Originally posted in WeChat Public Account “Thoughts of Two Pigs”. Google Gemini English translation was added. If you see any violation of intellectual property, leave a comment below, and I will take down the English version.
原发表于微信公众号 “两头猪的随想” 03/10/2020.
大半夜坐在转椅上面，盘着腿，盯着电脑，在窄窄小小的卧室里，台灯和大灯一起亮着。椅子和门之间紧紧地夹着两个大晾衣架，挂着我刚洗好的床单被罩。床上乱的一团糟，拿出来的吉他随便扔在乱糟糟的床上，在卧室射灯的反射下看得到薄薄一层灰。桌子上放着喝剩下的已经没有碳酸的气泡水和之前放在口袋里不知道多久的口罩。一个杯子，杯子里没什么水，消毒喷雾罐里的液体到是还剩下不少，让人心安。不是因为突然有了写作的灵感，想赶紧在忘掉之前记录下来；也不是因为被什么刺激到得神经元的触动，想去深究到底。。。
紧迫感。
开这个微信公众号是很早就有的打算。拖拖拉拉到去年年底才在美国用国内家人的手机号开了公众号，之后就一直放在一边。开户的热乎劲好像就在一周之内发散殆尽，之后忙忙碌碌就再也没有精力去管它。其实更准确更诚实地说是因为没有静下心来管它的勇气。
写作是一件需要耐心的事儿。这么想想，我有多久没有好好坐下来在没有电子产品的干扰之下写一些自己想写的、不只是说给自己的、也是想说给别人的文字。从出国到大学到工作，心就像是一直飘着，沉不下来。没头没脑的想要高效地有成就，但总觉得好像失去了什么。但是因为从来没有静下来思考过到底失去了什么，现来更加彷徨。这样一来二去之下陷入了死循环–越是不去想，攒下来的郁结就越多；攒下来的郁结越多，就越没有勇气坐下来好好想想。有那个想的时间还不如看看电视剧，小说，刷一刷脸书朋友圈。于是时间就在手机和电脑，电脑之后再手机之中惶惶而过。
直到现在，
紧迫感压得我无法呼吸。
2020年开头就很难。难到有时候让我觉得这就是圣经最后一本书《启示录》里描述的耶稣第二次降世时的世界尽头。当然，我也就是想想。每个国家都在经历着往常没有的磨难。天灾，人祸。每个人或多或少都在问为什么。我也不例外。即便是作为基督徒，相信着一切都在上帝的掌控之中，我也在问他为什么。这么多个为什么下来，让我越发的紧张。看着因为病毒死亡的人数一天天增加，我很自私地在担心自己无法承受失去我爱的人的痛苦。所以我祷告，无论是谁生病，不要是我的家人，不要是我的朋友。我无法心怀天下。虽然会因为新闻中的人们难过，有时候会流泪，但是当灾难离自己越来越近的时候，我也只能面对那个只是考虑自己感受的自己。
想了很久有没有能做的。没有。除了嘴上问候一下，心中向上帝祷告许久，没有能做的。死亡于我并不可怕，可怕的是我不知道我爱的人们在离开这个世界之后接下来会到哪里，我们是不是能一起得到永恒。任何人都无法强迫另一个去相信他所相信的，我也不想用文字把我的信仰强加于任何人。我能做的只有把我想到的写下来，交给你去评判，希望读到我文章的你能有所触动，也能有所安慰。所以就写了。写了这么多个字，才无奈地笑着发现原来写字也没有我畏惧得那么难。
灾祸是我真正动笔的导火索，但深究起来，我写作的原因也有很多。
熟悉我的人大概知道我是一个要强骄傲的人，同时也是胆小自卑的人。而这种性格一定会在烙印在我写的字里行间。我相信人是可以改变的。自然，我的信仰让这个“人的本性是什么”和“人到底是否本性难移”的问题更加复杂化。有关这个问题我在这里不多做赘述，以后会写一篇文章和你探讨。但简单地说，我想让我的文字记录下我的改变。每一篇和每一篇的用词，语气，内容，修辞手法–这些一点一滴会告诉回过头来审视自己过去的我，我到底是什么，又变成了什么。在写作的过程中可以思考着读者们的反应，也能磨炼自己的笔下功夫，不是像平常一样想到什么说什么。我想未来的我很有可能会觉得现在的我写出来的东西颇为尴尬，但是文章会让我直面这个让自己觉得尴尬的自己，去改变，去接纳，去成熟。
这种对变化的审视也可以应用于我的文学修养。我离开中国已经快有8年了，虽然一直在读一些中文书，但是一些涉及到更深层次的事物的文字没有用中文读过多少，读来的书都是闲来无事打发时间的。可以说我青少年时期认知和世界观形成的很重要的一段时间都是用英文主导的。所以这样用中文写文章也是在逼迫自己去阅读中文读物，去理解中国文字对世事的表达，读过了以后也可以发表一些读后感与人分享。我想看看是不是写着写着，文字就会变得更加灵动，或是更加沉稳，是不是可以更加深刻。
有时候我会用英文写一些东西，希望现在读着我文章的你不要嫌我崇洋媚外。不记得是哪一位20世纪中的文学家讲过的话，他说夹在中文里的英文就像是夹在牙缝里的肉一样，所以我平时讲话是总是会注意不让听的一方难受。中文就是中文，英文就是英文。有时候实在是想不起用中文该怎么表达，只好撅出来两个英文词儿，但这让我很难受。难受的是语言的缺失好像一下子就上升到了文化和民族归属感的缺失。然后，我就不知所措了。当然我绝不否认我这样做是因为我害怕被人讨厌，是我自己还没有悟透人生的道理的纠结，但是这里我想说的是文化于我而言是很复杂的。我到底归属于中国文化还是西方文化也是很难一言以蔽之，也不是明确的一刀切。有些话题有些知识我只用英文学过，也就只用英文思考过，所以在脑子里翻译起来很有挑战性。但是我又很想把这些感受与人分享，所以也就只好期盼着无论用什么语言，我也能好好把想说的传递给你。
有时候读着微信里的文章，或者是纽约时代周刊的文章，看着作者们引经据典，有理有据，直插要害的文笔，才觉得自己真是才疏学浅。我没有他们的能力，所以我想把我最真诚的想法写下来，告诉你我真切所想，邀请你一同思考。我渴望被了解，被倾听，也知道去了解去倾听有多难，所以打心里感谢读着我文章的你。
我还想写有关躁郁症的事。不光是躁郁症，很多常见的心理疾病我都想写一写。躁郁症是自己亲身经历过的，一直到现在还在隐隐困扰我的。这么久以来，有些身边的人会觉得我在夸大自己的感受，也有很多人和我说大家都会有时候辛苦，你不要想它，它也就过去了；或者是时间就是最好的解药；或者是精神疾病不是病，就是人们想出来给自己无能找的借口；或者是一般人也会有痛苦的时候，哭的撕心裂肺的时候，所以我懂你那种感觉，哭过了就会好的。
我就连这么写着这些别人和我讲过的话心里都觉得难过。从15岁起被焦虑症折磨，到确诊为躁郁症，这么多年以来我和精神疾病斗争的经历怎么一下被一两句话形容的全无价值。但是很多时候我又不知道如何去反驳，因为我也不是不能理解为什么人们会这样想–没有经历过精神疾病的人自然无法理解经历过的人。人不知，我也只能不愠，于是就词穷了。现在终于决定动笔写字（动手打字），真的很想讲述躁郁症是什么样的。为了让别人了解我，了解和身体上疾病一样是病的心里脑子里的疾病，更是为了读到我文字的你。
如果你有和我一样的感受，却又不知道是为什么；或者是你的痛苦被周边人、甚至是家人随意概括为夸大其词，那么我希望我的文字能给你慰藉，让你知道你不是一个人孤军奋战。我知道它可以有多来势汹涌，我知道那有多难控制，我知道它很无理，根本不以人的意志为转移。我也知道，这世界上和你我一样的还有很多。我想把我的经历分享给你，我是如何被它困扰，折磨，又是如何在许久之后才能直面它，在直面它之后又是如何找心理医生开药，试药，又是在无数次失败之后终于找到貌似有效的药物，又是如何慢慢找到自己的节奏，在和躁郁症打游击之中尝试着健康地生活。
可能是因为我的心理疾病，也可能是性格使然，我脑子停不下来，总是一直转着什么想法。走路的时候，洗澡的时候，运动的时候，上课的时候，从一个想法跳到另一个，再到另一个和另一个，直到十几分钟后突然大梦初醒，仔细回想也不知道自己是怎么从开始想想到这儿的。运动的时候，做饭的时候，叠衣服的时候，我不需要音乐，我内心的声音就足够。不会觉得无聊，不会觉得不耐烦。上课的时候，牧师讲经的的时候，能发呆很久。有时候会因为一个成语，一个句子，一点风景就延展出万千思绪，好像是悟到了什么，就好想记录下来自己的理解。因为脑子里思绪太多，我的梦也很多，其中大部分都是“动作大片”，所以想尝试着以自己的梦为模板写一些故事。说实话，一直以来我不觉得想得多梦得多是什么好事儿。但现来正好用它来写写文章，也算是物尽其用。
中文或是英文，除了主观的随笔，我也想写一些客观的论文式的文章。我很喜欢研究东西，对世间的事情有很强的好奇心。我想把我思考过得觉得奇妙的研究尽可能有逻辑地分享给你，一来满足我的欲望，二来重新锻炼一下我大学写作的能力。我也想试着对时事发表一些看法–我看到的、听到的、周边的、世界上在发生的事儿，我有所感，就会写下来和你探讨一番。
我会发送一些身边人写的文章。如果你有兴趣写一篇随想，一定联系我。我希望我你想说的、想表达的自己，传递给想听的人们。
最后，你可能会好奇为什么我叫两头猪。说起来也觉得有些不好意思。在最初申请QQ号的时候，要起一个别人没有起过的昵称。当时我还在上小学吧，还是初中，总是想着一定要起一个最能彰显自己特别的名字，一个以前没人起过，以后也不会有人起的名字。那“我是一头猪”很特别吧，谁没事儿觉得自己是猪呢？但是万一有人也觉得这个名字特别呢，万一他也属猪呢？那好，我就再特别一些。你属猪也好，别的也好，总不能是两头猪吧？那就“我是两头猪”吧。于是就这样了。
最后的最后，
从写这第一篇文章起，我希望你知道，我每一次都会为你–我的读者–祷告。
我向上帝祷告，读到这里的你，健康，幸福，找到自己的路，找到自己的信仰。也祈祷所有被灾祸波及的人们能够平安，所有离开我们的人们能找到归属。
已经很晚了，该睡了。总觉得还有什么忘记写的，但是告诉自己不要因为完美主义牺牲健康，我也得健康。
Below is the English version translated by Google Gemini. I did not make any edits.
Sitting on my swivel chair in the middle of the night, legs crossed, staring at the computer. In this cramped little bedroom, both the desk lamp and the ceiling light are glaring. Two large drying racks are wedged tightly between my chair and the door, draped with freshly washed sheets and duvet covers. The bed is a total mess; my guitar lies tossed haphazardly upon the tangled covers, a thin layer of dust visible under the reflection of the bedroom spotlights. On the desk sits a bottle of sparkling water that has long since lost its carbonation, alongside a mask that has been sitting in my pocket for who-knows-how-long. There is a cup with hardly any water left, though the disinfecting spray bottle is still quite full—a sight that brings a strange sense of security.
I am not writing because of a sudden burst of inspiration I need to capture before it vanishes, nor because of some neurological spark pushing me to delve deep into a subject…
It is a sense of urgency.
I had planned to start this WeChat Public Account a long time ago. I procrastinated until the end of last year, finally opening the account while in the U.S. using a family member’s Chinese phone number, only to leave it gathering dust. The initial excitement seemed to evaporate within a week, and in the subsequent busyness of life, I never had the energy to manage it. To be more accurate and honest: I lacked the courage to quiet my heart enough to face it.
Writing requires patience. Thinking about it now, how long has it been since I sat down properly—without the distraction of electronics—to write something I actually wanted to say? Something intended not just for myself, but for others? From moving abroad to university to starting work, my heart has felt like it’s constantly drifting, unable to settle. I mindlessly chased efficiency and achievement, yet always felt as though something was missing. Because I never paused to think about exactly what was lost, I feel even more adrift now. It became a vicious cycle: the less I thought, the more the internal congestion built up; the more it built up, the less courage I had to sit down and reflect. I figured I might as well spend that time watching TV, reading novels, or scrolling through Facebook and Moments. Thus, time slipped away in a blur between phone and computer, and then back again.
Until now.
The urgency is pressing down on me so hard I can barely breathe.
2020 started out incredibly difficult. It’s been so hard that sometimes I find myself wondering if this is the end of the world described in the Book of Revelation—the second coming of Christ. Of course, that’s just a thought. Every country is experiencing unprecedented hardships. Natural disasters, man-made calamities. Everyone, to some degree, is asking why. I am no exception. Even as a Christian who believes everything is under God’s control, I am asking Him why.
All these “whys” have made me increasingly tense. Watching the death toll from the virus rise day by day, I selfishly worry that I won’t be able to bear the pain of losing those I love. So I pray: No matter who gets sick, please don’t let it be my family. Don’t let it be my friends. I find I cannot encompass the whole world in my heart. Although I feel sad for the people in the news and sometimes shed tears, when the disaster draws closer, I am forced to face the version of myself that only considers my own feelings.
I thought for a long time about whether there was anything I could do. There isn’t. Beyond a few words of greeting and long prayers to God, there is nothing. Death itself does not scare me; what scares me is not knowing where my loved ones will go after they leave this world, and whether we can find eternity together. No one can force another to believe what they believe, and I have no desire to impose my faith on anyone through my writing. All I can do is write down my thoughts and leave them to your judgment. I hope that you, the reader, might be moved or find some comfort. So, I wrote. After all these words, I find myself smiling helplessly, realizing that writing isn’t quite as terrifying as I feared.
While the disaster was the immediate trigger, there are many deeper reasons why I am writing.
Those who know me likely know I am a competitive and proud person, yet also timid and insecure. This duality will inevitably be stamped between the lines of what I write. I believe people can change. Naturally, my faith makes the questions of “what is human nature” and “can a leopard change its spots” more complex. I won’t go into detail here, but I will write a piece to explore that with you later. Simply put, I want my writing to record my evolution. The vocabulary, tone, content, and rhetoric of each piece will serve as a mirror for my future self to see what I was and what I have become. Through writing, I can consider the readers’ reactions and hone my craft, rather than just blurting out whatever comes to mind. My future self will likely find my current writing quite cringing, but these articles will force me to confront that awkward self—to change, to accept, and to mature.
This scrutiny of change also applies to my literary background. I have been away from China for nearly eight years. Although I still read Chinese books, I haven’t read much in Chinese regarding deeper subjects; most of my reading has been for killing time. It’s fair to say that a vital period of my cognitive and worldview development during my youth was dominated by English. Writing in Chinese is a way to force myself to read more Chinese literature, to understand how the Chinese language expresses the world, and to share my reflections. I want to see if, through writing, my language becomes more vivid, more stable, or more profound.
Sometimes I write in English. I hope you won’t judge me or think I’m “showing off.” I forget which mid-20th-century writer said that English mixed into Chinese is like “meat stuck between your teeth,” so I usually try to be mindful not to make the listener uncomfortable. Chinese is Chinese; English is English. Yet, sometimes I truly cannot remember the Chinese expression and end up “digging out” a couple of English words. This makes me uneasy. It feels as though a lapse in language suddenly escalates into a lapse in cultural and national identity. In those moments, I feel lost. I won’t deny that part of this comes from a fear of being disliked—a struggle born from not yet fully understanding the ways of the world. But for me, culture is complex. Whether I belong to Chinese or Western culture cannot be summarized in a single word or a clean cut. There are topics I have only learned and thought about in English, making them challenging to translate in my head. But I want so badly to share these feelings that I can only hope to convey them to you, regardless of the language.
Sometimes, reading articles on WeChat or in the New York Times, I see authors quoting classics and making piercing, well-reasoned arguments, and I feel my own lack of learning. I don’t have their ability. Therefore, I want to write down my most sincere thoughts, tell you what I truly feel, and invite you to think with me. I long to be understood and heard, and I know how difficult it is to truly listen to someone. For that, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading this.
I also want to write about Bipolar Disorder. In fact, I want to write about many common mental illnesses. I have personally experienced Bipolar Disorder, and it continues to trouble me subtly to this day. For a long time, some people around me felt I was exaggerating my feelings. Many told me, “Everyone has hard times, just don’t think about it and it will pass,” or “Time is the best medicine,” or even that mental illness isn’t real—it’s just an excuse people invent for their own inadequacy. Others say, “Ordinary people have painful moments and cry their hearts out too, so I know how you feel; you’ll be fine after a good cry.”
Even writing these things down now makes my heart ache. How can my years of struggling with mental illness—from being tormented by anxiety at fifteen to being diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder—be rendered valueless by a couple of sentences? Yet often, I don’t know how to argue back. I understand why people think this way; those who haven’t experienced mental illness naturally cannot understand those who have. Since they do not know, I try not to be angry, but I find myself at a loss for words. Now that I have decided to start writing (or typing), I truly want to describe what Bipolar Disorder is actually like. I do this so others can understand me—and understand that a sickness of the mind and brain is just as much a physical reality as any other—but mostly, I do it for you.
If you feel the same way I do but don’t know why, or if your pain is dismissed by those around you or even your family as an exaggeration, I hope my words bring you solace. I want you to know you are not fighting alone. I know how overwhelming it can be, how hard it is to control, and how irrational it is—completely indifferent to human will. I also know there are many others like us in this world. I want to share my journey: how I was troubled and tormented, how it took so long to face it, how I eventually found a psychiatrist, tried different medications, failed numerous times, and finally found something that seems to work. I want to share how I am slowly finding my own rhythm, trying to live a healthy life while playing “guerrilla warfare” with Bipolar Disorder.
Perhaps because of my mental illness, or perhaps just my personality, my brain never stops. It is always turning over some thought. When I’m walking, showering, exercising, or in class, I jump from one thought to another, and another, until fifteen minutes later I “wake up” and can’t remember how I got there. When I’m cooking or folding clothes, I don’t need music; the voice inside my head is enough. I don’t get bored or impatient. I can daydream for hours. Sometimes a single idiom, a sentence, or a bit of scenery will expand into a thousand thoughts, as if I’ve had an epiphany I need to record. Because my mind is so full, I dream a lot—mostly “action blockbusters”—so I want to try using my dreams as templates for stories. Honestly, I never thought that thinking too much or dreaming too much was a good thing, but now I can use it for my writing. It’s a way to put those traits to good use.
Whether in Chinese or English, besides subjective essays, I also want to write more objective, paper-style articles. I love researching things and have a strong curiosity about the world. I want to share the “wonderful” research I’ve pondered in a logical way—partly to satisfy my own desire to learn, and partly to retrain the writing skills I gained in university. I also want to express my views on current events—things I see, hear, and experience in the world—and discuss them with you.
I will also post articles written by people around me. If you’re interested in writing a reflection, please contact me. I want to help the “you” that you want to express reach the people who want to listen.
Lastly, you might be curious why I call myself “Two Pigs” (两头猪). It’s a bit embarrassing. When I first applied for a QQ number, I had to pick a nickname that no one else had. I was in elementary or middle school then, and I was obsessed with having a name that showed how “special” I was. I thought, “I am a pig” is pretty special—who would call themselves a pig? But what if someone else thought that was special too? Or what if they were born in the Year of the Pig? Fine, I’ll be even more special. Even if you’re a pig, you can’t be two pigs, right? So, “I am two pigs” it was. And it stuck.
From this first article onward, I want you to know that I will pray for you—my reader—every time.
I pray to God that you, who have read this far, are healthy and happy, and that you find your own path and your own faith. I also pray for peace for all those affected by disasters, and that all those who have left us find a place where they belong.
It is very late; it’s time to sleep. I feel like there’s more I’ve forgotten to write, but I’m telling myself not to sacrifice my health for perfectionism. I need to be healthy, too.
