Drums or Flats? (a reflection)
Shedding the skin of a wooden snake to make room for a horse set aflame (it's not over until it's over).
Being known is a wonderful, irreplaceable feeling, but its true power is exposed when it leads to a warm, lifted feeling of innate safety within one’s own chest. Many misunderstand my intentions and think I am advocating for a life of invulnerability with a moat separating yourself from those with cardboard bridges, but that’s not at all what I’m trying to say.
I am someone who holds rigid morals. I am more comfortable staying quiet even if that means everyone else must sit awkwardly in the silence that precedes me. I am quick to admit what I don’t know, and I am a big fan of orchestra music. I harbor a deep sense of protection over those close to me. I don’t like celery and I stay away from gluten when I can.
A desperation to be seen has gripped my heart violently for so long it has outlasted the memory life of my mind. I’ve always wished someone would see me, would remember the parts of me my being has long forgotten. My eyes open each morning bleary and tight with pain, knowing no one is coming home, hoping for the emptiness that’s become a friend to find me, to lay down and hold my ashes threatening to float away.
I’ve felt like I’ve been going crazy. I find myself not remembering what punches were thrown when, what sin caused the searing materialization of each scar—an onslaught of pain melting into a steaming void, stitching itself back up mirroring my lips in anguish. If I couldn’t remember what I did, who’s to say what transpired and what didn’t? How do I know I wasn’t the villain the whole time? How do I know the scars don’t pull and expand at my own hand? How do I know I wasn’t the one holding the gun?
I’ve become a lot shier when it comes to sharing things about myself. I turn into this meek shell that I no longer recognize—someone who writhes where she usually stands tall—I shrink into the space between here and there because it’s the only place that has created sanctuary for me. I stay until it feels safe to come out, until the Sun melts the ice on the trees, down into a grotesque puddle on the ground amongst the yellow grass I can finally feel between my toes once more. My mind is a scary place and I live in a constant fear of opening the door.
That desperation that used to speak for me tosses and turns silently inside (I feel my fingers and toes buzzing in submission) instead, slicing itself in half and aerating silence. I get scared that in an effort to share I will make someone else out to be a monster. I get scared I will evoke pity, that this will all end with my quivering hands over my mouth as I plead for forgiveness, for someone to forgive me in my lies. To me, the only truth that stands is my own uncertainty.
Time is weird, and fake. I don’t remember most of my childhood, let alone adolescence and whatever that came after. I deleted any photo of myself from the ages of 13 to 17 because it was like looking at someone who used to come over everyday, but suddenly disappeared without a word. I know everyone says that but it still proves to be true. And with every new year upholds this construct we’ve made sets unsaid expectations above our heads, promising ourselves newfound growth and an overnight transformation. I didn’t used to like creating resolutions for myself, but that being said, I found myself making a list this time.
Last year was meant to be the time I set aside to make YouTube videos (I made one). I was going to keep writing for my newsletter (also only wrote one), and start a podcast (… no comment). Instead, I fixed my adult hormonal acne, quit my teaching job, started working at Nordstrom full time, and began sleeping a lot less.
For the time ahead, my overarching goal is to stop making promises to myself I don’t intend to keep. I’ve never had problems following through with others, but I disrespect myself and my boundaries more than any one person should. With each passing day, it was looking like I knew myself less and less. I used to feel a pit of aching sadness when my dad couldn’t remember my food allergies, when important dates were forgotten, but the sorrow is misdirected. No matter the cause, the true despair in me lies in the fact that I no longer knew myself. I let myself become as unimportant and small as I was to the people around me.
I spent a lot of the last year moving my body. I started drinking jujube tea, practicing Qigong again, and going to heated workout classes. I lost a lot of my own being and a lot of weight along with it, but reclaimed my muscle and my time back. I spent a lot of time with the people that mean most to me, and kept myself sane despite my mind’s attempts to override it all. My favorite scents are sweet and musky. My favorite movie of late is Resurrection, directed by Bi Gan (a beautiful movie emphasizing the importance of dreams, I highly recommend). I learned how to cook lentils and how to cook chicken without drying it out. Yoga makes me cry sometimes. I grab my hair when the migraines get to be too much, pushing for a memory I cannot find, and I rub my eyebrows when what I really want to do is rub my eyes out of my sockets. I enjoy a daily routine that begins by walking 10,000 steps and drinking bone broth at the end of it. I found a way to be at peace with myself, a stranger, even if only for a day.
Time translates as a jumbled limbo to me. New Year’s resolutions feel meaningless, but my list this time is a fruitful one I hope to keep. I have gotten to know myself a lot in the last year, and if I am lucky, I will continue to learn more. Even if I cannot remember the circumstances that have shaped my two decades of life, I have mourned the gaps in my brain long enough. I hope I get to fill in those spaces with the reminder that my life is beautiful and will continue to be, despite despite despite.
I don’t feel safe with myself yet, not totally secure. But I am open to be and for tonight, that is enough. Tonight, I will rest my eyes knowing tomorrow I can stand on my own two feet, that I can still look into the mirror and see myself.
I feel like the time between my publications is reaching further and further apart. I’ve been very afraid to share my feelings within the last year. It felt like putting a price on my head. I don’t remember what it feels like to be open with myself without squirming, but I hope to learn again. Just one new thing a day, one step at a time. Patience…
To consider:
I am doing an art sale to raise funds for my sweet friend Dounia and her family in Gaza! I will be out of town soon, but please share her fundraiser and donate if you are able to.
Resurrection (2025) directed by Bi Gan: I had never seen Gan’s works before this movie but I hope that will change in the future. He directed such a beautiful love letter to Chinese cinema. In a way he rewrote the way I felt about my blurry shape of a childhood. This is a movie you feel more than think about. Even if you don’t understand what’s going on, you will feel it. Very emotional and the score is beautiful (entirely by M83, too… so crazy).
Music I’ve been listening to:
A playlist for my heart (it’s comforting to know a lack of knowledge in myself never hindered my capacity to love… comforting to know I have the ability to extend that same love to myself):
Classical, orchestra, instrumental music I have been loving; for foggy drives and the moments in between:
I’ve also been listening to the Resurrection score like a madman… think I was in the top 4,000 listeners last week or something… anyways, until next time. Thank you for being here.