ii. a letter to my future self

Hi readers! Since most of you were delighted by my previous “letter to my future self,” I thought why not post another one? This post actually predates the last one (I know I know I know I know, I suck.) But this one was salvaged from my old bedroom in Bangkok, and I believe it was written during the spring break of my senior year in high school.

Also, I’ll have you know that I am thoroughly embarrassed by these posts. Writing used to be something that helped me express myself in a way that I wanted people to see me, i.e. mysterious, cool. Alas my writing has its limitations and I can only be fake cool for so long. Yes, I surrender to the cool gods. You guys win. Revel in it.

Anyway, welcome to my mind. It’s a fun place.

10 March 2017

Dear me,

How are you? I hope people are still asking you that. You’re probably in college and you’re back for break…? As of now, I don’t know where I want to go yet, but no matter where you chose, it was a good choice. If not, nothing’s permanent! Hey, transferring is always an option. I hope that you are happy and you are safe. Knowing you (AKA myself), I know that you are unafraid to throw yourself out there to experience all the possibilities of life. But please be careful because there are people out there who love you. Dad, mom, Nina, Sara – even little grandma. Are you still writing? I sure hope you are because words are so so powerful (but you know that). Please don’t forget to push a little harder. Things sometimes don’t work out, but you KNOW that you can do this. I hope that you are where you want to be.

Remember: if you don’t like something, change it. And if you can’t change it, accept it. Be honest. Especially to yourself. All wounds heal. And you’re never ever alone. I hope you go home each night to a warm bed and maybe someone’s arms – and safe. You are important. And you are loved. Take care of yourself.

Love,

Me at 17 xx

Post-letter thoughts (present day)

Should I respond to these letters? I feel rude. Even if it is to myself. Is this stupid? Am I crazy? Please let me know if I should respond to my past self. Thanks for reading!

this is what love feels like

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Don’t. Don’t burn those pictures.

Don’t throw away the precious memories you had- the moments filled with pure innocence and happiness. They’re wrong. You don’t have to forget to move on. Take those polaroid pictures out at 2 AM. Remember. Remember the way his lips felt, the tone of his voice, the softness of his warm brown eyes. Remember his gentle touch- his hands in your hair, his arms wrapped around your waist. Let your eyes well up at the thought of the moments that you cannot get back. This is what love feels like.

Love. This single word seems to be what defines our existence. Such a simple four-lettered word- how can it elicit so many feelings from each of us?

What do you think of when you think of love?

Do you think of rainy days spent curled on a cozy couch with him holding you? All the deep conversations that lasted till the AM? Laying down next to her, legs tangled, talking about where you wanted to live together? Do you remember how you felt, when she pressed her lips against your forehead? Do you remember how fast your heart was racing when you first kissed? Remember how nervous you were before you took off your clothes for the first time? He made you feel beautiful and safe. Do you remember her breath on your cheeks as she fell asleep next to you? You wished that moment could last forever.

Love is blinding. Love is passionate. Love is safe. Love is when you feel like you’re finally home. But love is also sorrow. It is heartbreak. It tears you apart. Love makes you sit waiting at 3 AM wondering when he will come home. Or if he will ever call. Love is broken promises. Love is tear-stained sleeves, empty mailboxes and lonely nights. Love tastes like cigarettes and mistakes. Love is crying yourself to sleep every night because the empty space on your bed matches your empty heart. But love makes you feel.

From the best of feelings to the worst, here are 37 statements from anonymous individuals (submitted both online and quoted in person) of all ages and their take on love.

1. “Duty to perform to yourself and to others with selflessness and with care.” – 10

2. “Love sucks.” – 17

3. “Love is innocence.” – 17

4. “Love isn’t how far you get, but how many obstacles you had to overcome to be where you are.” – 17

5. “Apparently, it’s the mind that falls in love and not the heart.” – 17

6. “When he scores a 4/5 on the list of things-I-don’t-want-my-boyfriend-to-be, but he’s still my ideal one.” – 17

7. “Love is an idea that we as humans should spread around the world, especially with all the violence going on, we forget simple things such as to love one another.” – 18

8. “The vision of imperfection being perfect, disregarding the flaws, no matter how bad they can be.” – 18

9. “It’s like when you look at them you feel like someone is physically gripping your heart. They have all the power over you. In a way it kind of hurts but in the best way it ever could.” – 18

10. “Love is patient, love is kind.” – 18

11. “Love is when someone chooses us over everyone else- under any circumstance” – 18

12. “Love is love is love.” – 18

13. “Love is subjective and overused, people mistreat it, abuse it, and fool around with it like some jiggly water balloon.” – 18

14. “Something that feels like home, gives you endless highs, but is the closest thing to death.” – 19

15. “Love is all about fucking.” – 19

16. “I don’t know what love is.” – 19

17. “Give and take.” – 19

18. “Unconditional.” – 19

19. “Not worth it.” – 19

20. “An overrated, intangible misconception that people still continuously search for.” – 19

21. “Love is letting him do it in the butt.” – 19

22. “Suffering for someone.” – 19

23. “Knowing that you can rely on this person more than you can rely on yourself.” -19

24. “A best friend.” – 19

25. “Love is not real.” – 20

26. “Loving you even after I saw your flaws.” – 20

27. “Love, easily, is pure honesty- with yourself and others. More importantly, love is psychosomatic, but that’s okay. After all, aren’t we allowed to make things up? – 21

28. “Fake, people settling for the best they can.” – 21

29. “Enhanced dopamine, overload of serotonin, and a fuckload of adrenaline.” – 21

30. “Socially constructed.” – 22

31. “Love is an unexplainable happiness that is experienced by someone and has no limit. It is unparalleled to any other feeling.” – 22

32. “What do the kids say these days? Swipe right? Or left?” – 41

33. “Love is like a candle, bright but full of tears.” – 43

34. “Love is selfless. When you love someone, you just want to love them, no need for them to return your love” – 45

35. “Never-ending.” – 46

36. “Loving something or someone else more than you love yourself.” – 47

37. “Love can be anything- seeing another person who means the world to you through how you perceive each other. Deep emotions.” – 70

After receiving all these answers, I still don’t have a definition for love.

But what I do know, is that love is everywhere. Love is when you spare a dollar for the homeless man who always sits by the corner store. Or when you hold the door open for someone. Love is when my roommate turns off the lights and pulls the covers on me when I accidentally fall asleep. Love is when my best friend shows up with a box of donuts. Love is when my little sister draws pictures of me. Love is “text me when you get back safely,” and “you’re such an idiot.” Love is losing yourself in someone like they are the ocean and you are desperate to drown.

— originally posted on The Odyssey Online

things i’m scared of

I’m scared of ghosts that make lights flicker and floorboards that creak. I’m scared of failing to make my parents proud of me. I’m scared of running out of time. That no matter what I do, it won’t be enough because I will never be enough. I’m scared that people won’t like me because I’m not interesting enough. I’m scared of spiders. Big, hairy spiders. I’m scared that no one will ever truly understand how I’m feeling because I don’t say anything. I’m scared that no one will try to know me. I’m scared of all the ~~boys~~ men on the streets when I walk home alone at 2AM. I’m scared that as the years go by, I’m losing more and more of myself and eventually I will have nothing left. I’m scared of how deep I can sink. I’m scared of all the relapses and setbacks that will inevitably happen. I’m scared of dying. I don’t know where I will go. I’m scared of childbirth. I’m scared of the disappointment I feel when I wake up in the morning and realize that I am still alive. I’m scared of how well I can fake a smile to make people believe that I am okay. I’m scared of how much people do not know about me. I am scared of falling in love because of all the boys who have used me and ripped me up into teeny tiny pieces. I’m scared that people will leave me. Even though it’s happened a thousand times over and over. I’m scared that I will never be able to love anyone. I’m scared that no one will ever love me. I’m scared I’m scared I’m scared of myself and what I am capable of doing.

simple truths

adulting me It’s hard to tell the truth. But here’s my version. Within each statement is a simple truth, just how I feel. If you think that this is how I’m projecting my relapse – you couldn’t be more wrong. I would have never posted this a year ago, or hell, even a month ago. I don’t think I could’ve even gotten myself to write this. I know these aren’t great sunshiny feelings but they’re my feelings and I’m working on them. This isn’t a call for help. I’m proud of myself, and I’m proud of how far I’ve come. I can’t believe I’m including a picture of myself in this. I hate having my picture taken but I think it’s important for me to realize that I am a part of others’ memories and that they actually love me. Thank you for being a part of my journey, I wouldn’t be here without everyone’s love and support.

Here are my truths.

I am nineteen.

I have accomplished nothing.

I like writing.

But I am not good at it.

I have had my heart broken twice.

I’m scared to fall in love again.

I don’t like it when strangers look at me.

I think they’re mentally stripping me.

I’ve been taking sleeping pills every night for the past month.

Because when it gets too late at night, I want to hurt myself.

I miss my father a lot.

But I still remember the belt he used to strike me with.

I love reading.

I need to escape. I need to forget.

I paint my nails often.

Because if I look put together, no one can tell that I’m falling apart.

I like getting sick.

Because having the flu is a better excuse for me to stay in bed than depression.

I have recurring nightmares of drowning.

I’m scared of the disappointment I feel when I wake up.

I’m always sunshine and rainbows.

Because if I’m not, no one will like me.

I don’t like it when people tell me to shut up.

It’s taken me a while to find my voice.

I intend to keep it.

a previous life

The bustling city of Bangkok was busier than I remembered. Amidst the tightly packed cars like sardines in a can, the distant grey heads rushed around, enshrouded by the airy fumes. Skyscrapers and company buildings littered the streets – a permanent shadow that followed me everywhere.

This used to be a place I once called home, but now, I am nameless. faceless. Lost in a sea of conformity. I am disgusted by the society. And I am disgusted by my self and my inability to escape the relentless cycles of power, politicians, and prejudice.

The car rolled into the suburb, uniform houses stood next to each other— the ones with a small porch and a garage. We drove past the empty playground. The once green grass lay overgrown and deserted, the swings creaked softly at the departing wind. I noticed the peeling paint off of the merry-go-round as we drove past the barren land.

I remembered spinning round and round, peals of laughter in the air. Giggling with my sister as we rolled around on the grass. I can’t remember the last time we talked.

My head snapped back into the moment as she asked casually, “so how have you been?” — as if she knew me—as if she cared while I was away this whole time.

“I’m fine. And you?” I reply automatically.

If I’ve learned anything at all, it is that, people ask you questions, not because they care for the answer, but because they don’t have anything else to say. This isn’t true for everyone of course, but it will always be true for my mother.

An awkward pause. A horn blares from the opposite side of the road, filling the empty silence.

“Fine.”

I looked out the window, wishing I was anywhere else but there.

“So, Psychology, huh?” she looked proud, as if knowing what major I was in meant that she was involved in my life.

“Actually, I switched to Journalism six months ago.”

“Journalism? That’s great.” she chirped.

I could see her crinkle her nose in disdain through the side view mirror.

My old bedroom looked smaller than I remembered. A bed. A dresser. A desk. My eyes shifted from the small twin sized bed to the tired table. I pulled out the chair which groaned against the ashy hardwood floor. Old books and novels lined the shelves— a thousand lives I wish I’d lived.

I smiled fondly at memories of old detective novels and reminded myself of the light in my eyes that could never be put out. I was ferocious and determined to take on the world. I wonder what happened to that little girl.

The oblique golden rays shone on the stained cardboard boxes, the fine coating of dust marking the years it has been left behind. A gentle gust of wind drifted through the creaky window, as the thin white curtains danced against the soft light.

There was an element of something almost magical at the untouched pale-pink walls. Plastered with polaroids of family trips and middle school dances, I almost didn’t remember the thrill of being asked to the first dance. Almost.

I don’t feel anything anymore. There is no thrill. There are no emotions. One word text messages, leftover Chinese takeout, and quick fucks. This is the new norm. The scary thing, I think, is that I’m starting to get used to it.

Scratches on the pale walls made by the end of metallic rulers. Names of crushes, dates of first kisses. Tally marks of days spent alone and nights spent lonely.

I sigh.

It’s not that much different now. Except, I no longer feel whirlwinds of emotions. My heart never skips a beat. There are never butterflies in my stomach. The empty pit beneath my chest is still there though.

I am reminded of all the times spent in the corner of my bed- curled up and alone. All the times spent looking up at the artificial fluorescent glow, wondering when it would all get better.

It doesn’t.

I breathe in deeply.
Late night conversations on the phone and tears that ended up with scars not on the walls.

There are no more conversations. There are no more tears. All that’s left are fading scars and a numbness that never goes away.

The fluffy white blanket gave the illusion of being comfortable and safe but its frayed hems said otherwise.

I wonder what parts of me I have left.

Opposite of the bed stood my vanity. The polished structure that once stood strong now wilted. Staring defeatedly at me, as if asking me why I abandoned it. The mirror hung, lone and depressed. But wiped clean, without any fingerprints or marks or trace of life.

Stupid, stupid table. Of course I’m going to abandon you. Stupid piece of shit. Reminding me of my shit life.

I stared back at myself.

— Who am I?

solid ground

Apr 5, 2018 – 10:34PM

Skinny Love – Birdy

I’ve been feeling out of sorts lately, like something is wrong but not quite enough for me to say I’m depressed, because I’m not, trust me. I’m not depressed. But something is a little off. And I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like an empty shell, moving about day to day without really paying attention to what’s going on. I feel almost guilty for feeling dissatisfied with my life.

There’s this sense of familiarity with everything I do – wake up, go to class, go to the gym (sometimes), Netflix, homework (sometimes), and sleep. Oh, and all the meals (and things with friends) in between that. This pretty much is my every day routine. It’s not a terrible one, right? I mean, I think it’s pretty well-rounded.

But one day, as I was standing in the shower watching the warm droplets glide down my arms and stomach, I was struck with this sensation. Like something was wrong. I still don’t know how to describe it. It was almost a reminder – a slap in the face, perhaps, mocking me for how hard I’m always trying. No matter how many extracurricular activities I surround myself with, I’m always filled with this almost-guilt – what if it isn’t enough?

I feel like it’s middle school again, it’s the first day of school, and I’m surrounded by a sea of strangers. I feel like it’s the first time I’m about to fly thousands of miles alone to a foreign country. I feel like it’s the first time I’m leaving home, but I’m not. I feel like it is the first time having sex and I’m scared and nervous. I feel sick to my stomach all the time. I’m watching the world go by in slow motion yet time is passing so quickly – there aren’t enough hours in a day. I feel stuck. Guilty? Lonely. Unmotivated. Confused. Uncomfortable. Unsettled. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost. Lost.

My only two rules in life are to be kind and to do things out of love. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of this feeling of almost-guilt, this vulnerability – I will never be able to erase how lost I feel. And I’m scared. That even now, at 18, everything seems to be so in place, yet I feel like the world will swallow me whole at any given moment.

I am looking for solid ground. I can’t find it. Will I be feeling this way when I’m 28? 40? Lost. I am so lost.

just a crayon

My fault.

It’s always my fault. This phrase has been ingrained in my mind ever since the third grade. I had borrowed my friend’s favorite green crayon and lost it. We both lost something that day. I lost a friend, and she lost a crayon. I cried and pleaded with her to stop being angry with me. I even ran to the store to get her a new one (for $1.75). She eventually forgave me after that, but things were never the same since then.

Everybody leaves. It’s inevitable, really. I know that by now. And with every passing person that discards me, it gets a little easier. It hurts a little less.

I have lost so many best friends over the past eighteen years of my life. I have lost so many friends I used to call family. But I suppose, if I’ve lost them, then maybe they weren’t family after all.

Maybe it was me, maybe it was them – maybe it was a number of factors that I could have never understood or the timing “just wasn’t right.” I know that a lot of times people make decisions, it is based on them – it isn’t really about me at all. But what if it is about me? What if I said too many things – too many stupid things that I couldn’t take back?

Sometimes I wonder if people can be addicted to being alone. It’s easy, you know? To live life so unafraid of what other people think because no matter what they say, they don’t truly know you. But here’s the truth. I am afraid. I am so afraid that I am the reason that people leave. That all my failed relationships and friendships have been snuffed out because of me.

What if it is my fault? What if this whole time I’ve been trying to blame external factors when it just simply is my fault? Then what? Tell me, dear readers, because I am stuck. Tell me what I can do, what I can say to make everything better because this time, I don’t think it’s going to be just a crayon that I am losing.

march 11

I haven’t been fair. Not to the world. Not to myself. When I started this blog, I wanted to try something I’ve always wanted to do – I wanted to be honest. And I have been. Sort of. It’s not that I’ve lied. Because I haven’t. It’s more like I haven’t been saying everything that’s been going on in my mind. And there is a lot. I don’t know where to start. So here goes nothing.

I am currently sitting in a small plane flying from LAX to Logan. Dena is sitting at 14A and I am nineteen rows behind her. And I feel so small. I am sitting between two passengers – my least favorite spot. I cannot look out the window and pretend that am a part of the sky. I cannot leave quickly because I am not sitting by the aisle. Instead, I am stuck. All I can see are the cabins and heads of other passengers who I do not know in the dimly lit plane. I don’t mean that I feel small because I’m sandwiched between two passengers. I feel small because I am unnoticed. To everyone, I am not the girl who is thinking about how the plane can plummet at any second. I am not the girl who is thinking about what she will be leaving behind if she dies. What people will think of her, what they will remember when she is gone. No, I am just the girl, frantically typing away at the keyboard, trying to get her thoughts out faster than spilled water. I am the girl, sitting at 33B, whose face is lit up by the fluorescent screen in front of her. The girl whose life is unraveling and unwinding a dropped ball of yarn and all she can do is stare as it tumbles down and down – untangling all the hard work she’s done.

I feel small because I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Yes, I am supposed to go to school, do work, get rest, and repeat everything. But it just gets so pointless sometimes. Some days I wake up with such a rage – I want to change the world – no, fix it. I want to fix the world and rid it from all the madness and injustice. I am angry about Parkland. I am angry for the Dreamers. I am angry. Those days are the days I wake up and work hard in hopes that I will be able to save these people – these children, one day. But why is it that when I have “glory days” I must have the opposite? Some days I cannot get out of bed to even go downstairs. I feel so unmotivated sometimes. I think I need to find a reason to wake up.

But until then, what am I going to do? I am stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.

— I want to be honest but it is so hard when the world is so cruel

fifteen

When I was fifteen, I received a large, black tote bag from my mother. To start the school year off with something new, she said. I was no longer using my old bright pink colored backpack. A person’s bag says a lot about them, my mom said. During the first weeks, I kept it clean. There was a pouch in front where I would keep my essentials— my phone, my keys, and a tube of lip gloss. That didn’t last very long.

Crumpled homework and test papers littered the bottom of the bag, along with receipts from Starbucks runs and blue peppermint gum wrappers. Tangled earphones and torn sheet music also made the pile. Lost hairbands camouflaged with the black of the bag.

The sun had started to dry out the corners of the bag, making it fade to a warm colored brown. Everything in the bag was cluttered and jumbled up from the time I frantically searched for my math homework— which I found lying next to an English assignment from the week before and a pregnancy testing kit.

The leather handles had little crescent moons in it from the time I walked past him with his tongue inside another girl’s mouth. Digging my fingers into the leather was the only thing that kept me from crying out loud. It did not, however, stop me from trying to split my veins open like the stitches and seams that were falling apart. I was falling apart.

When I was fifteen, my mother told me to grow up. She told me to stop crying, to stop running to her. Smart girls are strong girls, she said. Smart girls are pretty girls with long, straight hair that will make boys fall in love with them. Strong girls are skinny girls with legs for days and arms that need to be embraced. Hands that need to be held. I listened.

When I was fifteen, I learned that my mother will not – could not be there for me. Because she was “raised that way.” When I was fifteen, I learned that no one will love me enough. No one could possibly love me enough if my own mother could not even try.

I asked my mother, what do I do about this boy? She said, put on a pair of heels, a short skirt, don’t forget the makeup too. Make him love you.

But mother, I said in my mind, you don’t even love me.

So, this time, I didn’t listen.

I learned to grow and to cry on my own. And with time, I found hope. I don’t need anyone to love me. I love myself. With every setback, every heartbreak, every rejection and failure. I repeated this louder and louder. My ex-boyfriend called me fat. I love myself. The girls at school called me a slut today. I love myself. My mother thinks I’m worthless. I LOVE MYSELF. I LOVE MYSELF. I LOVE MYSELF.

Yes, there have been relapses – many (that’s the thing with depression, I guess). My mom and I have a good relationship now. But I will never ever tell her the things that matter to me. My hopes, dreams, or fears.

She will never know that I played soccer in high school. She will never know how many times a week I see my psychiatrist. She will never know what I had for lunch today, or the day after that, or the day after that. She will never know that there are still four- no, five visible scars from the time I tried to feel – anything (because hurting meant that I was still alive). She will never know how much she hurt me. She will never know how much I loved her.

She did teach me some valuable lessons, though. Like how to walk in heels, how to properly hold a teacup, and how to curl my hair. But she also taught me to be kind, to have an open heart and open mind. She taught me that I should always, always put my daughter first.

So, dear daughter, if you are reading this one day, I love you. For who you are, and who you will become – wholly, and completely, I love you. I promise to teach you all the things my mother taught me (how to curl your hair, how to put on heels). I promise to teach you what life taught me – that no matter how terrible things become, there is always a silver lining. I promise to never restrict your creativity and capacity for imagination. I promise you can eat anything you want. I promise that you can carry any colored backpack.

I promise that I will try my best to protect you from the world and all the terrible things in it, but when the world hurts you (because it will), I promise to be there with you every step of the way. To hold you and hug you and make sure that you’re okay (even though you are equally as strong without me). I promise, you will be loved.

— I promise that I will never become my mother