Tag: mental-health

them

michelleLeave a comment

We hurt together.

She hurts. I watch 

But I am not welcome as a viewer,

My presence is not enough. 

I, too, must join

I ask to help carry it instead,

But that is not enough.

Helping is not enough

Nothing is enough. 

The pain becomes an infection, 

It is vicious and consuming. 

But I can’t carry it, and I can’t view it,

I must become it as well.

I am frozen. Unknowingly so, I begin to hurt.

And so we sit in it 

And her pain becomes ours 

And nobody watches because nobody knows. 

And no one asks to carry it and nobody wants to.

And we remain 

Hurt. Together.

about the temporary,

michelleLeave a comment

Justice for the temporary.

Justice for the temporary, although my voice has significantly lowered and I have looked around to see exactly who has heard me, heard this declaration.

A truth I am slowly but surely starting to believe and embody.

Justice for the temporary, appreciation for the temporary! 

The temporary situation, person, and feeling.

For so long, temporary has been a dirty word. It signifies insecurity; it implies that there is more work and more uncertainty until, eventually, you can get to the point of finality. In a world that only feels livable once everything is secure, the temporary feels like a fate that the unlucky, the less fortunate succumb to. It is not permanent (of course), but it will inspire a look of pity and words of encouragement that are more successful in reminding you just how bad your current state is than, I guess, uplift. 

It’s understandable, though.

It makes sense why the temporary isn’t seen with the highest regard. Why the minute you discover that a situation, person, or feeling is temporary, you quickly begin the journey of finding the situation, person, or feeling that isn’t. 

The temporary can be seen as a waste. A waste of time, a waste of effort, and a waste of energy. We barely have enough to begin with, right? We don’t have enough emotional capacity to love someone who isn’t your forever, right? We don’t have enough time or money to waste on a job that is not aligned with our divine purpose, right? We don’t have enough energy to be in a situation any longer than we need to be, right? 

Once you find out you are in the temporary, the only option is to escape quickly. 

But what happens when you are stuck? What happens when you decide to go against the status quo, against the rule, and befriend the temporary. What if we sat and enjoyed the view instead of watching the coastline – waiting and pleading for the boat to finally reach its destination? Isn’t this what the “enlightened” have been telling us this whole time? 

I mean, I get it now.

However, as we know, practice has always been harder than preaching. 

It is uncomfortable to sit in a situation with a feeling or a person who is not really supposed to be there. I believe that is the point. It serves as a reminder that this is not it. You are not finished.  My argument is that we can never know for certain if anything or anyone is forever, and attempting to find out is how it becomes a negative experience.

What if it became, just an experience. 

The temporary. A moment in time. 

Also, about time. 

The final boss. The other enemy. Time, always running and never enough.

To enjoy the temporary is to seemingly go against time. And even though time is seen as a scarcity, it has been there and will be there after us, and the temporary.

So what does this mean? 

Honestly, I’m not sure. The enlightened tell us to take a breath. They encourage us to be present. to exist in a space where time passes, and we let it. They challenge us to be comfortable in a situation not wondering or worrying if it is temporary. 

And so I accept. I create a space that is comfortable and productive, in the temporary. I’m aware that in each moment time passes. It is uncomfortable, but then again, I remember, it is supposed to be. It is a challenge, after all.

Justice for the temporary and its friend time. I now see beauty in the temporary situation, person, and feeling. I treat them kindly, I sit with them, and I learn what I can. What is a temporary situation, person, and feeling if not an opportunity to learn, for growth, and a memory? 

What is the temporary, if not life itself?

It’s not perfect, but it’s better.

michelleLeave a comment

One year ago, I couldn’t wash my own hair. 

I texted my mom and asked if someone could wash my hair for me once I got home. I lay in bed tears streaming down my face, I stared at the ceiling, I looked around my dark room. I was tired; I was so tired. 

A year later and, on Thursday, I woke up and realized that I wanted to wash my hair, so I did. I also made my own homemade pizza, and I watched my favorite movie. 

It’s funny cause I wouldn’t say that I’m downing so much better on paper, that is. In January, I walked into the new year small. I chose to have very little expectations, my fear of dreaming big was backed by the belief that the world would remind me that I was too small to dream. That last year was tough. I was just happy to have made it, beaten, broken, and all. 

In this past year, I was not spared of the curveballs. Disappointment, failure, and redirection remained prominent figures in my life. At almost every turn, there seemed to be block after block. Hell, even right now, there are several things that could be going right. But, tonight I made some delicious homemade pizza and I watched my favorite movie. Did I mention that my laundry is fresh and neatly folded in my room? 

It’s not perfect, but it’s better. 

And sometimes that is enough.

I looked at the wallpaper on my laptop. I made it myself. It’s my mood board for the next year. I have dreams, hopes and wishes, they are big ones. I remain humble in the complex, ambiguous beauty that is the human experience, but there is hope and excitement that accompanies it. 

My perspective has shown that it desires change. It no longer wants to remain complacent and as accepting of the world, it craves experience and growth. It is curious and naive. It has relinquished control. It does not desire to be passive. It moves with intention. Intention that is not pretentious. It is, as I mentioned, humble too. 

A year ago, I was tired. I am still tired. Some things don’t change as quickly, but I am learning that that is okay, too.

I wish I cried on the train.

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I almost cried on the train today. I also almost cried at the bus stop. And I almost cried as I walked home.

I held it in, of course. I focused on something else

But throughout the day, the feeling followed me. A wave of unexpected sadness and a desperate need to release it. To feel it. But I held it in. I focused on something else.

Soon, I was no longer at the bus stop, I wasn’t on the train, and I had finally reached home.

Every step and every push forward was backed by the promise that I would grant myself a moment, a time to cry. “Just not now.” I believed myself. I trusted that I would give myself a chance to feel and an opportunity to express myself. I always trust myself because if I did not, then who can I trust. Who else would let me cry?

But I never did. And the feeling left. At least, I thought so. 

Because I have been wanting to cry, I have been feeling the feeling of wanting to cry. But every time it comes, every time I finally allow it to come, it doesn’t. And I am left here with feelings I can’t express and a weight I can’t let go off. 

And I hope eventually I will cry. And as I hope, I also fear for the moment because I am not sure if I will ever stop once I start. And, instead of being the girl that never cried, I will become the girl that never stopped.

I wish I cried on the train. And at the bus stop and, as I walked home. I wish I cried because that would release me from being anything. It would release me from being the girl who cried or never cried. 

It would release me because I would be feeling. I would be feeling instead of wondering what type of girl I was. Because I would be present, and I would be just a girl who is crying on the train, at the bus stop, and on her way home. 

I wish I cried so that I could just be the girl who cried when she needed to. 

I have always been a romantic.

michelleLeave a comment

Does there always need to be a happy ending to every story?

Is that really, real life?

I have always been a romantic.

I romanticize everything: waking up, making breakfast – I stare wistfully outside my kitchen as the coffee pot does what coffee pots do – brew magic.

I wake up feeling romantic and grateful.

I make my breakfast perfectly, and then I eat it happily. 

Getting ready is romantic to me – washing, cleaning – creating a new slate to seize the day in, and gently doing my skincare. 

I love all of it. 

To me, that is what it is all about. 

The only part that is not so romantic, the part that puts a crack in this picture-perfect life that I live, is that that is it. That is where the romance ends. 

I am clean and ready, but there isn’t much else to do.

Every day, the objective is to find something to do 

Something new, something to take my attention away from the truth 

The routine that I so desperately want but can’t figure out.

My dilemma is not in any way unique

My issue is not the first of its kind 

It is a tale as old as time. 

“We go to high school. We explore different career interests in high school (as one does) 

The high school continues to force a decision by narrowing down the options and courses available. Sensitive to the pressure, we make a decision, some more sure than others. 

Soon enough, we are writing statements – begging big institutions to sit at tables that are far too expensive. ((That is important because you never forget it. And when you miss a lecture, skip a class, or fail a test, you see dollar signs, and you see them going down the drain.)) 

Nonetheless, the institutions offer a place, and we accept probably the most expensive seat we have ever taken. 

And so it begins and ends, a journey full of social highs, romantic lows, academic wins, and sleepless nights. 

All are working towards achieving a goal that some of us are not quite sure of.

And finally, after what feels like years upon years of work 

A failed course, a few missing assignments 

The institution hands us a paper 

On it is a supposed summary of the last five years 

On it a show, an allowance for our 5 minutes of fame.“

I look at the two lines on this paper, the two lines that show my accomplishment. 

I should feel more. I am supposed to, right? However, I look at this piece of paper, and I turn the paper around, wondering. I thought the paper would have some answers, but this paper is not a map.

There are no instructions on what to do next.

There is nothing there but my name and two lines saying what I did in the last 5 years. 

I am still grateful. I am still proud of myself for this moment. For my 5 minutes. I am grateful because while the piece of paper has two lines, I have stories. I have moments and memories, I have laughter, I have sadness, I have anger, and hopelessness. I have inspiration. I have the determination. 

I have the story about the girl who is still here despite it all. 

I finally leave the institution. It becomes a vault of memories, and I move onwards and upwards. I don’t look back; there is really nothing left for me here. 

I am content. This feels good.

I am aware of my lack of answers, my questions. I convince myself that they will come to me. 

I create space for time. 

That seems good. I think I am content. And for a while, everything is romantic.

Everything is new: New city, new room, new world, new characters, new everything. 

Same me.

That is the part they do not tell you about, the part that also kills the romance. 

Everything is new, but me 

Same baggage. Same trauma. Same cluelessness. Just a new canvas to spill that onto.

But I persist. 

And I keep things romantic. And I work, or at least try to work.

And I still keep a little space for time.

There are still questions, and the answers are still missing, but still, I wake up every day feeling romantic and grateful. I make my breakfast perfectly, and I eat it happily. And then I look for something to do, something to distract myself with.

I do not think about the cycle I have found myself in. The cycle of wanting more but not knowing where to start. 

I decide to create more space for time. For potential. 

I relinquish control and allow myself to flow with the current. I am careful to keep doing the work so that, at the very least, I stay afloat.  Life is still romantic because I romanticize everything, including the uncertainty. 

And I wonder about happy endings, if they exist, if they are necessary.

I wonder who happy endings are for 

If the characters know they live happily ever after or maybe just the people who cared to watch them. I wonder this as I close my laptop and brush my teeth. I wonder this as I get ready for bed. And as I fall asleep, I still wonder but I make sure to do so romantically. 

On remembering and Not remembering

michelleLeave a comment

I am still recovering. 

I am still working on it. I am still feeling it. 

Still dealing with it.

There are moments when I am fine. Moments when I don’t remember. I don’t remember the hurt, the embarrassment, the feeling of instant regret. There are days when I forget that I ever experienced any of that. 

Then, there are days when I remember. 

The days when I stay inside. The days when I get consumed in the hating, and the pulling myself apart, the days when the self-doubt takes over.  On those days, hoping feels a little sillier and a little hopeless. 

So, I try my best not to remember,

I put them away, distract myself, and instead, I imagine: I set the scene, and you are placed right in the middle. The best seat in the house.

In my theatre

Here you cannot miss this show. You cannot miss a second, a turn, a smile. I stand before you. This time, I am prepared. This time, I know your game.

This time, it is a fair game

I see through your facade. I recognize the bullshit bluffing as your so-called confidence. The blurry image I once thought was mysterious has cleared up to be insecurity. 

This time, you can’t hurt me.

You can’t hurt me because while you can see me. And while you can hear me and feel my energy, my presence, my impact.

You cannot touch me. You cannot approach me. You are only a viewer in my show and you can only watch me because you cannot watch anything else

I am the show. And you are my audience. 

At this moment, I have control. I am in control, and you cannot hurt me. 

When I remember I go there, to this place. The place where I tell you who you are. The place where I confront you with your shame

The place where I hold the mirror, and instead of hurting me, you see yourself. Clearly. 

On the days when I don’t remember. 

I hope, I long, and I wish. I am once again just a girl who has feelings. The girl who may not have worn her heart on her sleeve but the girl who imagined the good. The girl who would daydream about the boy who handed her their sharpener, about the other boy who held the door open for her, and about the other boy whose laugh was a cure for any bad feelings in her mind.

The girl who didn’t even for a second, second guess intention, the girl who never doubted her worth of deserving love.

When I remember, I go to the place where I can tell you what you have done to me. 

The place where my scars are visible. Where my pain is universally understood. Accepted and not justified. 

When I remember, I speak clearly. 

I share my shame with you because it should belong to you.

I leave the stage and you, with the baggage you gave me. I leave the stage and realize what I have always known, what I needed you to know. I leave the stage, and finally, you know

You realize your loss. You realize your misfortune. I leave, and you curse the air and feel the feeling. The sensation, and it engulfs you 

I leave, and all you are left with is regret. 

That’s the part that’s left. The reason why the memory of you still lingers. The reason why I remember and don’t remember. My curiosity keeps me, making me revisit you and the memory and the time. It makes me think about you, unable to forget you. I wonder to myself, I wonder if you feel it.

Do you have any remorse? Regret? 

I wonder if there is a split second or moment in your day where you pause and wonder. Long for a moment. A time when you could be on the stage. A moment when I sit across in the best seat in the house. Right in the middle because I cannot miss a thing. Because you need me to hear from you

To see you.

A moment when you say how you felt, how the shame was too much.How the shame, the embarrassment, the instant regret was the spillage from the overflowing pool of emotions you carry on your chest. You tell me that the isolation was a gift, a moment of compassion and protection from the mess that encompasses your self-hatred and anger and that your unresolved troubled childhood trauma was the sole reason. That I was just an unlucky casualty in your war against yourself.

That way, I would see your pain—all of it.

I would see the shame. 

You would get to tell me who you really are. 

You would tell me about the days when you remember. Days when you can’t choose not to remember. You would tell how on the days when you remember how you go to this place. You would go to this stage, and you would say to me how you remember.

You would then do the most unexpected thing. 

You would ask me how I felt.

And you would tell me how seeing my shock and confusion after that question would pain you. 

You would tell me how you never realized that that was the first time you had asked me this, the first time you paused and considered me, my story, and my feelings.

And then I would tell you what I do on the days that I don’t remember and on the days that I do. 

about the revolutionary girl

michelleLeave a comment

Believe it or not, as a woman, loving yourself can often feel like a revolutionary act.

Being alone and being okay with that feels almost ground-breaking.

Eating out, buying something nice, or dancing alone at a party can be indisputably described as insurgent. Revolutionary.

This is because, it is. Unfortunately.

Growing up, I imagined myself going to university and finding the love of my life. It was planned out perfectly. All I needed to do was be in the right place at the right time so that the right boy would see me – like, really see me. Come over and sweep me off my feet. Happily ever after.

Done, simple.

Now, a few situationships, 5 years of education, a complete journal of unsent letters, hopes, and desires, and, importantly, 2 years of celibacy later, I would like to report that maybe if I wanted to experience a movie-like romance, I would need to find and hire and write my male soulmate. Unfortunately for me, I can’t really task all my hopes onto fate.

The revolutionary girl.

One day, after I spent my morning crying over a guy, I saw a post on Pinterest describing a girl who wasn’t afraid to enjoy life alone. I am not joking; that was the first pin on my “for you” page.

The post described this act as revolutionary because, as we know, society hates to see a girl that is young, fun,and happy – and also alone. The quote was uplifting and encouraging, yet it only made me angry. I am happy, and I am alone. These are not mutually exclusive. However, it seems like these are often placed on opposing teams, and when a woman chooses both, she is seen as revolutionary.

but when will it okay to also admit that I want love? can I ever admit it?

It almost feels as if I am being forced to be okay with independence, and any indication that I feel the opposite would be setting back women 500 years. It is complex. I saved the quote. I agree with it, but for a moment, I had to ask myself if a world exists in which women can be strong and independent and have our independence not solely judged and compared to men and love.

takes a deep breath. You can be a strong, independent woman who wants a man.

To me, a revolutionary girl can still dance around to music in her room; she can still have ownership and autonomy for herself and her body. But (and scandalously), she can also express the desire to be loved. It’s okay, it’s an emotion.

I am tired of being an evolutionary woman. I want to just be a woman. I have no desire to break the status quo. I do not desire to be asked “how I make it work.” I am gentle. I want help. I want love, and I want care.

To admit this desire is revolutionary to me

  • idk this should be a journal entry

On starting again

michelle1 Comment

Back again!

It only took me four years, lol.

I recently graduated from university. I did the thing, I put in the work, and sure enough, I walked across a stage and got my (very much deserved) 5 minutes of fame. And while I am incredibly proud and grateful that I was able to achieve such an achievement, the end of my undergrad journey was filled with the underlying feeling of unfulfillment, confusion, and frustration.

This trifecta of bad vibes was because what I had imagined I would feel at the end of this journey versus my reality was completely different. I had envisioned myself being more grounded and secure, energized for the next chapter. Instead, I had a liberal arts degree and zero clue about where and how to begin the next step. One thing I did know was that I was exhausted and burnt out to a crisp.

In conclusion, I felt deceived. I did the work! There were countless sleepless nights, overconsumption and reliance on coffee, emails … oh, all the emails begging class instructors for extensions, clarifications, and mercy. I happily found myself on my knees because I was motivated because this was necessary. It was a degrading means to a prideful end.

Yet here I was, confused as ever my only companion being the burning question: What is next?

Now, this was three months ago. I have since spent all my available energy on relaxing and regrouping. No one ever said how difficult it is to relax, you know. I have had to force myself to be okay with not having plans, reminding myself that the difference between me and the bummy men that my friends and I make fun of is that I am me, and they are them. Simple. This period of rest was not only so so deserved but also a moment in which I allowed myself to really just think. Think about what I wanted and where I wanted to be.

This was the beginning of me opening my Pandora’s box (I hope I am using that term correctly).

It’s shocking, really, how when you decide to dedicate time to pursuing your hobbies and finding your purpose, that is when you discover that you really have zero idea who you are.

In these past few months, I have learned so much about myself. Not even in a deep, Oprah Winfrey crying type of way, but in an interesting non-psychoanalytical way! It’s been fun! But I will say that before it was fun, it was lonely and depressing.

It did take me being so stressed out that both my eyes would twitch uncontrollably, a serious lack of emotional regulation, and almost breaking down because I missed a bus to get here. After I had a sit-down moment with myself and realized all this was doing more harm than good, I decided to take the time and just … be.

On starting again.

I wish I could say life has been just dandy since I made this choice, however we live in a society, and life will do what life does. But it has become more bearable and dare I say it – enjoyable?

I came to the conclusion that in order for me to begin this journey of the what is next, I needed to accept my current reality. The truth was that I did not know. I knew what I did not want, but ultimately I did not know anything else. I was starting from scratch and I that meant I needed to be okay with that. I needed to be okay with that because I needed to be okay with all that comes with starting again.

The vulnerability of learning. Of not knowing. Being taught, making mistakes, and trying again.

Starting again.

And so I am here. Back again! I learned that in all the moments that I have been through in life, one thing has always stayed the same, I am a writer. I love it. My mind and body exist to write and tell stories. I am more comfortable with a pen, but I could get used to typing. So here we are, with a self-promise to remain consistent. Granting myself a space to express and grow. Enjoy the ride