feeling full

is there something wrong with me?

there’s this sort of show people put on when it comes to discussions of how to live a life. it may be through no conscious fault of their own, but it still happens and it never fails to strike a chord within me. after decades & decades of capitalism telling us the only way to live is to turn ourselves into machines and commodities, today tells us to live through the little things. the moonlight that stripes your room through eyelet curtains, the bright, chalky stain on your thumb from peeling an orange, the spark that lights up your friend’s eyes as you make them laugh. but no one talks about how hard it is. no one talks about how sometimes none of that is enough.

Những giấc mơ không tròn thở dài

Cho tôi mang đi những câu chuyện buồn

Chờ đến ban mai bên tôi được không?

Cho em bên tôi như bao tình cờ

Chờ đến mùa gió

Để tôi có em từ nay về sau

Tùng, Xa (Chờ Đến Mùa Gió)

Photo by Steffen B. A home I wish I remembered.

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trigger warnings for below: eating disorder, depression, suicidal ideation, self-harm

i’ve always had a hard time grasping onto my depression. maybe it’s the stigmatized view of mental illness my traditional, asian immigrant parents instilled in me as a child, or my stubborn mind refusing to admit i need help. but after years and countless raging thoughts that crawl into every crevice of every good moment like a spill of water, i’ve come to greet my demons hello every time i open my eyes. and that makes me feel so guilty. why can’t my sister’s company be enough to make me want to stay? or the way my mom has been trying her hardest to learn how to cook vegan recipes for me (and how she doesn’t get angry at me when she comes to visit and sees that i finish none of it)? what do you do when you want to want to stay, but you don’t know how to get there? i just feel so empty.

sometimes i feel angry when i see people talk about how the little things keep them going, or how they’re carrying on by taking it day by day. the anger isn’t directed towards them but at myself. why can’t i find it in me to enjoy the things that used to make me feel so full inside? why do i now lack the ability to romanticize things like i once prided myself in doing? every flower has been drained of its color, and i’m left pleading on my knees for the blood dripping from my wrists to redden the fallen roses beneath my feet. sometimes i feel i don’t try hard enough to want to stay—as if i could suddenly want to live if i simply tried harder. i don’t know. i don’t know how.