My alarm clock is ringing. Precisely at 04.45. Out of bed, dressed and straight to training. Gotta make it before work. This is the new requirement I have set for myself. Or perhaps I should rather call it “the new improvement initiative” to become an even better person. I’m a psychiatrist, yes, but what’s the next step? New goals are of course, with my background, namely. Nothing will be good enough. Much of my upbringing has made me a “classic good girl”: good at school, quickly finished specialist training and have always done the “right” thing towards society and my parents. As second-generation immigrants, we have had life “served on a platter”, and the least we can do is live it “right”. But what does this do to our mental health? To always feel that one is never good enough? I am a psychiatrist and somewhat of a specialist in this. But over 30 years have passed, and I’m still running to catch a new train. To this day, I have not been able to reserve a seat even once. Never stop, always on. “Think of everything we’ve gone through to give you a good life. The only thing you need to focus on is your studies. It wasn’t like that for us”. These are not foreign words. Corkje for me or many others in my generation. I can think back to primary school. The dream of becoming an author. I had even created my own book series, which I was so proud of. “Little Yellow and weasel Blue”. If someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, the answer was “author”. But over the years I realized that it was not a completely acceptable answer. “One cannot make a living from being an author. But you might be able to write alongside a proper profession.” Unconsciously, a lot was decided for me at a very young age. Misunderstand me correctly; psychiatry is the best thing that could have happened to me. But the fact that I chose psychiatry also met with a lot of opposition in my home. Becoming a psychologist was not good enough, but a doctor was good. But ideally I should have become a surgeon, a “proper doctor with authority”, and not a “stupid psychiatrist”. Hmm … no wonder that knowledge about and interest in mental health is so little among my dear first-generation immigrants. A lot of hard work is behind the title I have today. I know that. But being satisfied where I am, I still haven’t realized that. “What’s your next step?” is always a question that creeps up. No one in my dear childhood home talked about celebrating when I proudly told them that I had become a medical specialist. For me, a lot of this has left me with an emptiness, a void that I would like to fill with acceptance and praise from those who have done a lot to get me to where I am. How can first-generation immigrants or society otherwise fully understand this, this identity crisis, or feeling pushed, judged and less valuable from all sides. The fear of becoming a foreigner without status or education is probably the worst thing that can happen. The goal is to become the “perfect foreigner”, the one who fits in and does what this society demands. This is how we are taught to think. When I published an article in one of Norway’s largest newspapers, the question came back “When are you going to publish something internationally?”. When is it actually good enough? When am I actually good enough? I don’t think I will ever get a proper answer to these questions. But what I have realized, on the other hand, is where this comes from, and who it comes from, and they have enormous power over me. But fortunately maturity and age put a lot into perspective, and that can be helpful. It is entirely possible that well into my adult life I will come to realize from this that “nothing is good enough”. But then it’s up to me to unravel it, so I can live a peaceful life with myself. Our parents have their baggage, their wounds and their trauma. A long and difficult life before our time. But how can we get into them more easily? Hard to say. You are never brown enough. You are never white enough. You are never enough. First-generation immigrants have their reasons for reacting as they do, and for raising their children as they do. Then we, the second-generation immigrants, have to find our way to raise our children. I have a little boy who is almost two years old. Having my own child put my own upbringing in perspective, for better or for worse. There are many things I think I should do differently as a parent. But if I can do it? Unsure. A great deal is in place for me to be able to do things in other ways. So I bow in the dust for what my parents have gone through, created and shaped so that I will have better intentions than what they had. There is no doubt that I am grateful, and that this feeling surpasses everything else I feel. Time will tell what I can achieve in this role.
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