One day in second grade, my class learned about symbols. We were taught the significance of bathroom gender signals, blaring red exes, and affirming smiley faces. After universal signs, we moved on to more ambiguous and cultural indications, and the yin yang symbol fell into my lap…fixating me.

For the rest of the class I carefully studied the curves of black and white, imagining myself swirling between the partition of hues. The curved divisions of light and dark were so clear and sharp, and yet seemed fragile, like one disturbance would dissolve the symbol into a muddy grey puddle. Nothing so strikingly opposed could exist in real life. Or so I hoped.

In truth, that symbol terrified me. I feared it represented, not balance or indivisibility, but my own fractured self. So after that day, I cringed at the iconic circle like it was a warning sign. Hazardous. The skull and crossbones is also black and white.

No, I am not some perfectly constructed mystery of a person. I am not one thing and then another. I am not good and evil, wrapped up in a majestic worrier with Asian undertones and strong eyeliner. I am just a girl composed of contradictions, not the beautiful kind.

I hate humans but love people.

I hate sleeping but love dreaming.

I hate humor but love laughing.

I hate the past but love memories.

I hate talking but love conversations.

I hate living but love life.

I have never kissed anyone, but am perpetually in love. I crave solitude, but drown in loneliness. I do everything to avoid punishment, and then punish myself. I want to do big things, but can’t trust myself to get the small things right. I want to be adored but crave invisibility.

One day in second grade, I saw myself projected on the board. The yin yang symbol made opposites look harmonious, but it’s a lie. They tear you apart.