The Inheritance

For decades, Monique Barry was tortured by incessant anxiety(her daughter’s rough day at school? proof the child’s life was ruined) and baseless guilt (choosing a bad restaurant? a hanging offense!). Then she learned that her garden-variety neuroses might be something else: the trauma of her ancestors, passed down through the generations.

NOBODY LIKES ME,” said my daughter, Elyse, inhaling dry cereal as she bopped to Taylor Swift on the car radio. It was the end of her first week at a new school.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said, gripping the steering wheel. My heart rattled. My breath went shallow. Tears fell on the pile of snacks on my lap. Who are these kindergarten bastards? If she doesn’t make friends with them now, they’ll shun her all the way through high school. She’ll be so depressed, she’ll turn to drugs or cutting. And whose fault will it be? Mine, all mine.

“Can I have some more Cheerios?” Elyse asked. 

“You can have the Oreos!” I blurted out, handing her the tear-soaked plastic bag.

“Ew, it’s all wet,” Elyse said. She looked over to see my streaked cheeks, and her sweet face was gripped with surprise, then fear. 

“Mama,” she said, “what’s wrong with you?” 

I’ve had anxiety for as long as I can remember. As a child, I never wanted to go to school. Would I have anyone to sit with at lunch? Would Bridgett Markham steal my pencils? (No and yes.) I was so nervous around other kids, I hardly spoke. In addition to being overweight, I was the only Asian kid, the only mixed kid (my mother is Chinese; my father is white). I had a few close friends but nursed a constant terror that they would realize something was wrong with me—I wasn’t normal, wasn’t cool, wasn’t something else that I could never quite identify—and leave me in the dust.