Internal Family War
A personal essay by Shan Qing Ru
This essay contains discussions of mental health challenges, including suicidal thoughts, self-criticism, and experiences of shame and internal conflict. It also touches on themes of emotional abuse, isolation, and the process of navigating trauma.
One day, many years ago, I stood at the metaphorical edge of a cliff—or, more accurately, the very real edge of my 14th-floor balcony—and gave some serious thought to jumping off. I couldn’t quite pinpoint what had brought me to this point. Maybe a flashback; maybe the memory of someone kindly suggesting I “go back to China” just the day before. But it didn’t seem to matter. All I knew was that, no matter how tightly I tried to control my life, nothing ever really changed.
Cue the voices. The first one, smooth and way too casual for the situation, whispered, “Go ahead. Do it. Nothing changes anyway.” It had a point. Then, in swooped the second voice—pragmatic and just a tad sarcastic: “Or, hear me out: we don’t?”
Exhausted by their relentless back-and-forth, my chest tightened and each breath got shallower. I pressed a hand to my chest, slid back into the living room, and abandoned the balcony to the cold, uncaring world. My heart pounded in my ears, dramatic as hell, like that of a first-year drama student auditioning for a part in a Shakespeare play. I collapsed onto the floor, staring at the most indifferent sky I’d ever seen. Blue, smug, and puffing out a single trail of chimney smoke as if to say, “What are you gonna do about it?”
After what felt like an eternity, but was probably closer to a commercial break, I calmed myself by watching the steam rise from the kettle, spiraling upward like it had all the time in the world. Instead of giving that balcony a second visit, I did something unexpected: I reached for my phone. A student worker had given me the number of a therapist, possibly out of pity after I’d burst into tears while asking where the poetry section was at the library. I figured, what the hell, I might as well give him a call.
Years of therapy later, I began to understand what was really going on that day. And, just so you know, it was not only the caffeine.
According to my therapist, who studied this guy named Richard Schwartz—he’s a family therapist who came up with something called Internal Family Systems—we all have an “internal family.” Each part of us, it turns out, is its own tiny person, complete with a full set of opinions, questionable fashion choices, and different ages. They all have their quirks, like characters in a sitcom we did not really cast but now have to live with. And, guess what, they do not always get along. Schwartz calls this the “multiplicity paradigm,” which sounds fancy until we realize it’s just a rebranding of “internal chaos.”
I am still wrapping my head around how to share all this, but let me introduce the cast of my internal family: the Child, the Angry One, the Critical One, the Teen, the Depressed One, the Suicidal One, the Rational One, the Adult, the Elder, and, drumroll please, the True Self. That’s right, there are ten of them. You’d think I’d qualify for some kind of bulk discount on therapy by now.
According to Schwartz, when our internal family members aren’t communicating, you tend to “leave” yourself. And we “leave” by scrolling endlessly through social medias, eating an alarming amount of chips, binge-shopping for things we don’t need, or dating people we should absolutely not be dating. It’s like we’ll do anything to turn the volume down on our internal chaos. The problem is numbing does not fix anything. The issues sit there, smug as weeds in the cracks of a sidewalk, while we drift further from ourselves. The war rages on.
In the early days of therapy, my internal family tried to talk to each other. And by “talk,” I mean they screamed over one another like they were auditioning for the Shans’ edition of The Kardashians. It felt like too many personalities stuffed into one body. Like a never-ending Chinese New Year dinner where everyone’s elbowing each other for space and passive-aggressive opinions are the main course. My chest felt too tight to contain them all, and none of these personalities seemed to get the memo that guests are supposed to know when to leave.
At some point, when the tension got unbearable, words seemed entirely optional. Everyone stood up from their seats, grabbed their shinai—and turned on each other extras in a low-budget samurai film and taking swings at each other’s head, waist, and hand. Total chaos. Imagine the Five of Wands tarot card, but with less mystical insight and way more personal drama. The Critical One always seemed to win, wielding a shinai named Shame and swinging it around like a pro.
When the Shame voice got louder, I did not just mentally check out—I physically left. At twenty, I moved. Beijing to Vancouver. Vancouver to Toronto. I job-hopped like I was starring in my own travel show called “How to Outrun Your Feelings.” I drank sake like it was water and developed an unhealthy obsession with food—not just eating it, but watching other people eat it. My mind became a stew of existential dread and episodes of What Did You Eat Yesterday? And when food failed to comfort me, there was always the balcony.
“But leaving isn’t a bad thing!” I cried to my therapist, when he gently pointed out that I had a bit of a running habit.
I thought I was being mature. I was taking care of the Child by escaping bad situations, right? No one else had helped me get out of abusive environments—not even my parents. They all told me to stay and endure.
“No one was there for me!” I shouted, probably louder than necessary.
I went on to give him an example: my old roommate Amanda blamed me—and my English and being Chinese—for pretty much everything. If I sneezed, she would find a way to make it my fault. Fast forward to her wedding, where she casually announced my mental health issues to her guests, like it was part of the reception’s entertainment.
So, I ran. Left the reception. Sprinted out of there with Shame hot on my heels. Got to my car, and—because the universe has a twisted sense of humor—got hit by another car in the parking lot.
“Maybe getting hit by a car was punishment for running away,” I told my therapist, trying to sound deep. “Punishment because I could not stop the internal family war; I could not stop the shame.”
I tried to unpack it more with him, but the words would not come. I knew it wasn’t about my English, despite what Amanda had said. There was something deeper, yet all I could manage was, “I don’t know what I did to deserve that. What have I done wrong?”
Then, in what I thought was a moment of wisdom, I asked, “Does blaming people help with healing? Like Amanda? Like, you know, she’s doing great! She is…”
“No,” my therapist interrupted. Usually a pretty zen guy, he looked at me like I’d just suggested jumping into a shark tank for a self-esteem boost. “Blaming someone else—whether it’s Amanda or yourself—is not going to heal you,” he said, with a little more emphasis than usual.
Then he said, “The reason you’re still looking for why you were treated that way is because the Rational One—your internal detective—keeps searching for what you did wrong. She’s helping the Critical One load up the Shame cannon. It’s a protection system you developed as a kid.”
I didn’t want to believe that I’d been fueling the Critical One. But it made sense. I would piece together the Critical One from every person who had ever hurt me, and now it ran the show. Its motto? “Shame is the best policy.” I grew up being told by my caretaker that criticism was love, so I internalized it. If I could control every aspect of myself, my behaviors—maybe, just maybe—the mistreatment would stop.
Then my therapist hit me with a revelation that felt both gentle and like a sucker punch: “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
He looked into my seemingly grieving, child-like, rent-paying, and judgemental eyes and said, “If running away from shame and blaming is not the solution, I am sure you know the answer by now.”
Weeks turned into months, and months turned into years. I reminded myself of my therapist’s words every time Shame tried to knock on my door. I did the work. I learned and unlearned each my internal family members. I stopped pretending the Critical One had all the answers. Whether or not all family members agreed that love was the solution, they had to accept one thing: shame and self-hate were not. We did something radical: we started parenting ourselves. Every time the Angry One or Critical One got too loud, the rest of the family would step in.
“Thanks for your service, we appreciate it,” they would say. “But we choose love over fear.”
Love grew flesh and bones. It filled the spaces inside me that I hadn’t even known were empty. Slowly, there was room for each part of the internal family to breathe. No more shouting matches, no more battle stations.
Instead of chaos, we’d all just sit. It felt ike a corporate meeting where the agenda is how to create a good, loving experience. No shinai, no armor. Just pauses, knowing nods, and maybe even a little awkward silence. Occasionally, someone tries to stir the pot, but even they can’t deny the room is quieter now. Lighter. The war had stopped. And these little acts of self-love allowed the True Self to grow. For the first time, she had a seat at the table.
I like the True Self. She’s calm, dryly funny, and knows exactly when to say no, how to say yes, how to give, and what to take. She is the kind of person you would want to have her in your life. Which, in fact, I’ve started doing. Dating myself. (But that’s a whole other essay.)
Maybe, one day, we will even throw a wedding reception for the True Self and me. Not a casual “Let’s hang out more” but an actual commitment. Full vows, rings, the whole shebang. Naturally, my internal family thinks this deserves a proper celebration.
Picture it: the whole gang gathered around the table—not like Amanda’s wedding, but a perfect one. Roses everywhere, champagne flowing, the kind of reception where people actually talk about the speeches. The Adult makes a toast. The Child eyes the dessert. The Elder, a little tipsy, raises her glass with a dramatic sigh like she’s seen it all. And even the Critical One, for once, stays quiet—though I’m pretty sure she is judging the flower arrangement.
And then, the True Self raises her glass, gives me that look, and—finally—I toast her back, announcing, “Welcome to the family!”
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