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Cherry Blossoms
There were days like that.
Days when I wished the entire world would fall apart. Days when I wished no one would smile, no one would love, no one would be happy. There were days when children’s laughter made my skin crawl, when bright, sunny weather felt hateful—days when people smiling brightly filled me with a maddening mix of envy and disgust. Whenever I see cherry blossoms, those days come back to me.
That place was dazzling.
I entered Dongguk University after retaking the college entrance exam. Later, I took the exam once more and transferred to Yonsei University, but I did spend one semester at Dongguk. Dongguk University sits right at the foot of Namsan Mountain. Because of height restrictions within the campus, tall buildings cannot be constructed or rebuilt beyond a certain limit. From the central library, you can read while looking out at both Namsan and Namsan Tower—an almost unreal privilege. As a Buddhist university, meditation is a required liberal arts course, and there is even a temple called Jeonggakwon on campus. It is a place deeply connected to nature, calm and peaceful. There are many trees on campus, and in spring, the cherry blossoms bloom in radiant abundance. The path between Hyehwa Hall and Manhae Hall—or the Law Building—is especially beautiful, with cherry blossoms lining both sides of the road.
Those were the days.
I cried every single day. I couldn’t approach people easily. I had entered Dongguk University, and out of sheer inertia, I tried to get along with others—forcing myself to visit the department lounge whenever I could. But even when I went, I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I was no longer someone who could trust people. I was someone who could no longer draw close to anyone. So I would simply sit there, occupying space. I became wary of others’ kindness. I wanted to be close to them, yet I was afraid of closeness. So I mostly lived with my mouth shut. During class, I participated actively and gave feedback, but the moment class ended, I fell silent again. Eventually, even occupying space that way began to feel meaningless, and I became afraid of opening the lounge door itself. There were times I stood in front of that door for a long while, wishing someone else would open it for me—because I didn’t have the courage to do it myself. If someone happened to come in or out, I would slip in through the gap. On days when no one opened the door, I would stand there blankly and eventually walk away without ever entering. From that point on, I ate alone and went to class alone. After all, there was no one who could understand my heart, and humans were not beings I could trust.
Near where I stayed, there was an elementary school. So when I was home during free periods or after classes, children’s laughter would drift in through the window. It was unbearable—that laughter. It was so bright, so completely beyond anything I could ever have again, that it terrified me. There was also a park nearby, filled with beautifully blooming flowers and lush trees that felt refreshing to the eyes. But the brightness hurt so much that my eyes would water constantly, as if someone were stabbing them. It wasn’t a metaphor—it truly hurt. Only now do I understand that it was a somatic symptom. Back then, I simply thought I had gone mad. (Well, in a broad sense, that wasn’t entirely wrong. Even now.) That spring, I walked with my eyes fixed on the ground. Crying while walking would have looked too pathetic. And if someone spoke to me, I had nothing I could say.
It was one of those days.
The cherry blossoms were in full bloom. Unfortunately, I had attended a class in Hyehwa Hall and needed to walk to Manhae Hall or the Law Building for my next class—along that very path lined with cherry blossoms on both sides. I couldn’t allow myself to cry openly. So I walked with my gaze fixed on the ground. That was when someone stopped me. They said the cherry blossoms on this path were so beautiful and asked if I could take a photo of them against this beautiful backdrop.I hated it. It was horrifying—the fact that I had to look at something so beautiful. I was drowning in despair, yet the world was radiant, indifferent, glorious. And there was that middle-aged man—presumably a professor—smiling brightly against this beautiful world. His smile matched it all too well. I wanted no part of it. But I had no excuse, and I didn’t know how to refuse. I had never learned how to say no. So I agreed.
That was when I truly faced it. Through the camera lens of the phone in my hands, the dazzling world entered my eyes. Cherry blossoms in full bloom, as if blessing the world. Petals fluttering down like a baptism upon passersby. And the joyful smile of a middle-aged man who seemed perfectly at home in this beautiful world.
It was revolting. Horrifying. I hated it. I felt hatred. I wanted to destroy that smile. I wished all those petals would wither and die. As those impulses surged, nausea followed. I hurriedly took a few photos, handed the phone back, and ran into the bathroom of the Law Building. I vomited. I cried. I vomited again. I cried again. Sometimes I cried while vomiting. It was disgusting. Where did that disgust come from? From this beautiful world—or from me, a person who did not belong in it? Not knowing the answer, I cried silently for a long time. When I finally composed myself and stepped outside, the class I was supposed to attend was already over. The once-bright blue day had faded into an orange dusk. Exhausted, I dragged myself back to where I was staying.
Time Bombs
We often encounter news of random attacks or indiscriminate killings. Their stated reasons are that they hate society, or women, or men, or the rich, or happy people. Whatever their reasoning, they are criminals and deserve punishment. Sometimes, I even think the punishment defined by law is too light for their crimes. But that’s not what I want to discuss here.
They were not all born that way. Some may have been, but I believe the vast majority were not. How different are their logic and psychology from mine during those cherry-blossom days? Coldly speaking, I don’t think they’re very different at all. They and I were simply people wounded by society—or by someone. People who were especially vulnerable to being hurt.
So what is the difference between them and me? What made me live on, while they committed unforgivable crimes? Violence? Morality? Ethics? Innate temperament? I don’t know the exact answer. But one thing is certain: the direction of violence was different. They directed violence outward, harming others. I directed it inward, harming myself. Still, I did not make an irreversible choice. Then how am I different from those who harm themselves? Perhaps I am simply more afraid. So I live on with shallow suicidal impulses and shallow self-harm urges—scratching my body until it bleeds without even noticing.
If They Are Not So Different From Me
If those who harm others and those who harm themselves are not fundamentally different from me, then they were people society could have prevented. They are individuals wounded by society, whether publicly or privately. What is needed is a structure that prevents such wounds, a structure that enables recovery even after being hurt, and further, a structure that cultivates the very ability to recover. Usually, families fulfill this role. But sadly—and cruelly—not all families function as they should. Children raised in such environments are easily wounded, and their wounds heal poorly. Worse, they may not even know how to treat or manage wounds, allowing them to fester and rot into something far more severe—crime or extreme choices. Ideally, all families would function properly. But if reality does not allow that, can society—can the state—help compensate? This is not a new question, nor one I alone have asked. It resurfaces every time random violence becomes an issue. Yet people only rage briefly and then forget. And while they do, another child grows up carrying a festering wound.
Cruelly Radiant
This world has undeniably beautiful sides—people loving, cherishing, and trusting one another. But to some, that beauty is cruel. It is so radiant that they want it desperately, yet they have never had it and don’t even know how to obtain it. Some grow angry over what they lack and try to destroy it. Others fall into despair and give up on life. Still others blame themselves and struggle desperately to acquire it—only to push it further away through that very struggle. That’s why love and trust are infuriating things. Because they are, cruelly, so radiant.
#Thoughts_No_20250612
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[Netflix When Life Gives You Tangerines Review #5] Love Disguised as Possession
A Love That Suffocates More Than It Warms
Young-beom’s mother truly loves her son. Yet her love feels less warm than suffocating. She often says, “I just want you to be happy,” but the shape of that “happiness” is always confined to a frame she has drawn herself.
An Extension, Not a Relationship
To her, her son is not someone she loves so much as a part of herself. He is both an individual and, at the same time, “the result of my good parenting” and “an extension of my own life.”
So when he tries to walk a path she does not recognize, it does not feel like simple worry—it feels like the collapse of her own existence.
Control Is the Language of Anxiety, Not Hatred
When people are afraid, they try to control. Control is not an expression of hatred but a defense mechanism against anxiety.
“What if he falls apart without me?”
“What if he’s happy without me and forgets me?”
Her love ultimately begins with these fears.
When Anxiety Devours Freedom
The problem arises when that anxiety consumes the other person’s freedom. The son is no longer someone who is loved, but someone who must perform his parent’s expectations. He learns his duty to reassure his parent before he learns his right to be happy.
That is the cruelty of love disguised as possession.
Control Creates Distance
Control does not create closeness. It offers only temporary safety and ultimately produces distance. Love grows not from the power to hold someone close, but from the trust that knows how to let go. It disappears the moment you cling, and begins to flow again the moment you respect.
Changing the Language of Control
Young-beom’s mother is not a bad person. She belongs to a generation that learned love in the language of control. For that generation, intervention meant responsibility, and control meant love.
But now, that language must change.
The Grammar of Letting Go
Love is not protection—it is trust. Love is not holding on, but waiting.
The day she understands this simple sentence, both her son and she herself will finally be free.
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A Step Toward Everyday Life
It happened during an ordinary walk.
Was there a fire?
Suddenly, everything around me began to look hazy. It felt as if someone were burning something in a factory or a warehouse, or as if a house nearby were on fire—smoke seemed to cloud my vision. I scanned my surroundings, trying to locate the source, but everything was strangely peaceful. Then it struck me: my eyes and nose didn’t sting at all. Only my vision was blurred. Panic set in. No matter how tightly I closed and opened my eyes or shook my head, the haze only thickened. I stopped in my tracks, wondering if I should call emergency services. Then, just as suddenly, my vision began to clear. What was that?It was puzzling, but since everything returned to normal within three to five minutes, I assumed it was nothing serious and continued walking. Then another sensation hit me—pain, as if someone had struck the top of my head with a hammer. There was no one around me. And I certainly hadn’t done anything to deserve being hit with a hammer. Why was this happening to me?
Stress-Induced Hyperventilation or Sympathetic Nervous System Overactivation
One common reaction seen in Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD) is stress-induced hyperventilation or sympathetic nervous system overactivation. When anxiety or stress causes breathing to become shallow and rapid, carbon dioxide levels can drop sharply, leading to blurred vision. Depersonalization or dissociative symptoms may accompany this.
It’s true that I have CPTSD, but I wasn’t hyperventilating, and I’m not sure it qualifies as depersonalization. If blurred vision itself counts as a sense of unreality, then perhaps it could be called dissociation—but it felt different from the depersonalization or dissociation I’ve experienced before.
Autonomic Nervous System Imbalance / Somatization
This is another symptom frequently seen in CPTSD. Disruptions in the brain–autonomic nervous system connection can cause intermittent abnormalities in heart rate, blood pressure, vision, and balance. If the walk coincided with a moment of fatigue, dissociation, and pain, this explanation is quite plausible.
Migraine Aura (Visual Disturbances)
When vision becomes blurred before a headache, it may indicate a migraine aura. This can include a watery or smoky visual field, flickering, or vague shadows in one’s sight. The sensation of being “hit with a hammer” could correspond to the central cranial pain characteristic of migraines.
In my case, the visual disturbance felt more like being surrounded by smoke than water—but it could still fit this category.
Tension Headache or Psychosomatic Response
Stress or excessive tension can radiate upward toward the crown of the head, creating a sudden, pounding pressure. In CPTSD, the body often reacts defensively to sudden or unpredictable stimuli—sounds, spaces, even thoughts—resulting in head pain.
Primary Stabbing Headache
True to its name, this type of headache strikes suddenly—sharp or pounding—and then disappears. It often occurs around the crown or back of the head and lasts only seconds to minutes. While the exact cause is unclear, it is closely associated with nervous system hypersensitivity, sleep deprivation, and stress.
The pain I felt really was startlingly intense, like being struck by a hammer, but it faded quickly.
Autonomic Nervous System Imbalance / Stress-Induced Somatization (Revisited)
In CPTSD, the autonomic nervous system may repeatedly sound alarms even when no real threat exists. Blood flow may surge to or withdraw from the crown of the head, producing sensations of pressure or impact.
If this pain followed the episode of blurred vision, it’s possible that my body was transitioning back from a fight-or-flight response—an automatic recovery process after a perceived threat.
Overall Interpretation
Taken together, this episode can be understood as a combination of a stress-induced autonomic response and a primary stabbing headache. My body misinterpreted a non-existent external threat as a life-threatening trauma, triggering excessive autonomic activation. As a result, my vision blurred and a striking pain appeared at the crown of my head.
In short, it was an abnormal autonomic response caused by prolonged tension.
The Dual Structure of Emotion
What matters is this: after returning from the walk, showering, and entering my room, I feel proud, relaxed, and reassured. This is because I experienced—through the walk itself—that there was no real danger, no threat to my life. Gradually, my parasympathetic nervous system becomes activated. During the walk, I am in a state of alertness—I must survive. Afterward, I feel calm and proud—I survived. This closely resembles exposure therapy: “I faced what I feared, and I came back alive.”
In that sense, this response aligns perfectly with why I started walking in the first place. Hyperarousal, sensitivity to others’ gazes, and the fear of being seen as useless make it extremely difficult for me to leave home or interact with people. I know this isn’t something medication alone can fix. I need consistent exposure training. For now, I don’t feel ready for social interaction, so I chose walking.
Every day for a week, I walk over 12,000 steps—about one to two hours. During these walks, I become hyperaroused, stressed, and experience “strange” symptoms caused by autonomic imbalance. But inevitably, I return home alive. As my parasympathetic system activates, I learn—through experience—that going outside, that walking, isn’t actually so dangerous.
In the future, I may find myself trapped in smoke again, or struck by pain as if someone hit me. But as always, I will return home alive. And through that process, I will grow closer to the outside world—taking one step at a time toward recovery, toward everyday life and society.
I walk 12,000 steps every day.
But my heart moves toward everyday life—one step at a time.#Thoughts_No_20250610