connection with another human, where I felt safe in the room with them, was severed 9 years ago this August, when I left the warland and left my mentor behind. Since, and before that too, to a degree, I was always a scared, jumpy little thing.

I talk a lot about my parents with you, because history matters. Because we all start somewhere. My parents are extraordinary people. They achieved the impossible: being mutilated by culture, personal history and historical shifts — they remained good human beings. And no matter what I tell you about them, you need to remember that fact.

Human beings, like any creature, have personal evolution. I like to think about it as if we are holding 2 things, one in each hand, that is our essence since we are born. And we are trying to achieve what we all try to achieve — love, approval, a place in this world — by using either or. Most times, these two contradict. I mean, take me — a stable Ox and a dreamy Pisces.

Youngsters, we also lack the patience and life experience to be humble, considerate, or empathetic toward others. So, as babies, we stumble in the world. And as any other plant, if we have just about enough of soil, water and sun — or in human terms: love, care and shelter — we grow.

About my mother’s upbringing, you have heard before. And this was not an isolated incident. My grandmother, a Metal Monkey Aries, was gorgeous. Blue eyes, white skin, in a place where the locals were more of an olive complexion and the White Russians were the desirables (I mean, isn’t it this way everywhere these days?), her pale skin made her stand out. I don’t know much about her childhood. Only that she had Romanian roots and was a single child.

She was a deeply frustrated mother of 5 whose stunted ambition became a bitter hard core of her, and she was mean when I met her, as her grandkid. She was cunning, saying one thing but meaning another, and she always, ALWAYS had something to say about how inadequate my mother was.

She was born in 1920, and by World War Two felt something that women before her did not: respect as a human, not just a womb and a servant who cooks and cleans. She became a nurse and went to war as a young woman, and she tasted freedom. Oh, how bitter was the slap when, from a celebrated veteran, she came back home to be “an old maiden” at the age of 26, and was shoved by society back into place.

I know. I told you. History. She was not the first or the only one. Same ‘ol, same ‘ol. But she was, indeed, gorgeous, so she chose a husband and got him. A young man, 5 years younger than her, who was a singer and performer, a Wooden Ox Sagittarius. He was supposedly very handsome, too. I wouldn’t know, by the time I met him, resentment had made him into a quiet, fat, ugly creature that was barely able to breathe without heaving.

Now, if we are out there writing “blame” tickets to these people, who should we write them to? History? The way society treated women in those days? The way my grandmother’s own ambition had to be channelled through her husband in the work market, when she convinced him (at least, that’s how it’s told in our family) to leave his art and become a shoemaker?

The fact that, as the Monkey got older and more strategic, she kept clashing with the stubborn Ox, and their whole relationship was fights and violence, do we? Or that they both took all this damn frustration and stunt growth that marinaded into rage and channelled it to “disciplining” their children?

My mother often said that because her childhood was full of fighting, she never fought with my dad. She preferred to concede a point rather than raise an argument. So, the Wood Horse Cancer that she is, she was born in a house of chaos, violence and toxicity.

Is it any wonder, then, that my mother is one of those people who are critical, perfectionists, and demanding, like a pit that can never be filled? She is… draining for someone who lives an energy-filled life like me. My siblings have this ability to exist next to her, blocking that energy — me and my dad, not so much. But he is a Water Dragon Scorpio, and turned cold stone many, many years ago.

Me? The last time my mother came to visit here in Canada and stayed for two months (my mother never does anything halfway), I felt myself slowly drowning and growing quieter and quieter. Her constant nitpicking and small demands, on top of the stresses in my life (I was just out of a marriage and still adjusting), were too much. But my mother will not let you retreat. So she confronted me, the way she does, and it ended up with me getting big and loud, and when she pushed me, I pushed her back.

Then I am standing there, looking at my own hands. A version of me I have not seen in 6 years, since I left the warland, and realized that for my sanity, I must ration the access she has to my mind and soul.

So we speak once in a while, and she shows her love by sending money, feeling that she gives us support. And once in a while, I update her on some life happenings. But I am very guarded of my energy. Because I never want to see that version of me again.

One last thing I will tell you about my mother is that, like in many abusive families, the survivors often take the side of the abuser — because he is the strong one. So I am probably harsher on my mother than she deserves. And, I want to be very clear — their relationship, my mom and dad’s, was, last I saw it, mutually feeding for this. Because, as I said, my parents are good people. My mom is just like pepper, I suppose. A little of it is a blessing; a lot will burn you from the inside out.

My dad’s story is a little different. Or a lot different. See, my mother’s family was the “blue collar” side. My dad’s was the “white collar” side. While education was not encouraged in my mother’s family, and they mostly made my mom feel dumb, my dad’s family, starting with his mother, was all about education. If my dad has one religion, it is “pay any price for education.”

So, on the other side of the same city, another young woman, a Fire Tiger Sagittarius, was momentarily released from the burden of being just a woman. Born in 1926, she was just “late enough” to World War Two to see some historical change. And, in a time and place unheard of, she became a doctor, while other women could barely be nurses. And she kept her last name, too. Serious badass, my grandmother was.

But at what price? And.. she hated kids, let me tell you, and yet still became a pediatrician. Because it is a more suitable “feminine” version of the trade, isn’t it? For those who would say she did not hate kids, they did not meet her as I did, I suppose. Kids should be seen and not heard was definitely her motto. By the time I met her, she was cynical, had that empty stare that women who had to fight all their lives had, and was utterly unpleasant and demanding. Needless to say, my dad’s rejection of strong women (and the underlying fascination with them) comes from that woman.

She married a man, a Fire Rabbit Aries, and their relationship was not one of great love. They got along as long as he followed her lead, but the look she gave him when we would come to visit made it clear how little respect she had for him. I heard someone say that when they were younger, they too fought for control, and violence was normal, culturally, and in the house. Someone said, “It’s only when all 4 of her boys shoved him off that they stopped fighting.” I do not know if it’s true.

Luckily, and unfortunately at the same time, my dad was born a man. On one hand, men were less brainwashed than women about what they must become. Though there is definitely brainwashing for men too, regarding their responsibilities and the way they should “be”. On the lucky side, he was left pretty much alone most of his childhood, and, in his own words, “had the kind of freedom you cannot even imagine”.

On the other hand, a Water Dragon Scorpio, he has a lot of water in him. A lot of emotions. But men born in 1952, in a Muslim Central Asian country, do not have emotions. They are not allowed. So my father is that man. The one who feels deeply and shunts from his feelings with the same intensity. He is cold. But he never fooled me. And, he is definitely a product of his time. So, he often reacted to my mother’s probing and hovering with the same explosive force I did in that late encounter.

But we are not done yet. As if all this is not enough to create human beings who are stuck in their “undeveloped” emotional stage — being raised by “undeveloped” emotional environment, choosing spouses that aggravate your own feeling of “unsafety” as a result, changing times and demands, economic pressure, immigration and 4 kids — my parents were also a part of that horrible massive human experiment that the soviets called “Internat” — perfectly normal families would drop their children Monday morning and collect them on the Friday.

The kids were admitted since they were practically babies. And, I do not remember much from those facilities myself, or what was left of them by 1988 when I was three, but it was a horrible, horrible place. Sea of children, minimal supervision, and that damn swatter they used for everything. Still gives me the chills. I don’t give my mom enough credit for being there for me in several spaces in my life, but she sent me to this place once.

I remember trying so damn hard to be good. And failing over and over again. I could do nothing right. I was three, and it was my first day! I was too anxious to eat; everything was scary. At potty break, a bunch of boys peed on us girls because the person in charge was away. Those boys got spanked hard for all to see as soon as they were caught. I didn’t speak a word the whole day, walking around with what must have been huge eyes and shallow breath. I remember my heart hammering.

Then it was nap time. Now sleep, sleep was always a good friend for me, I like it. It was an escape, the one time I didn’t need to hide from displeasing my dad or mom. So I curled into a ball on the upper bedbunk and closed my eyes tight to escape it all. And that B of a worker, I remember, would walk around and smack kids with the fly swatter, hard, on their behinds because they would not sleep. My eyes were closed. The shock of it. The indignation. I broke down at that point and started crying.

And I couldn’t stop for hours. I cried so much I spiked a fever, and my mom had to come and pick me up. I never told this to anyone before. Not even to my mom. But she has a good heart, my mom, she could feel it. She never sent me back. That was barely a few hours. I cannot even phantom having this treatment for weeks on end, and no one saved either of them. No one.

So is it any wonder that my father became obsessed with raising us strong, and when he would punish me with the belt (it took a lot to get him to punish. But he had rules. And I was an unruly, sensitive, yet curious child) he would hold my hand and smack my behind with that dreaded belt with the other and tell me “Don’t ever cry in front of your enemies” when I was about 4–5? Or that my mother is obsessing about everything lying out perfectly and neatly and not aggravating anyone around her by buzzing around (and aggravating everyone by being this anxious, by the way)?

And is it any wonder that trees planted in this soil would grow crooked? And create a crooked soil for their next generation? I say it again, my parents did the impossible. With ALL THAT against them, they raised 4 mentally stable-ish children who are empathetic, honourable, and good people, just like they are. Considering where my grandparents started — that’s monumental.

But it’s also going back to the topic I wanted to share with you today, why my baseline for stress is very high, and why redirecting and reteaching my brain to become calmer and more of what I want to be for my kids takes effort. A lot of it.

All this history lesson was to tell you that I trained yesterday, changed the plan, so instead of finishing the tax files, I did cold calling (it was the last day in almost 2 weeks that I am without the kids full time — spring break) and then panicked. Literally panicked. I stopped breathing for a long moment, asking myself, “Who the hell are you fooling, Oxy?” Bending reality just by writing consistently and finding a man who might or might not exist on the other side of the world? Don’t you have something better, more important, more urgent to do? Like, idk, find a fucking job and feed your kids?

I was drowning. When all this comes at you, it’s like I am carrying demons straight from the days of 100 years ago, when my grandparents were born, with every generation, every decision of every single person in my lineage, another added ghost. And then there is this stubborn Ox voice, small, weak sometimes, that doesn’t even say a word. Just digs its heels in the ground and shakes its head. You. Cannot. Move. Me.

I know business is my way out. I know you are my oxygen. I might be standing here, knees deep in this damn historical mud and fighting all demons and anxiety, but I am a damn Ox. And I made up my mind. I am coming. One step at a time. Scorching stones and all.

I will write for years until you hear me calling. I will not stop. And things are never over — no matter how low you fall, there are only two things that you know for sure: One is that there is always something to do as long as you breathe, and it is not over till it’s over. And the second one, as my grandmother used to say, no matter how bad it is, it can always be worse. Always. Somewhere out there, someone has it worse, so quit complaining and start to work.

So there, 
Good morning, my love.
I will write again later. I need to walk this anger off. 
With love,
Your Oxy.
March 28, 2026

Help me find him: Have you seen this man?