liquid guilt

I’m supposed to be reading psychology articles for my discussion. I talk about that a lot. Not my social psychology class, but what I’m “supposed” to be doing. I say that so many times in my blog, in a day, in general.

When I say I’m “not supposed to” drop classes or not write or have too much fun, Joe always tells me that there is no “supposed to.” And he’s right. I guess it’s just normal (where I’m from, anyway), for kids to go to school, then college for four years, then grad school. But here I am, abroad. Living with my boyfriend, with seven animals in our house, barely passing my one class… and maybe graduating in four years. Or four and a half.

Most of my day, if I’m not consumed by anxiety, I feel a guilt that runs so deep inside me I feel like I want to throw up. I’m in the states because I’m in college. But I’m barely a college student at all. I’m struggling so much but I can’t return to Bangkok because I won’t be able to get the mental health resources that I need.

I’m not doing what I’m “supposed” to do. But am I really supposed to be doing? Studying? Taking care of my mental health? Getting good grades? Pleasing my boyfriend? Getting an internship? Going out with my friends? What am I supposed to do? I wish there were a set structure that I can follow. But all I have are splattered feelings everywhere – messy, inconvenient.

I have a guilt that runs so deep in my veins it has become a part of me. I’m not sure how to get rid of it. But you know what the most fucked up part is?

I’m not sure I really want to.

she doesn’t like girls

she has honey colored hair.

and honey colored eyes.

i wonder,

does she taste like honey too?

i get drunk on her breath

her lips so close

i close my eyes and i wake up — disappointed

in reality.

she is so beautiful and kind.

but i don’t think she likes girls.

i’m too afraid to ask.

i hope she finds someone who makes her happy.

4/22

I couldn’t make myself get up today.

Or yesterday, or the day before. Even on my birthday (420 btw.)

But after nearly two hours of rolling around, trying to make myself comfortable, I dragged myself out of bed with only one thing on my mind: coffee.

So, here I am, at Newton Corner’s Starbucks, wishing that I’d brought my charger. Oh well. I haven’t written in a while so I thought I’d just sit down and let out whatever comes to mind. I’m not going to edit this. Because I want to come back to this post one day and read only honest things.

Everyone expects me to get better. I expect myself to get better. It’s just happening so slowly. I do feel different. I no longer wake up disappointed that I’m still breathing. I’d say that’s progress!

I guess I’m kind of disappointed that the process of healing is going slower than I thought it would. I don’t really know what to do.

It draws me in every morning. My bed. Which, sounds ridiculous, I know. But it’s true. I feel as if I am made out of white bedsheets, tucked in neatly under the mattress. I try to fight the urge to sink into the bed. Because once I stop fighting, it pulls me under and I drown. I drown all day and all night, trying to escape. But I just can’t.

There aren’t enough metaphors in the world to describe what depression feels like. It just feels awful. And I feel awful that I’m always writing about depression. But that’s the thing, you see. Depression takes over your life. You can’t escape it.

Sometimes, I forget that I’m depressed. When I’m watching a really funny tv show, laughing really hard with my friends, or when I’m high. But it always comes back. No matter how much I distract myself, at the end of the day, when I go to bed – it is still there.

I’ve had two coffees now, both tall, iced caramel macchiatos with extra shots of espresso. Joe’s here now. He rode the bus from school to here. Thank god for him. I had my charger this whole time and there was an outlet directly below my seat this WHOLE TIME!! (He pointed that out to me).

He’s bullet journaling right now (which has really helped me), but I forgot mine at home.

The other day, Joe and I were carrying boxes down to our storage unit in the basement. As he was opening the door, the boxes wobbled and I let out this mix of a yelp-scream because I didn’t want the box to fall. Joe said something along the lines of, “it’s okay if it falls, they’re just boxes of clothes. If it falls, we’ll just pick it up.” THIS MADE SO MUCH SENSE. It just didn’t occur to me at the time that this was actually no big deal at all.

So, why did my heart race so fast when I thought the box was about to fall? Anxiety, I guess. My to-be advisor said that I liked to be in control, for things to be exactly how I want them. And that couldn’t be more true.

I like being in control. No, I LOVE it. I never realized it could become a problem. I like knowing that my pens are aligned right next to my desk lamp. I like making sure that the bedsheets are tucked in and the pillows over the sheets. I like making sure that my titles are exactly one-third the space of my bullet journal. It’s always been this way.

I used to brush my hair 100 times. Fifty times on each side of my head. I was 10. I wanted to be pretty, I wanted to look like an adult. So, I had a set routine (like adults do, right?). I had to do homework right after school. I had to shower RIGHT BEFORE going to bed. And I always applied lotion on my skin so I would always be soft. I didn’t want to age badly. Whatever that means.

Anyway, as an adult, I don’t have a routine. I definitely do not put on lotion or brush my hair (Joe brushes my hair for me, bless him.) And I definitely do not do homework. I’ve concluded that the adult world is a mess that my 10 year old self did not see. But I also learned that it is okay. Because messes can always be cleaned up.

4/10

The world feels distant. Muted. Like I’m floating in a dream that isn’t really my own. I’m in a one-person game without a goal.

I’m forcing myself to write this blog post. To salvage whatever is left in me that I can find. I’ve been dropping classes and missing group projects. I’m on new medication, upped-dosage medication and I still don’t feel completely like myself. I hope I’m not destined to feel this way forever.

Destiny. A strange word, is it not? I don’t understand it. I’m not sure I believe in it. Perhaps it is my way of coping with the world – blaming “destiny” for my problems and situations that I’m in. Because if destiny isn’t set and fate isn’t real, then what? All my problems are because of me, and I’m stuck here where I am, because. of. me.

I feel like a failure in more ways than one. I can’t write, and I can barely read. Depression has affected my daily cognitive functions, leaving me impaired and hopeless. I blame depression for most of my problems, but what if it is just me who is incapable of performing normally? What if I’m just lazy? I ask myself this question all the time. Why don’t I want to do things? Be normal? Go out with my friends? Why do I feel so small? Why do I feel like the world is crushing me slowly? Like I’m drowning in the middle of the ocean while there is a huge storm going on at the same time? Who will find me in the storm when I can’t even find myself?

I have never been more lost. Every time I relapse, I say that. I have never been more lost. It keeps getting worse and worse, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I am a prisoner in my own mind.

quotes

“i like your toes because they’re cute and they’re yours” – joe

“fuck me in the ass because i love jesus” – dena

“i want an in-unit washer and dryer for my birthday” – me

“your record for getting through hard days is 100%” – jen

“you guys i had a dream that i snorted cocaine” – dena

“are you coffee beans cause you just got roasted” – kristen

“when you’re not sober, time moves in waves, like lasers. It’s like 2D versus 3D.” – me, stoned

“yeah, it’s like squares and then triangles. Or circles, then ovals.” – dena, stoned

“when we think we know but we don’t actually know, because when we know, we know.” – dena, stoned

“you are not a sir, you are a serf.” – kristen

“you are not a mister, you are a mistake.” – kristen

“as springtime approaches, crushing suicidal thoughts give way to more light hearted and carefree suicidal thoughts.” – ken m (@horseysurpeise on Twitter)

“I won’t be in class today due to unexpected mental breakdowns… I guess I deserve a 0 for not being able to handle my own depression.” – me in an email to my professor

“What if I show up [to an exam] and tell him I wanna die lol” “he’d have you committed” – me and kristen

“It’s like you came out of the screen and stabbed me in the heart and it hurt. But in a good way.” – me, about kristen

“Dnee… I have arthritis” “oh my god we need to tell them” “no dude… I don’t have arthritis” – me and Dena’s sense of humor

“If you can’t love a man, think like one. That’s the formula.” – Dena

gratitude

I don’t know what it is with me lately. One moment I’m completely fine — happy, even. Another moment, I feel as if my whole world has been torn apart. I have been getting this strange feeling of, not quite an uncertainty, but an almost-uncertainty. I don’t know how to put it in words.

I feel like a stranger in my own body. Like I’m in a room full of people and it’s the first day of school again and no one looks familiar. Sometimes, when I lie awake at night, I feel so lost. When warm arms hold me close, I feel safe until the thoughts start creeping in. Then, I feel lonely. Empty. Lost. I realize that everything is temporary. This blanket of safety and security is temporary.

This is not meant to be a sad post. Just one of acceptance. Maybe things don’t get better. Maybe I’ll feel this way the rest of my life – a life that I am incredibly grateful to have had.

My life is full of tickles and laughs. Kisses and cuddles. Purrs and piles of clothes. But it also full of uncertainty. Of fear and anxiety. Of sadness and loneliness.

When I journal or blog, I only write about my negative emotions. But I think I’m going to try writing about being happy. I don’t know if I can do it, but I want to. As much as I’ve accepted the way things are, somehow, there’s still a tiny sliver of hope left in me that things actually might get better.

Yes, things are shittier now than they have been when I was 16. Things are messier and more complex. But in a way, I have never felt more whole. I guess it’s all part of becoming an adult.

I want to be better. I want to love life all the time. I want to be happy. So, I am going to actively try to appreciate and love life.

Here are the people who make me smile – the people who make me feel a little less uncertain about where I’m supposed to be.

I’m grateful for Dena. She always manages to pull me out of my never-ending dark hole of a mind. I’m thankful that she understands me and supports me no matter what.

I’m grateful for Sabti and his energy and positivity. He reminds me of what it is like to live life again. I’m grateful for all my friends – Dena, Sabti, Kristen, Bennett – and I love them for always sticking up for me and caring about me.

I’m grateful for Joe and his unwavering support, even in trying times. I’m grateful that he wakes me up every morning, makes me food, and I’m thankful for how patient he’s been with me. Even though honestly, I’ve been a total bitch these days (so sorry, baby).

I’m grateful for all the love that he gives – to me and the cats. For his open-mindedness and hope for the future. He always says, “it’s all going to be okay.” And I believe him.

Thank you for reading! Let me know how you try to stay positive in the comments section.

broken-glass words

when you are frustrated irritated impatient

i am complacent

i close my eyes, and spiral down

watching the circles get bluer and bluer and finally turn black

sharp teeth in the dark grip me and i’m used to it

but it still hurts when i choke on my words

drowning coughing gurgling up mangled words

that i want to spit out but i’m scared

because they’re not real words

not real to you or in a way you can understand

you say: give me real words i don’t understand you i’m frustrated by you give me real words real words real words

but what you mean is: your words are not real and your feelings are not real and you. are. not. real. so stop pretending like you are.

so, i choke on my sliced-up words and i drown

i think it is you, who makes me feel like i am not enough

but it is me

i am swallowing my own broken-glass words

and then i wonder why i can’t use my voice

decrescendo

slow down

my eyes are blurry

lightyears behind

don’t touch the moonlight with your bare fingers

you’ll get hurt

i’ll do it for you – don’t worry – it doesn’t hurt me anymore

i’m used to it

stars no longer sear into my skin the way they used to

you’re supposed to protect me but

i think it’s you who needs protecting

the skies are so pretty but they hurt so much

i’ll make sure you get to see the clouds without pain

i won’t tell you how much it hurts

how much i let you hurt me

and you’ll see this too but you won’t understand

because these are all metaphors

naked truths

Hello. Sorry I haven’t posted in a while. Just not really sure what to say. I’ve been trying to figure out what to write and how to portray myself. Which, is strange, I know, because this is my own blog. I’m trying to be as transparent as possible; which, again, is for my own good. But I’m also afraid. How can I post online the things I’m too scared to admit out loud?

On this blog, I have introduced myself over and over again. Through my About Me page, various poems, articles — nothing seems to be enough. Why do I keep trying to define myself? I have so many answers but I crave more.

This post will be hard truths. Naked truths.

Thank you for reading.

I’ve started to bite my nails again because I’m anxious all the time.
It gives me something to do in the moment, but when I have a panic attack, I have nothing to cling on.
To clarify: I scratch myself sometimes or clench my fists really tight so my nails cut into my skin. The pain grounds me.
It’s not self-harm if I don’t bleed, right?
Describing anxiety is difficult.
I can’t breathe.
I feel trapped.
I’m tumbling down a neverending staircase.
It really fucking pisses me off when people pretend to understand or belittle what I’m feeling.
I wish I were prettier.
I feel invalidated.
I miss my dad.
Today, I had a panic attack in the bathroom but I didn’t tell anyone because they always respond with “I’m sorry,” and I can’t be fixed.
I wish my boyfriend liked Thai food. It’s the only part of Thai culture that still resonates with me. I don’t want to lose that.
I don’t want to feel anything anymore. Nothing nothing nothing.
Feelings: numbness, sadness, guilt, sleepy, tired, shaky, uncertain, unsteady, lonely, lost. Unsatisfied.
My therapist talks too much about herself.
I get urges to starve myself sometimes. So, if I’m weak, it will be because of a lack of food and not because I was up crying all night.
For someone who talks about dying a lot, I’m actually scared of death. Where do we go?
I don’t think that I will ever be enough.
I don’t know why I make my own standards so high. I know that people love me. I know that they think I’m enough. Why do I still feel this way?
I really want to take sleeping pills but I sort of overdosed and the doctor said I can’t anymore. Also, I’m on my way to liver failure.
I want to love myself but I don’t know how.

nina

I don’t think I’m a good sister.

I never have been.

Sara turned 12 last November, and Nina is turning 17 in three days. Seven-teen. That’s crazy. My annoying baby sister. An adult. And I didn’t even get to see her change and grow into the woman that she is becoming.

I left home when I was 16. I thought I knew what I was doing. I really did. But it turns out, I didn’t. When I turned 17-18-19, I still thought I knew what I was doing or I knew that it was all going to make sense sometime soon. Now that I’m nearing 20, I realize that I don’t know anything at all.

When I first left, I often looked back at my time in Bangkok as something that I could leave behind. As if Bangkok was a phase I was meant to come out of. I didn’t fit in with anyone anyway. Other than the small number of real friends that I had, I truly could not care less about anyone else. Even my family. Which sounds terrible, I know. But I didn’t really acknowledge anyone’s existence until I was 14 (probably). Not in like, a really bad way, I just didn’t care about anything and assumed that no one would understand me. You know, typical angsty teenager stuff (that lasted way longer than it was supposed to).

I was raised on Scholastic books, Geronimo Stilton, Judy Blume, and Powerpuff Girls. I didn’t understand any of the Thai slang or references, nor did I care to. Many of my friends were raised more “international” too but they were able to integrate into Thai culture just fine.

I don’t know why I assumed my sister would be like the rest of them when we were raised the same way.

I was mean to her. Really, really mean to her. I ignored her all the time, I’d run away from her, lie to her, and hurt her. My mom always said that we should love one another because, in the end, all we have is each other. I think that this statement was the only good advice that my mother has ever given me.

Nina and I would have our fun every now and then but we would always fight. Not the usual sibling kind, I don’t think. I absolutely hated my sister. I don’t know why.

We’re really close now, because of all the family drama (and also because she’s mature and doesn’t want to steal my books), but mostly because we understand one another. I don’t think I really gave myself a chance to get to know her and see her as this amazing human being until sort of recently.

Now, I fondly look back on my time in Bangkok. All of my cherished memories of Thailand are because of her. All those years spent perfecting the art of hot chocolate when it rained (3 tablespoons of sugar, 1 1/2 cup of milk), trying to get the microphone to work when Dad wanted us to sing. All those hours spent learning how to bike and getting skinned knees. I always cried. Nina never did.

She was always the strong one. She always took the blame for every single terrible thing I did. For everything Sara did. Mom always blamed her, even if she wasn’t part of the situation at all. That’s part of being the middle child, I guess.

And that is why I am a bad sister. I should’ve said something. I should’ve stood up for her. I’m the big sister. I was supposed to protect her. I still am supposed to protect her.

I was never on her side. But she was always on mine.

She always believed in me. It was her that inspired me to keep writing. She’s always loved my stories. All the terrible horror stories, cliche stories, sappy YA stories… She’s supported me through it all. She always told me she loved me. Always got sad when I didn’t say it back.

She was the one who held my hand the first time I saved up money to get a diagnosis at the psychiatric ward. As we were leaving the psych wing, she stopped me. She didn’t say anything. She pulled me close and buried her head against my shoulder. She had to bend down because she was taller than me.

We were both crying silently. It was in that moment, that I realized how special our bond was and how I have been taking her for granted my whole life.

She’s turning 17 in three days. And I’m sitting here, almost 9000 miles away, wondering if it is too late for me to give her the love she deserves.

nothing but glass

There’s a spot right under my left cheek that stings when I cry. For some reason, more tears come out of my left eye. Some people don’t know which of their eyes cry more.

Not that it’s useful knowledge, but it is useful to know which side to lay on so no one can see you crying. For instance, I’ll lay on my left side with my left hand tucked underneath the pillow and my right hand on top of the pillow. So, if I start crying, my tears will roll right into the pillow.

Sometimes, I can feel a breakdown coming. You know, like how some people can tell it’s about to rain (how do they do that?) Anyway, those days that I do know, I won’t eat because crying always makes me want to throw up.

I’m fine. That’s what I’ve been telling myself. That’s what I’ve been telling everyone else. But I, in fact, am not fine. I’ve been pushing and pushing myself and I think I’m teetering over the edge. At this point, I’d welcome the fall with open arms. No more hurting.

I’ve never been suicidal. At least, not really. All I want to do is disappear. To stop hurting. When I say I want to give up, I don’t think I mean like, I want to kill myself. I mean. Maybe I would if I could. But I can’t. Why? Because I’m a coward. It’s that simple. I faint at the sight of blood. So we can cross off guns, knives, and like 12 more things, probably. My knees get shaky when an elevator goes up more than six levels. Womp, there goes that rooftop idea. (But I was never really considering that because, c’mon, think of the clean-up crew. God, what a terrible memory to have imprinted in your mind).

Honestly, I don’t think I care enough to actually go through with the aforementioned “acts.” I just don’t feel anything anymore. Fifty percent of the day I’m just tired and the other fifty, bored. I never feel anything in the moment anymore. My feelings are ugly, hairy spiders jammed into a small glass cage – just waiting waiting waiting for that teeny crack in the cage so that they can all come crawling out.

How do you tell someone you love that you want to die but you love them so much but you’re so sorry because they are so sweet and they love you so much but sometimes they just aren’t enough to keep you alive? How?

I am cracking.

— sorry this is such a shitty post it’s just that I don’t care anymore

?

There is so much I want to say. I’ve been struggling so much with schoolwork because I no longer care about what I’m learning. Don’t get me wrong, I love learning. But nothing interests me anymore. I want good grades because I know that GPA is forever and it’ll hurt me in the long run if I don’t try my best now. I just can’t bring myself to give another ounce of energy. Maybe it’s because I don’t care about myself?? Who knows?

I’ve been studying hard my whole life to get into college. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What am I working toward? I don’t really have a goal, I don’t think. I’m just so confused about everything. Why am I having a harder time than everyone else? This whole feeling lost thing has been something I’ve struggled with for so long. I’m supposed to get used to it – find people who feel the same way, do what I love, etc. etc., but it is still as scary now as the day I realized that I was utterly alone (I was 11.)

I want to succeed. I really do. I owe it to my parents. I owe it to myself. But I don’t know how to get there. I’m sorry this is such a shitty post, this blog is literally all that I have left (and I’m feeling really shitty so…)

I’m drowning. Ugh. I hate this so much. I just want to fall in love with life again. Help help help helphelphelphelp.

a letter to my body

Dear body,

Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for being strong even though I never really treated you well. I’m sorry for all the little accidents, like tripping and hurting you. Or burning you when I baked those Christmas cookies. Do you remember that? Of course, you do, you remember everything. But those were accidents and I know you forgave me for them. Sometimes I hurt you on purpose too. And you still forgave me. I’m so sorry for all the scars. For all the smoke and poison that I forced you to take. Sometimes, I just feel so trapped in my mind that I have to take it out on you. That was unfair of me and I shouldn’t have done it. I know that now. I’m sorry for all the shit I put into you – all the junk and sugar that you did not deserve. I’m sorry I starved you because of someone else’s words. You only wanted to be strong and protect me. I’m sorry for not seeing your worth. For looking in the mirror and thinking too fat or too ugly. I’m sorry I covered you up with makeup. I’m sorry I let other people touch you even though you didn’t want them to. I’m sorry for everything. I’ll try harder, I promise. You’ve taken care of me my whole life. Now, it’s my turn to take care of you.

Love,

not-nothing

I woke up at 8:30 when Joe left for class. I fell asleep right after he left. I’ve just been so tired lately. My alarm went off at 9. I snoozed it. When it rang again, I turned it off. I didn’t want to go to class. I should’ve just gone back to sleep. But I couldn’t. I stared at the ceiling for an hour. There are four small bumps near the light. The paint is a little faded in the corner. There’s a spot that looks like a small turd. I don’t know why I had to look up to describe the ceiling. I’ve memorized it by now. Joe has even caught me doing it a couple of times.

“What are you doing?” he’d ask.

“Nothing,” I’d respond.

Which wasn’t a lie. I was doing nothing. But it was also not nothing. I can’t really explain it. This not-nothing thing that I do all the time is kind of the only thing that I can do. I have a biology exam coming up (I skipped the lecture today), and ~~two~~ three assignments due for my journalism class. Every time I try to study or do research for my assignment, I’m filled with all this dread. I feel like something bad is going to happen. Which doesn’t make sense but I promise I’m trying my best to explain.

These past two months have been difficult. I never quite understood when people say they’ve reached their “breaking point” until now. I am cracking. With every person that I talk to, every assignment I submit, every distraction that I give myself – I am stretching stretching stretching parts of me and giving everyone pieces of me and I don’t know if I can get them back. Not-nothing is how I deal with the dread. Since I don’t know what will happen if I keep pushing myself, I might as well prepare for the end. Does that make sense? Probably not.

It doesn’t matter. I don’t have any more of me I can give. At least when I’m lying in bed and doing not-nothing, I can imagine the ground swallowing me whole. I can imagine me folding into myself until there is nothing left. It’s quite therapeutic, really. If I cannot control how much of me I’ve lost, perhaps I can control how I disappear.

I’m supposed to get better. I think. That’s what my psychiatrist said anyway. And in some ways I am. Just not enough. I feel awful. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. My thoughts are so loud. And I don’t know how many more not-nothings I can go through.

I know, I know that I am not alone. And I am so grateful but I feel like such a big disappointment. I don’t want to bring everyone down with all my emotional crap, you know?

Joe – I’m sorry for all the late nights. For always crying at something stupid and for always being an emotional mess. Thank you for holding me and loving me. I love you more than words can ever say.

Dena – I’m sorry I haven’t been a better friend. Thank you for always knowing what to say. Thank you for being my home in this strange, new world. I think you fixed me.

For the longest time, I thought that I needed a break from the world. That it was too loud. Too jarring. But I realize now that it isn’t the world that’s too loud. It’s me. And I need it to all stop.

I need me to stop.

d.

She was the type of girl you’d see from miles away.

Always sharply dressed and put together. She was cool. And stylish. And she would never look at you. At least that’s what you think.

She’s always laughing with her friends. An inside joke, probably.

In a sea of 350 students, all you can see is her.

You sigh and keep on staring. She notices you and her lips curve up, giving you a half-smile. She looked confused but not creeped out so that’s good.

After the lecture ends you want to say something to her. Anything.

You know she’s always the last one to leave, always forgetting her phone. Silly girl.

You smile fondly at the girl whose name you do not know. But you feel like you know her.

You stand by the door, lost in thought. Black boots approach you.

Could it be…? This is the moment you have been waiting for all semester.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey,” you reply.

She waits for you to respond and when you don’t, she looks away. She probably thinks you are dumb and you have no idea what to say next.

You have been imagining this moment a million times, maybe more. But your legs turn into jelly because her gaze is on you and you are so awkward and she is like sunshine.

The silence lingers on and your face turns red.

“Your shoes!” You blurt out.

“What?”

She cocks her head to the side, her brown eyes wide with confusion.

God, she is so beautiful.

“Your shoes- they’re nice,” you stammer.

“Oh, um. Thanks,” she smiles and looks down at her feet.

A lock of her dark hair falls onto her face and it takes everything out of you to not tuck her soft curl back behind her ear.

“I’m late for my next class,” she says.

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you around.”

She smiles at you again and walks out the door.

You leave in opposite directions.

When you hear her footsteps getting fainter and fainter, you turn around to catch a glimpse of her one last time.

Your heart skips a beat when you see that she is already looking at you.

— for Dena, the girl everyone sees from miles away