要相信自己遇到的人，相信自己链接到的缘分，即使是那些来伤害你的人。
对自己有信，对别人有爱。
“如果过去的时光不再有，你要珍惜你已拥有的所有时光。”
所有的故事都从那会儿开始。
1995年，对于我来说，这一年唯一特别的就是你很快就要来到这个世界了。刚好那会儿冬天还来不及结尾，春天却翻开了页，整个三月倒悬墙上，将惊蛰当成了祂的佛龛。
这一切都很顺理成章，却又如此椎心泣血。你安静下来听我说：
我知道你的到来本该意味着圆满，但从来没有人问过你的想法，你真的如此热烈地希望来到这个世界吗？我这么问是因为，你很快就会知道，你的父母在你出生后马上就会分开，你会被他们抛弃，你也很快将进入数年的寄养生活。你会觉得，经历这些本不用发生在你头上的厄运，只是因为你是一个女生。
或许后来的你知道性别并不是原罪，但一开始它确实是导火索。
三年还是五年？我记不清了，但是对于你来说，可能依然记忆犹新，毕竟，那是一场灾难，也是一场洗礼，是“你成为我”一个必经的课题。
在今后的岁月里，你将会一直记得那个小房间。与其说是房间，不如说是一个小阳台，靠窗有一张书桌，泥泞的颜色，一张一米宽的单人床，窗外是防盗栏，上面好像还放了几盆枯萎的绿植，散发着刺鼻的铁锈味。
这将是你记忆最深刻的、收养你的人家让你住的小空间，麻雀虽小五脏俱全，但这些并不重要，我心疼在于，你会经常被阿姨打骂，原因无非是一些，你没有给她的儿子玩他想要的玩具，晚饭吃太快导致她的儿子没吃够他喜欢的菜，诸如此类。
你不喜欢回家，也不想见到他们，更多时候你只是把自己关在房间或是在楼下徘徊。但是这也并不是全部，你的衣服、书包、或是其它东西，将一次次从七楼的阳台被扔到楼下，你会听到那个没大你几岁的男孩子尖叫着骂你，但是你一句话也不能说，不能还手，尽管你尝试过。你只能跑下楼去把你的东西捡回来，你穿过楼梯间，不停地跑着，扶手上可能现在还留有你当时手上的泥，眼里的泪，亦或是心里的恨。
淤青是你最爱的外衣，哭是你最不齿的发泄。
你应该懂的，你能感受到痛的，你不太明白为什么，为什么所谓童年没有彩色铅笔，也没有欢声笑语，只是脑海里一片空旷的苍白亦或皮肤上绝艳的姹紫千红。
他们包围着你，放大的一双双眼睛在你头顶瞪成了爆炸的星星，而你只是蹲着、跪着，抱头呜咽。
你是我那时见过最坚强也最危险的小孩。
在你六岁生日那天，终于，有人送了你一个生日蛋糕，一张《美人鱼》的动画片碟片，还有一块粉色儿童手表，对你说了一句生日快乐。你感受到了巨大的仁慈与温暖，是前所未有的感触，你不知道那风平浪静的心底掀起了怎样的汹涌，最后逐渐将你吞没，因为直到那个时候你还不知道什么是“母爱”。你不知道她是谁，但你将看着她慢慢走出那扇门，缓缓转身，一步一步迈下楼梯，当她的身影最终消失的那一瞬间，你看到她抬手遮住了眼睛——你知道那是擦眼泪的动作，你突然就爆发了。
这个画面你记得的，并且你将会记得一辈子，在每个无言的夜里，在每次喧哗的悲伤里，在每场放声的绝望里。于是你将会开始大声哭着追出去，再被狠狠拽回来，你听到门“砰”的一声被关上，那声音大得如同原始森林巨兽的咆哮。
遗忘你的人终将形成一座牢笼，你是留在黑暗深处的无望孤独。
但这些都不是结局，结局在那个小阳台上。
你将会经历一些事，我不知道该如何告诉你，这些事改变了你今后很长一段时间里对这个话题的看法，甚至连我至今也无法完全走出它的影响。
你将会在那个小阳台被褪掉衣服，去面对那个大你几岁的哥哥的，噩梦般的温柔。
你不知道那代表什么，你也从不曾反抗，你只觉得没有责骂和拳头那就是温柔，无它了，那就是幸运了，已经是幸运了，很幸运。
似乎有半年之久，你都趴在小阳台那张书桌上，你一动不动，只是打量眼前看不懂的书，还有摆在旁边你喜欢的玩具，身后在进行什么，你不清楚。但你最终还是会懂这一切的含义的，并且就在那不久后。
你被彻底从这个家赶走了。
就像来时的轻轻浅浅，走的时候一样的不闻不问，可惜那会儿没有雪，你的城市里从来没有雪，不然你或许想模仿雪人，就在雪里永远伫立，对吗？充满纯白的诗意。
很长一段时间里，你将会出现许多心理和生理上的不适，这个很长时间在我现在看来，它长达二十多年。
那会儿，你不敢也没有告诉任何人，它将直接影响你之后的感情观、性格、对异性的态度与看法，直到成年你也没有办法对异性有一丝兴趣，你只是觉得不适，轻易地触碰都将引起你剧烈的反击，你觉得想吐，你觉得恶心，你一次次跪在地上干呕，你对这件事充满了无尽的排斥。而当你知道这种事的发生是多与这个社会不兼容的时候，所有的压力更是扑面而来，除了自杀，你好像真的想不到别的办法了。
你辗转了好几个家庭，每对夫妻都养了你好几个月然后送走。终于，又有新的人家收养了你。
只是天不遂人愿，是家庭选择你，不是你选择生活的家庭。那户人家我该怎么评价呢？你肯定是不喜欢的，谁会喜欢裹着“为你好”的皮带与棍棒呢？
你第一次有了感情，你写了情书放在书包里，最后被拿出来送到学校，当着全班同学字字铿锵地念出来那些最为青涩懵懂的情感，然后你在操场被打到几乎站不起来。
你第一次去了网吧，第二天你背上的伤被交作业时老师不小心碰到，于是你在办公室开始惨叫。
你第一次听着半夜窗外的猫叫吓得翻来覆去睡不着，于是你的被子被从窗边扔了出去，你蜷缩了整晚。
你第一次考了低分，我甚至记不得当时的场景，但那之后你的手上出现了三十九道血杠，那是你的生日，你知道你无法抵抗任何人，那就伤害自己吧，疼痛也变成了快乐。
你将会无数次的尝试隔断与这个世界的联系，在你初中后，有了更多的第一次。 第一次伤害别人，第一次与聚众闹事的人群产生了交集，第一次去少管所，第一次去警察局，第一次在黑暗的小巷拦别人的路，甚至第一次拿刀抱着死的决心企图去捅向谁，你的刀已经举起来了。
我知道那几年很难熬，很难，难到你无法再坚持，几乎一点都不能了，你没有任何信念，没有任何情绪，你像一个机器，每天幻想着自己最终离开的时候能一起带走多少人，每当想到这些，你就快乐起来了。
但你听我说：举起的刀，你放下了。
你可能将会诧异于原因，其实我也不太明白，你的耳边突然在回荡一首歌，好像它把你从朦胧里拉了出来，然后你安静下来。
你知道吗？那户那么对待你的人家，是你的亲人，他们在即使十多年后还是这么跟你说：“如果不是当初那几年把你往死里打，你估计早废了，你的人生就完了。”
你将会把对他们的恨死压在心底十多年，往后的日子，每逢春节，你都将虚情假意地给他们送上祝福，然后再不联系，偶尔你也会收到消息说，白眼狼。但你不在乎。
后来你还是回了家，这一生，第一次回家。但你的人生并没有因此改善，你和继母在家打架，你砸了玻璃摔了瓶子，你把地上铺满碎渣就等她进门跨进来的一瞬间，她往你的杯子里倒了什么就等你喝下去的一瞬间。
你的父亲暴跳如雷，怪你这生命出现得错误，出生是错，性别是错，就连他的婚姻的起承转合也是你的错。
十七岁，你一个人离开了你的城市。
这所有，你会觉得这是不幸吗？
十多年。你最终会捱过那十多年，听我这么说，你会放心一点吗？
不破不立呀，女孩。
你将清晰地记得每一件事的脉络，也将知道再悲伤的故事，你也不是唯一的叙述者，你断绝了大部分的朋友，整理好那个小阳台的记忆，把它从头到尾整理好，从心里挖出来，再等伤口愈合。你会去帮助很多同样经历的女孩，告诉她们：天真、善良、纯洁，不关乎你的身体，只在你们心里。
愿你在这一片圹埌中，目送滂霈渐弱。
愿你在这一朝叆叇中，等来澄廓转身。
你将会走出来，甩掉所有世俗的看法与认知还有同情，你将会走出来。因为你知道这个世界熙熙攘攘，而这长达一生的博弈却只能独自完成。
你想着再试一下吧，最后一次了。
你离开了，你会离开所有承载着你童年记忆的人和地点，毅然决然，永不回头！
原生家庭对你有什么影响呢？可能那时的你不明白，但它确实是一笔巨大的财富。你见过一蹶不振的人，见过发疯的人，见过就这样平庸一生的人，原生家庭的不幸或多或少会造成性格的缺陷，困扰人们，是吗？或许是，但我不同意，我不认为它是同情自己的理由，这本身取决于人们如何看待“苦难”，以及将它摆放在什么位置。
离开家，以为就能重生，以为自己活着出来了，就是坚强。
但好景不长。你拼了命的学习，谁也没想到当年那个小混混拿着排名第一的成绩考上了大学。终于从那场窒息的侵犯走出来的你，遇到了第一次让你为之心动的人，你百分之百毫无保留，就算自己空心了什么不剩，也想让喜欢的人开心一笑，于是他举起双手，你却万分小心，那双手死死掐住了你的脖子，那种熟悉的窒息感在你胸口里震颤，你再次发疯了。
暴力，暴力，永远逃不开暴力和背叛，黑暗侵袭，记忆如影随形。
我知道你在找一个家，那是你永恒缺失的部分，你觉得那个人给了你一个家，即使他打你了，即使你疼晕过去了，即使哭到崩溃了，即使他有了别人，你也一刻不曾离开他。你太想要一个家，而那些身心的折磨，却意料之外的与你的童年经历重合，你从窒息里找到了熟悉感，找到了安全感，你看到了深邃的黑暗。当他跪下求你原谅，你好像又觉得是过去的种种在寻求你的宽慰，你答应了。
你当然不应该答应，但我理解你。那五年最终的爆炸，你没能生还。
从那以后，你将再也不是你。你把自己锁在空无一人的世界长达半年，拒绝任何人的交流，拒绝任何人的真情或是假意，你只是一个人坐着，你拿着书，在凌晨五点天还没亮的朦胧里，你写了些什么，你思考着什么，关于放弃，关于一了百了，你想了很多，最后却依然不愿意按照过去二十年的剧本继续演下去。
你想在沉默中爆发，于是你在沉默中爆发。
那一年的经历惊心动魄。那是一种发疯的执着，你关闭了所有社交软件，只沉心于自己，你不害怕孤独，只担心在热闹中忘记自己，你将你自己从内心深处挖了出来，彻夜与她聊天，问她想要什么，想过什么样的生活，这一切经历都是为了什么，她感受如何，她开心吗，她难受吗，为什么，那么如何做会好一些呢？不要欺骗自己，那是当你深陷深渊中时最后陪你的人，听听她的声音。
她将和你聊很多，关于人生，关于苦难，关于自我，关于过去和未来。唯有爱自己，正视自己，倾听自己，才会找到心底的蛛丝马迹，那是关于自己全部的秘密，你是一个永远跟自己朝夕相处的人，而不是别人的目光，社会的看法，约定俗成的规则。
如果找不到答案，就去书里问问圣人，如果看不到美好，就去旅途中发现。
总之，当你再次从阴影里走出来的时候，你觉得一切都是鲜活的。太阳并不刺眼，阴影也不是黑暗，快乐痛苦都是收获，平静、平淡，不因为苦难而不信任美好，也不因为绝望而放弃握紧希望，不依赖、不执着。
你可能并不知道你为什么居然会撑过来，我想，可能还是有所信，有所念想。后来每当你觉得活不下去了，你就会想，这只是一次经历。地球就像一个体验游乐场，好不容易拿了门票来体验生而为人的喜怒哀乐，每多一种情绪，你就完整一分。想到这些，你又乐观了起来。
你猜，经历了多少起伏，才会对任何事都乐观到一笑置之呢。
你的心装进了很多别人的故事，你的眼睛也将会收进这个世界更多的风景，整个世界的好奇和惊叹，巴洛克风格的雕花窗，哥特式暖白的大教堂，歌里唱过的、歌词铺过的地方，一整片蓝色的天，满眼璀璨的星河，满心澎湃。
重要的不是你经历了什么，是你怎么看待这段经历和别人的目光，是你想要成为怎样的自己。所有的经历都有它应有的价值比例。
让自己死去，再让自己重生。
你无比幸运，向来如此。你知道吗？你经历的痛苦，是我重生的幸运。
你终究会变成我的样子，我喜欢我的样子，我也喜欢你，无论是嘶吼绝望的你，还是咬牙坚持的你，或是软弱崩溃的你，哪怕你不爱自己的那些日子，我也爱着你。
“你弯下腰，在炽热的炉边，在浅浅忧伤中沉吟：爱情如何逝去，向山峦之巅独行，将他的面容隐没在繁星之间。”
世界还是繁华的模样，夜晚的星空在云层上碎裂，朝圣的路为之震颤，坠茵落溷，熙熙攘攘，打开窗，你曾以为没有家，后来发现你的身后，这整个世界，都是家。
善良、温柔、爱、真心和坚定。
做想做的事，成为想成为的人。
愿这世界暄妍、平和安详。
愿你独特，愿你乘风破浪。
那年秋天，你从你，变成了我。
——
Trust the people who cross your path; trust the destiny you weave, even with those who arrive only to leave scars. Have faith in yourself; have love for the world.
“If the days gone by are no more, cherish every moment you have left.”
Everything began there.
In 1995, the only thing truly special about that year was your imminent arrival. It was that fleeting threshold where Winter hadn’t quite sighed its last, yet Spring was already turning the page. All of March hung suspended, as if the Awakening of Insects had become a sacred shrine upon the wall.
It all felt so inevitable, yet it was visceral—heart-wrenching. Be still now, and listen: I know your arrival was meant to signify “wholeness,” but no one ever asked for your consent. Did you truly crave this world with such fervor? I ask because you would soon learn that your parents would part ways the moment you were born. Abandoned, you were cast into years of foster care. You would come to believe that this misfortune befell you simply because you were born a girl. Perhaps later you’d realize that gender isn’t an original sin, but back then, it was certainly the fuse.
Was it three years? Five? The chronology blurs for me, but for you, the memory remains razor-sharp. After all, it was a catastrophe, a baptism—a mandatory lesson in the syllabus of “becoming me.”
The Balcony of Rust For the rest of your life, you will remember that small room. Or rather, that enclosed balcony. A mud-colored desk by the window, a narrow bed, and security bars that caged the view. A few withered plants sat there, exhaling the pungent, metallic scent of rust.
This would be the most enduring image of your foster home. A space that was “functional” but devoid of warmth. What breaks my heart is the memory of the beatings from that woman—the aunt. The reasons were always trivial: you didn’t give her son the toy he wanted, or you ate your dinner too fast, leaving him with less of his favorite dish.
You hated going home. You spent your hours wandering the streets or retreating into silence. But that wasn’t all. Your clothes, your schoolbag—everything you owned—would repeatedly be hurled from the seventh-floor balcony. You’d hear that boy, barely older than you, screaming insults. You couldn’t say a word. You couldn’t fight back, though God knows you tried. You could only run down those stairs, past the railings that perhaps still bear the smudge of your grime, the salt of your tears, and the heat of your resentment.
Bruises were your favorite garment; weeping was a catharsis you despised.
You felt the pain, but you didn’t understand the “why.” Why was childhood devoid of colored pencils and laughter? Why was your mind a vast, hollow white, while your skin bloomed in defiant shades of violet and crimson? They surrounded you, their eyes magnifying into exploding stars above your head, while you knelt, huddled, sobbing into your own shadows.
The Nightmarish Tenderness You were the strongest, yet most precarious child I have ever known. On your sixth birthday, someone finally gave you a cake, a DVD of The Little Mermaid, and a pink watch. They said, “Happy Birthday.” You felt a surge of mercy so profound it felt like a tidal wave, eventually drowning you. You didn’t know what “motherly love” was then. You didn’t know who she was, but you watched her walk out that door. You saw her turn, descending the stairs step by step, and in the moment she vanished, you saw her hand reach up to shield her eyes.
You knew she was wiping away tears. And in that moment, you erupted.
That image is etched into your soul. You will carry it through every silent night, every loud sorrow, every howling despair. You chased after her, screaming, only to be dragged back. You heard the door slam—a sound as primal and terrifying as the roar of a beast in a prehistoric forest.
Those who forget you become your cage; you were the hopeless solitude left in the dark.
But the story doesn’t end there. The end—or the beginning—was on that balcony. Something happened there that I struggle to articulate, something that skewed your perception of intimacy for decades. You were stripped of your clothes on that balcony, forced to face the nightmarish tenderness of that older foster brother.
You didn’t know what it meant. You didn’t resist. In your world, the absence of blows and screams was “tenderness.” It was luck. It was a mercy. For six months, you lay draped over that desk, staring at books you couldn’t read and toys you couldn’t enjoy, while life happened to you from behind. Eventually, you would understand the weight of it. Soon after, you were discarded from that house.
You left as quietly as you had arrived. There was no snow in your city—never any snow—otherwise, you might have wanted to mimic a snowman, standing frozen in a world of white poetry forever.
The Cycle of Survival For over twenty years, the psychological and physical tremors lasted. You told no one. It dictated your boundaries, your fear of men, your revulsion toward touch. Even as an adult, a simple gesture would trigger a visceral gag reflex. You felt nauseous; you felt stained. When you realized how “incompatible” your history was with society’s expectations, the pressure became a crushing weight. Suicide felt like the only logical exit.
You drifted through families. Each couple kept you for a few months before passing you on. Finally, a new home “chose” you. But we do not choose our families; they choose us. How do I describe them? You hated it. Who could love a discipline wrapped in the “good intentions” of belts and sticks?
The first time you felt love, you wrote a letter. It was snatched away and read aloud to your class, your most delicate emotions turned into a public spectacle. You were beaten on the playground until you couldn’t stand.
The first time you went to an internet cafe, your teacher accidentally touched the wounds on your back the next day. You screamed in the office.
The first time you lay awake, terrified by the howling cats outside, your blanket was thrown out the window. You spent the night shivering in a fetal position.
The first time you failed a test, thirty-nine slashes appeared on your arm. It was your birthday. You realized you couldn’t fight them, so you fought yourself. Pain became your only reliable joy.
By middle school, the “firsts” turned dark. First time hurting someone else. First time running with the wrong crowd. First time in juvenile detention, in police stations, in dark alleys. You even held a knife, heart set on ending a life—your own or another’s.
I know those years were unbearable. You were a machine, fueled by the dark fantasy of how many people you could take with you when you finally left.
But listen to me: You put the knife down.
A song echoed in your ears, pulling you out of the haze. You calmed down. Years later, those relatives would tell you: “If we hadn’t beaten the life out of you back then, you’d be a wasted soul by now.” You buried that hatred for a decade. Every Lunar New Year, you sent hollow blessings, only to be called an “ungrateful wolf” in return. You stopped caring.
The Breaking and the Making At seventeen, you left your city alone. Was it misfortune? Or was it the forge?
To create, one must first destroy, my girl.
You would eventually untangle the threads of your story. You would realize that even in the saddest tales, you are not the only narrator. You cut off the world, organized the memories of that balcony, and waited for the wounds to scab over. You began helping other girls, telling them: Innocence, kindness, and purity have nothing to do with your body; they reside in your soul.
May you watch the torrential rains fade into the vast wilderness. May you turn toward the clarity that follows the mist.
You fought the lifelong battle of self-reclamation in solitude. You decided to try one last time. You left the people and the places that held your trauma. You turned away and never looked back.
What is the impact of a broken family? It is a paradoxical wealth. I have seen the broken, the mad, and the mediocre. Many use their past as an excuse for their flaws. I disagree. Suffering is not a reason for self-pity; it is a matter of where you place it in your heart.
Rebirth You thought leaving home was rebirth. You thought surviving was strength. But the shadow followed. You studied with a vengeance—the former “delinquent” topping the university entrance exams. But when you finally encountered “love,” you gave 100% of your hollowed-out self. And the hands that you hoped would hold you instead tightened around your throat. The familiar suffocation returned. You spiraled again.
Violence. Betrayal. The dark memories were a shadow you couldn’t outrun. You stayed with him because you were desperate for a “home.” Even when he bruised you, even when he cheated, you found a terrifying security in the familiar rhythm of abuse. It mirrored your childhood. When he knelt for forgiveness, it felt like your past was asking for absolution. You said yes.
You shouldn’t have. But I understand. That five-year explosion nearly killed the “you” that was left.
After that, you weren’t “you” anymore. You locked yourself away for six months. In the gray light of 5:00 AM, you wrote. You thought about ending it. But you refused to follow the script written for you twenty years ago.
You chose to erupt in the silence.
That year was breathtaking. You shut out the world to talk to the girl inside. You asked her what she wanted, how she felt, if she was happy. You stopped lying to yourself. When you are in the abyss, she is the only one who stays. Listen to her voice.
She will tell you about life, suffering, and the future. Only by loving yourself—by listening to your own secrets—can you find the truth. You are the only person you have to live with forever. Not the society’s gaze, not the rules.
If you can’t find the answer, ask the sages in books. If you can’t see beauty, find it on the road.
When you finally stepped out of the shadow, the world felt vivid. The sun wasn’t blinding; the shadows weren’t darkness. Joy and pain were both harvests. You learned not to depend, not to cling. You survived because you had “faith”—the belief that this life is just an experience. Earth is a playground. We bought the ticket to feel the full spectrum of human emotion. With every new feeling, you become more whole.
Integration Think of the peaks and valleys it took to reach this state of optimistic indifference. Your heart is now a vessel for the stories of others; your eyes have gathered the cathedrals, the stars, and the blue horizons of the world.
It doesn’t matter what happened to you. It matters how you see it and who you choose to become.
Let yourself die, so that you may be reborn.
You are incredibly lucky. The pain you endured is the luck of my rebirth. You will eventually become me. And I love who I am. I love you—the screaming you, the resilient you, the broken you. Even on the days you hated yourself, I loved you.
“You bowed down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled / And paced upon the mountains overhead / And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.”
The world remains bustling. The stars shatter above the clouds. The path of the pilgrim trembles. You once thought you were homeless, only to realize the entire world is your home.
Be kind. Be gentle. Be firm. Do what you want to do; become who you want to be. May the world be bright and peaceful. May you be unique, and may you ride the wind and waves.
That autumn, you finally became me.