Tag: message

simple truths

adulting meIt’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.

not the america we dreamed

Dear America,

times are changing

so listen closely

to the voices remaining.

 

The voices that shout and cry and scream,

“this is not the America we dreamed.”

 

Can’t you see the scarlet ground?

The bones and bags of bodies they found?

 

They say guns will save us from guns,

that this is the only way to go.

But Donald Trump and Wayne LaPierre,

our answer will always be no.

 

Stop selling those guns and take a look –

more than 1600 shootings since Sandy Hook.

 

“Never a right time to talk about gun policy”?

I really must say this with total honesty,

we’re tired of waiting to hear your lies.

“Thoughts and prayers” won’t bring back their lives.

 

So, what are you waiting for, America?

the time is now, God save Florida.

 

God save us all, for when I get older,

I want a daughter who will not look over

her shoulders every time she hears a bang

or fear death in the air that will hang

 

Or worse, if she comes home to say,

“mama, there was another one today”

 

But what can I tell her?

I don’t want to lie.

God, I sound like the politicians

who condemned us all to die

 

So, my dear sweet daughter,

the answer is clear

if we cannot fix this manslaughter,

you will not be here

 

I’m sorry if this has come to be true

but this life, was not one I dreamt of for you.

 

 

This was a poem I wrote after the terrible school shooting at Parkland, Florida. My thoughts go out to all the families and everyone affected. As part of the new generation, I promise I will stand up and speak out until there is change. I read this poem aloud at the student organized rally at Boston University – I’d like to thank everyone for being there and for supporting one another. I am incredibly saddened that this is how everyone got together but I am also extremely amazed at all the compassion shown at the rally and on school campus. I am so proud to be standing up, side-by-side with my peers at Boston University, and I hope that I will be seeing everyone on March 24, 2018 for the National Walkout.

 

Thank you so much for reading this post, please message me or comment if you are going through something or if you just want to talk. My contact page is always open. 

 

Love wins.

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