Live

To the little voices in your head telling you that you can't do it. 

To the naysayers who constantly put you down. 

To the bullies who claim you would amount to nothing. 

Prove them wrong, babe! 

There will always be those who want to sow chaos in your soul, 

Those will mock and deride you, 

Those who will take every opportunity to break your spirit, 

Those too afraid to do the thing you do and would rather you tow in line. 

Prove them wrong, babe! 

Even if you end up failing, because we can't predict the future. 

Even if you end up switching gears and changing careers, 

Even if your actions would only bear fruit once you're gone, 

Prove them wrong, babe!  

We only have this life, we only know this life, and if there is something I can only wish for us, it's to do what we wanted to do so we can depart without regrets.

Because we can say: "I did it. I wanted to do it, so I did!" 

Because we can say: "I lived my life to the fullest. I rose, and I fell, but I lived!"

So prove them wrong, babe! 

Live!

We don't have it all figured out.

Tale as old as time,

Especially for the high-functioning individuals like us. (One could argue that high-functioning doesn't exist and is merely hyper-performative behaviour disguised as High-functioning. But I digress. )

That sweet spot between the desire to handle everything by ourselves because we don't want to burden others with our issues and troubles, AND the desire to openly talk about our pain and show our wounds to our loved ones, is a nightmare.

Because we want and need help, but we can't bring ourselves to ask for it because we don't want to hurt others. We don't want to burden them with our anxiety or our depression or whatever mental ailment we're carrying. We don't want them to worry about us, because we know what they're going through, and we think that adding to the pile of concerns would hurt them more.

So we keep to ourselves.

We soldier on.

We pretend and we go on autopilot.

We learn and read and try to understand what's plaguing us, and sometimes we become too well-versed in psychology, things become so clear in our minds that we believe we've mastered it. We understand, so of course, we can fix it. But it's false. We don't understand shit. We don't control shit. What it does, however, is hinder our ability to receive help and, even more so, to ask for it.

I researched, read, did a lot of work on myself, and thought I had it figured out. I mean, I understood my suicidal tendencies, right? I understood my anxiety and depression, and that diagnosis still dangling on top of my head, but never truly confirmed because I don't follow their textbook. I thought I had it under control, and I even managed to fool my therapist and myself for a while, thinking I had everything under control.

But I didn't. I was masking.

I tried to harm myself, almost mind-absently. I was caught off guard. I realized that I had relapsed into my old habits. I compartmentalized and ignored the pain and the stress I was feeling, and one single snap was enough to undo a lot of progress. One single snap was enough to almost get me.

My partner was here, and I am grateful it happened when he was there. He found the right words, the right key to the door I put between my deepest feelings and myself.

I needed help.

I didn't have it all figured out.

No one ever does, and no one ever should.

It humbled me. I went to talk to my therapist about it, and finally, we started to explore those emotions I kept bottled up inside me. Finally, I was made comfortable enough to share my burden, to ask for help, and to be willing to receive it.

This sentence, written in the picture I posted, is advice I should have applied to myself. It is one, I still try to keep in mind when dealing with others. It is also one I hope others would also follow for themselves.

Don't assume that because you feel like you have it all figured out, you don't need help. That you can't ask for it or that you can't receive it.

There is no shame in needing help.

No shame in asking for it.

No shame in receiving it.

After all, that's also what makes us human.

You said the words

 "I said the words, I took the risk. I didn't know I was ready until it left my lips. Now I look at you and I see you look back at me, with the same wet gaze that I have whenever I'm looking at you. I lose my composure whenever I am near you, a sound, your voice, and my mind go white.

You said the words, you took the risk. I didn't think you would be ready for it. You asked for ink, my name on your skin and I thought it was just you trying too hard. I thought you would want it gone as soon as you'd wake up from that drunken stupor we're in. I'm drunk.

I'm drunk, I'm drunk of you.

I'm drunk in love with you.

I'm drunk let's build a life together.

I can be the wife and you can be the gangster.

Quote of the day: Don't expect people to love you like you do.

Quote of the day: "Don't expect people to love you like you do. Expect them to love you the best they can do. Expect them to give you room to breathe and to have the curtsy to leave when you're not compatible anymore. Expect them to be themselves when they are with you, even if it doesn't fit your ideals, especially when it doesn't fit. The most beautiful gift friends, family (chosen or by blood), and romantic relations can give you, is to be their authentic selves. it's to feel safe enough with you that they love you honestly. It's to feel safe enough with you, to love you without artifices but to give you their love, raw, unfiltered, authentic. Don't expect people to love you like you do. Expect them to be authentic with you."

<--- brought to you by my friend C. We've been discussing emotions, love, and relationships and we've noticed that our best relationships were the most authentic ones. It wouldn't always be rainbows, it wouldn't always be fun. It would sometimes be hard, difficult, and scary because life is messy. But it would be authentic and honest and real. As long as people are true to themselves and to you, then it doesn't matter how they love you. 

Lots of words to just say that I love you and appreciate the way you show me your affection. Thank you 🙂

Growing old

You know, I used to believe that gray hair was something to be ashamed of and to try and hide. Everywhere I looked, it was seen as something to avoid at all costs, the same with wrinkles, the same with any sign of you growing older. I was made to think that the best years of my life would be before I reached 30 so I dreaded turning 30. I thought that if I didn't have my life figured out by then, I would have missed everything and would have failed at life. 

I'll turn 35 in a couple of months and frankly... All of those worries are bullshit to me. I have gray hair, and I kinda like it, I even joke about turning into Storm (although it'll take some time before I get there) because I like these. I know it's the stress causing my hair to turn grey but I decided to welcome the change. (not gonna lie, that took some work. the first gray hair had me crying over it for a while).  I'm at that age where I'm living my best life -so to speak- and doing things I would never even dream of when I was younger. 

I have met amazing women, all in their 40s who are kicking ass and taking names! Therapy, medication and a great support system help(ed) me get into a better mental space and I have learned to sever toxic ties and start to put myself first. Getting older is not a dread anymore, because aside from my desire to go to bed earlier, to be tucked in my bed by 10, to avoid nightclubs because I don't see the appeal anymore, and to try new things, it's not a punishment. Is it? Getting older means knowing yourself better and if anything, I like the person I am now compared to the one I used to be. I love the friends I have now and the opportunities I can welcome. 

So yeah, I'm now curious about the person I'll be when I turn 40. Perhaps I would finally dye my hair pink! (or wear more pink wigs! because damnit!)  Perhaps I would bleach my hair and let it be silver, so I would be like Storm. Hopefully, my book would FINALLY be out! who knows? Life doesn't end by 40, it just begins. that's what I learned by getting older and I wish, I really wish I would have known it when I was younger.

Be kind to yourself

be kind to yourself, 

I realized how harsh and self-destructive I was when I was asked to say out loud what crosses my mind. I had to imagine myself speaking to a child and I broke down. It's so easy to fall into a cycle of abuse towards ourselves as if growing old stops us from feeling compassion for ourselves. We act as if we can handle everything because we're supposed to. We're supposed to set goals as high as possible and berate ourselves if we can't reach them. 

We're supposed to follow a path because others have done it because that's "how it's supposed to be" and we don't listen to ourselves or our own needs. Someone told me that we were our worst bullies, and it is true. we speak so effortlessly horrible words that either were spoken to us by someone else, or we created based on expectations we couldn't meet. 

In the long run, we forget that we're no less deserving of kindness. We're no less deserving of being treated right, even by ourselves, especially by ourselves. In the long run, we forget to cut ourselves some slack and to stop and breathe. We don't meet our needs. So, we have to rekindle our connection with ourselves. We have to make sure we meet our needs. We have to make sure we listen to ourselves again and give ourselves the grace of failure and growth. 

it's probably word salad because I can't seem to find my words today, but I hope that at least some of it could reach out to someone out there 🙂

Reflections post trip Japan

 As my trip to Japan is near the end, I am able to take a minute to think. 

Well, obviously, I love the country and appreciate the culture. I was even able to dust off my Japanese (but I was feeling upset the first couple days because my japanese teacher would have been upset with me for not remembering anything. In my defense, I have stopped speaking/ reading in japanese since 2014 but still....I was very upset at first, but managed to relax as time went by!)

Still, I'm digressing. I said to myself yesterday that I was happy with where I was in my life. The choices I made, the medical  help I sought, the support system I have. All of these truly have been helpful over the years. Years ago, I was suffocating. My mental health was so bad that I tried (and failed to) kill myself a few times. I didn't know how to handle anything related to my mental illness... not a single thing but I had wonderful friends who were open about their own struggle and who cared enough to share them with me as well as their attempts, trials, errors and successes. 

I didn't realize how much of a struggle this would be.  Man, I do have some answers now and my journey into therapy is still in its infancy (what's 2 years, if not a blink?). I admit, there are days where I feel that I'm back to square one.  I feel that I've failed myself, or that I'm failing my loved ones or even my late friend Mags. Before she took her own life, our last conversation had me promise I would do my best to care for my mental health.  Damn intrusive thoughts, eh? I admit, because it's part of my mental illness, suicidal tendencies are still there and some days, they are the loudest voice in my head. 

The difference though? I am better prepared to notice when I'm back to my old hurtful pattern. I know when I'm in a down phase. I automatically seek help now, speak to loved ones and go for the emergency plan put in place with my therapist. The difference is... I can handle it better. 

This trip... oh...I am able to appreciate the full experience. My head is clear, my heart is full. I am happy. I am happy to still be alive today. I am happy because I saw the love others have for me, and that no matter the mood I am in, my true-self was loved. I mattered to them and I matter. I am happy because we worked hard to make sure the trip would be a good one. I'm happy, because even when my anxiety was very high, I was able to handle it and keep enough clarity and control to go through it. 

I am a work in progress. Aren't we all? 

I think that if I can find moments of grace in this world, you can too.

December 2022

Let's finish the year beautifully. 

Let's shed our old skins and reveal our new ones. 

Let's forgive our enemies but not forget their evil deeds.

Let's bleed our griefs into the void for we will be reborn anew.

I am offering you my hand, 

Take it and let me lift you up. 

Take it, and let me protect you. 

Take it, and let's enter 2023 stronger than ever,

Together.

Le football et ses dérives (côté spectateurs)

 J'avoue, je ne suis jamais allée dans un stade de foot. Je n'ai jamais vu en live ce que cela pouvait donner. Néanmoins, j'ai vu d'autres sports, d'autres ambiances, d'autres moyens d'exprimer les envies, les déceptions, les colères même. Après, ce serait fallacieux que de dire avoir tout vu, car ce n'est pas le cas. néanmoins, je peux tout de même affirmer que ce qui se passe depuis la réouverture des stades est désolant (et je reste polie). Hier, en regardant un peu les chaines de sports, nous sommes tombés sur l'invasion du stade lors du match Auxerre - Saint-Etienne. et voir la foule envahir le stade, lancer des torches et mettre le feu au stade était effrayant. j'ai détesté voir ces images, car je me disais "Tout ça pour une descente en Ligue 2?" Tour ça pour ça? c'est comme si on perdait aux sims ou à un tournoi de e-sport sur Overwatch et que tout le stade se mettait à feu et à sang! 

Alors, j'entends bien, le football est un gros réservoir à fric. Oui, je sais, nous avons les sponsors, nous avons les contrats, nous avons les abonnements des fans et les gens peuvent se sentir floués par le club. J'en conviens. Mais exprimer sa colère ainsi? prendre le risque de blesser les autres, de rendre malade les autres ou dans des cas plus extrêmes de tuer les autres parce que son équipe de foot préférée s'est foiré et à perdue un match? Quand même! c'est ridicule. Il y a toujours eu des hooligans, des ultras violents qui n'attendent qu'une étincelle pour pouvoir se lancer dans la bagarre. mais j'avais l'impression que ça restait exceptionnel. Que les gens pouvaient se contrôler un minimum. Mais j'ai eu tort. Depuis le covid et la réouverture des stades, nous avons vu la multiplication des invasions de terrains, les chansons irrespectueuses (Salah), les bagarres, le non-respect des gestes barrières etc... Mais je reste perplexe. pourquoi autant de colère? pourquoi autant de violence? pourquoi les gens s'énervent ainsi et s'acharnent autant? Je ne comprends pas, mais je suis révoltée et déçue de ce que j'ai vu hier soir. Je ne comprends pas, mais je sais déjà que je n'irai jamais à un match de foot, si c'est pour être témoin de tels débordements. 

Toxic productivity

Here I am again, with my random musings,

We've talked a while ago about the fact that most societies tend to value human lives by their productivity. They have to be productive to be considered either successful or just worthy of being alive. One of the things that bothered me as I grew up, was that people weren't interested in knowing who you genuinely were. It wasn't anymore about your taste in hobbies, your enjoyment of sports, or some -non-productive skills- such as singing, dancing, or the likes. NO. As I grew up, I realized that it was only the job I had. It was the salary I earned. I was the diplomas I earned. Nothing about who I was mattered. Some of my strongest friendships were made without me knowing exactly what type of job my friends did. The question was never asked (but rather, I'd wait for them to talk to me about their job instead), because that never defined a person's value to me.  

However, I found myself in several situations where your "job" as your "identity" and based on what you were doing, you were either dismissed or revered. Then, at my last job, I realized I only had value as an employee/ person by the workload I could handle. The bigger the workload, the more I became visible. It was so much that I ended up carrying half of that company on my back, main husband carried the rest on his. Others didn't care about anything but our productivity, even co-workers only asked questions about "how much work did you do today? could you take some of my own cause I couldn't handle them today? could you show me how you did?" One of my bosses even mistook me for someone else. Ahah, that's how bad things were. 

This led me to wonder why, as a writer, I ended up being frustrated when I wasn't writing "enough". I ended up chastising myself for not being good enough. How could I not be able to write a page a day, at the minimum? How could I need one or more days to rest because I have an art block? Why can't I be like Stephen King who writes books as he breathes? It becomes stressful and in turn, my body becomes sick. When I don't write/ sketch for a while, I feel like a complete failure because I wasn't productive. My value, my worth, suddenly becomes what I can make, which is a toxic way of thinking and very reductive. We are much more than what we can produce. We are much more than our jobs. we are not more worthy because we can work ourselves to death and no less because we can't handle a huge workload. 

Unfortunately, this is something that too many people still believe, and something so ingrained in our mentalities that moving away from this mentality is really hard, but necessary. My best friend, Nate, told me that we have to seek balance. Make sure that our work doesn't devour us and allows for family/ me time, and make sure that we remain careful and focused at work to keep things going. He told me that I shouldn't equate myself to the amount of work I can do and If I needed a few days before working on the book again, then I needed those days to be able to continue that book. That says nothing about who I am as a person or my worth. 

SO yes,  Being productive does give a nice feeling, and I would be a liar if I said I wasn't pleased to see the progress I made with my first draft. however, One should remain careful and not turn productivity into something toxic where we equate productivity with self-value and worth. It would quickly turn anything into a stressful moment and we don't want that.  We don't want that. 

Devotion

Devotion, exhaustion, Destruction.

She sucked the life out of me, begging, manipulating, crying, and forcing her way into my brain.

I couldn't think for myself, I had become a slave to her desires and decisions. I had become empty.

I didn't have the strength to fight her nor to find myself again. It became easier for me to give into her.

It became easier for me to let her walk me through the fire, tear my limbs apart, devour me. 

She devoured me, swallowed me whole, and threw me into an endless fall or dare I say, Limbos. 

Devotion, Exhaustion, Annihilation.

She considered us as commodities. I was nothing but a tool used to satisfy her ego.

I was nothing but a means for her to get what she wanted, what she truly desired.

She wanted to be free of us. She wanted to be free of me. She wanted a different life.

I swear I believe that if she could not have had me, she wouldn't have gotten pregnant.

If she could have given us for adoption, she would have done it. She wasn't meant for motherhood.

She wasn't meant for having a family because she was unable to give. She was unable to love. 

Devotion, Exhaustion, Transformation

She wanted to be the most important person in the whole world, she hated competition.

Yet, she still compared herself to others, even to her own children, even to me. 

She couldn't accept that we grew to become the people we wanted to be, with our dreams and desires.

She wanted dolls, puppets she could manipulate to do her bidding, not people! Not children.

She refused to change and refused to see what she did wrong and what she could change.

I transformed, we transformed and we set ourselves free from her, or at least we tried to do so.

We tried and we succeed but there would always be that part of us she could reach out to.

I guess that's how it is. How I hate it! 

She tried to swallow me whole. She tried to suffocate me with her overbearing ways and failed.

I told her that we break cycles and we no longer want to repeat what she did or has been through.

I told her that I would never be like her, and she said she would pray to never become like me.

I told her that I would never be HER! 

And I don't want to be. I don't want to be. I want to break free! 

And I will be! 

Doya: Happy 3 years!

 Happy 3 years!

Do you remember when we took this picture? It was a few months after we first met. I had no idea of the beautiful future ahead of us. We had such a beautiful night, Not the first, but definitely a template of what was to come in the next 3 years. It just went by so fast, I can’t believe we’ve already been in each other lives for this long, and yet, it feels as if we’ve been knowing each other for decades. I bless this day, the day we met each other. From the beginning you’ve always been a nice and supportive person, we became work partners and I jokingly called you Main Husband (this one will stick for ages :p sorry not sorry) because I thought we completed each other well. And we did. We were already a team and a good one.

We got to experience a lot of things together, the good, the bad, and the ugly but we always did it together. 3 years later and I feel that our bond became even stronger. You love me like nobody ever did before and I hope you know that I love you just as much and would always do my best to make you feel happy, loved, and cared for. That’s all I ever wanted for you. So, my dear Main Husband, Happy Anniversary 😊 May we have a wonderful 4th year, full of new challenges, joys, and celebrations!

Crumbling

I want to tear my flesh apart.

How could you explain to someone who could not understand what you're going through? 

How could you tell them that you cannot for the love of Life stand your reflection in the mirror? 

How could you tell them that you cannot stand the very idea of you, the very brain you have?

How could you explain that you perceive your words to be twisted, an endless stream of lies and horror?

How do you face the coming night and the nightmares lurking in the shadows, ready to rip you apart?

How?.....

I want to tear my flesh apart. 

I want to make myself bleed. I need to feel the sting of self-loathing engulf me and numb my head.

I want to get rid of every trace of my being, churn it like butter, remain outside as I live inside.

A constant turmoil, a constant pain, with a face too dry to be able to cry the tears of relief. 

Nothing but pure agony, and silent tears at night curled up in my bed, or screams I cannot let out. 

I want to tear my flesh apart just so I would cease to exist finally. 

How do you explain this? How could you make them understand? 

Perhaps through the use of poetry, the use of words that are often ignored and overlooked. 

Perhaps... 

The desire for violence and the understanding that I am the only master of my catastrophe mix up

The desire to punish me for even breathing in a world that wasn't supposed to welcome me clings

The desire for the sweet relief of celestial beratement for my existence is calling me, teasing me

I am tempted to let myself slip, perhaps this time I wouldn't be useless and would hit the mark.

Perhaps this time I would be able to expiate the sin of my very existence. Perhaps I could hurt myself.

Through pain comes absolution and through absolution comes relief. I'm looking for relief.

I want to tear my flesh apart...

I want to get my comeuppance, finally, have someone tell me I deserve what's coming.

I guess that's the twisted words that decided to escape from my mind today, yesterday... tomorrow

I know those are the twisted words I need to fend off, push back, protect myself from.

I'm not a failure, I'm not a burden, I guess the small world that is my loved ones would mind my death.

I'm just exhausted, and so easily tempted. I'm just exhausted and unable to see through the smoke.

I'm just exhausted and crumbling from deep within.

Crumbling like a sandcastle, until somehow I build myself back up again. 

A sandcastle, how fitting...How terrifying... How true. 

On the impact you have on others, therapy and Mental Illness

 -On the impact you have on others, therapy and Mental Illness-

 

Sometimes it’s her face I see or the last words we said to each other. Sometimes Facebook reminds me of what she wrote about me, a compliment, a funny joke, a little thing. Sometimes it’s the great sadness I feel upon realizing that she’s now gone forever, and the hope that she’s in a better place today. Rest in Heaven Magz. Thank you very much for being in my life however short that was.

 

Magz died from a self-inflicted gunshot a few years ago. She had one of the roughest life one could have and yet she managed to shine brightly around her and give love to others. We bumped into one another by chance and we quickly became friends. She suffered a lot and unfortunately, upon realizing that her spiraling was fueling mine and I would end up killing myself if we remained friends, we separated.  It was the last time we talked but we said how much we cared for one another and we wished each other good luck.

 

She’s gone but her spirit is still alive. She and several of my friends truly helped me understand I was suffering from mental illness and that I had the right to ask for help. She and several of my friends impacted my life so much that I want to celebrate them and encourage those who want to read. Fast-rewind: several years ago, I had no idea about why I was in constant mental pain. I was an open wound and I still refused to address my mental health. « Why bother? » « It wouldn’t work anyway. » « Nobody would want to listen to me. » « I don’t deserve this. » I refused to even acknowledged what I suffered from. You know, childhood abuse, sexual abuse both in my childhood and my adult years, suicidal tendencies with 3 near-successful attempts, self-harming, self-hate, mild to severe Anxiety (my therapists don’t agree on that one), and depression.  That is my baggage. That was my baggage.

 

And I had no idea of what to do with it. I wanted to disappear, to die, I felt undeserving of love. I thought nobody could love me that I would destroy everything and anything I touched. I thought that I was a waste of space, air, and skin and the world would be better with me dead. I thought so many things and anytime life threw me a lemon, I saw it as proof that I was justified with my feelings. It took me a while to build myself back up. Years to be honest. And wonderful friends and family. I had a serious and wonderful support system. These are the people I want to celebrate.

 

They openly talked about their own issues. Their traumas, their fears, their anxiety, and depression. they helped me feel more connected, more normal. A work in progress of some sort. They helped normalize the necessity for healthy relationships, and seeking help when it was needed and they were so outspoken and brave while doing so. I first used to just read, eventually soberly react, but quickly enough, I got to talk to them in private and instead of being rejected, they welcomed me and spoke about their lives. Their struggles. Their dreams. I realized I was able and allowed to have dreams. I created Asma in the process and that helped me, along with the help of others, to actually move forward and towards something positive. I saw great examples of human beings who despite their hardships, were still able to love. They normalized therapy and medication and they helped me come to terms with my own mental illnesses. I learned a lot from them. I sucked in their light and bravery and they inspired me to be more open and to try and learn why it was hurting so much to just be. Therapy helped. After several failed attempts with unsuited therapists, I found one in 2015, right after my third suicide attempt. We worked very well together and his help, coupled with the support of friends and family truly saved me. 2015 was a year that helped me realize that I could ask for help and I could get the right type of help too.

 

It was short-lived for external reasons, but I was given the proper tools to navigate my life and turn it around. It helped me when I was half-paralyzed in the face and even helped me when I started my former job. Fast-forward 2018-2020 saw a degradation of my mental health. I had stopped taking care of it. While I endured one of the most stressful periods of my life, one of my friends told me she started therapy once again but this time she had found an excellent therapist and was receiving medication. You have to understand, prior to my conversation with her, I had always thought that I could do things without the help of meds. There was a stigma I had trouble shaking off regarding medication. I was afraid to end up addicted to it, I thought it would change me deeply, or that it might not work and I’d be disappointed. All valid fears but all born out of anxiety. By the beginning of 2021, after being seriously sick at the beginning of the year, I decided that I couldn’t wait any longer: I had to follow the example my friend set up. I had to resume therapy and hopefully get medication.

 

Let me tell you this : I have never been happier and healthier in my life. Turns out, I had no serotonin left in my blood and therefore it just made everything worse for me. I found a great therapist and this changed the way I feel about myself. « We’re a work in progress and it’s okay. » while it’s not going to « definitely deal » with my afflictions, it does make my life so much easier. I have better and proper tools to handle challenges, I feel more and more myself, and that person is happier, funnier, and even more caring. I feel less the dread of life, or the urge to end my life. I see myself as worthy of being loved, alive and I can finally stop suffocating. There are days when depression takes over but I have been far more gentle towards myself than in the previous years. Friends are important, true friends that are. The family you choose, and the healthy (biological) family members, you also have

 

Life is so short. I nearly died in January and the whole takeaway I kept from my time at the hospital was that: 1) I love my family. 2)) I love my partner (he is my family too and I want to spend the rest of my life with him. 3) I can’t waste time on petty things/feelings. I can’t bend my mind in shapes for toxic people and those who hate me. I’d rather spend it loving others and being loved. 4) I’ll finish my damn book! I’m about to reach page 300. Perhaps in September. Anyway, I’m digressing. What I mean is that today things are better. Therapy and Medication won’t « fix » you. There’s no « fixing » here, there’s nothing « broken » about you. There are these afflictions that make your life really difficult but you can help manage thanks to the help you receive. And while your mental illness is part of you (it’s part of me), that doesn’t mean you are only your MI. That doesn’t define you. That shouldn’t stop you from pursuing a happier life. I’m very aware of myself and while I can’t always prevent a meltdown from happening nor can I control the intensity of it, I can now at least do my best to manage it.

 

So I am eternally grateful for the friends and family who influenced me positively and who supported me through everything. I owe you my life today. I still owe you my life and will owe you my life afterward. Your love means the world to me and gives me the strength to keep looking for a happier and healthier life. I’m alive today thanks to you.

 

I also hope that my testimony would convince you to seek the help you need and deserve. Please remember that if the therapist you chose doesn’t click well with you, then you can change therapist. You are allowed to and you must. Also, there is nothing wrong with being medicated. It’s not a « cop-out » or « the easy way » or whatever bullshit people tell you about it. It’s literally a life-saver. It’s helping you (especially if like me, you have a chemical imbalance), so you can function normally. It’s helping you feel something different from utter despair.  I really hope that it would at least answer a few questions some might have.

 

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.

 

May

Tradition v tradition

 Tradition vs Tradition :

I am going to briefly talk about something that really grinds my gears. Something that has already been discussed and better analyzed than what I am going to offer. This stems from a very intense conversation I had that other day regarding the difference some people make between traditional western garbs and traditional garbs from people of color. (especially from Africa and Latin America and some countries of Asia.)

The disrespect is astounding. Most of the time we are expected to consider that traditional western garbs are, well, traditional and to be respected. Of course, it has to be. Those garbs are colorful, complex to make and each of them has a special meaning for those who wear them. They could be a symbol of resistance or worn to celebrate a special holiday or maybe to perform a special ritual. It is widely accepted and integrated that those costumes shall be regarded as what they are, a piece of culture and celebrated as such. Of course! I encourage this! Be proud of your culture, show off during special holidays or historic piece periods. By all means, there's no reason to laugh at it and insult the culture or the people wearing those costumes. There is no reason to consider those garbs for « dress-up games », or something « exotic » to wear because you fetishize the people who wear them (Of course, some of these western costumes have been sexualized and it's equally disgusting. I am thinking about the costume some german women would wear during beer festival). There is no reason not to take as respectfully and seriously the traditional garbs of non-western countries. There is no reason for people who still wear them on their daily routine to feel ashamed because they wear it and yet, they are still made to feel ashamed of it.

Yes, it's a consequence of colonialism when they laugh at an African garb (or fabric) worn proudly in bright daylight in a western city. Yes, it's a consequence of colonialism when they dress up with native American garb (headpieces included) for Halloween or freaking Coachella. It's disgraceful and humiliating and unfortunately way too widespread as a practice. In my very humble opinion, this shows pretty much how they think of other cultures. Something that doesn't matter, that could be used for a game, for dress-up, or sexual roleplays (sigh, think about all those 'sexy natives Halloween garbs eh ?' I perceive it extremely badly because it's another way to express (whether conscious or not) dominance over said culture. As if it wasn't enough to kill those people and enslave them, or keep on spreading negative stereotypes, you also have to make fun of them by wearing washed-up inaccurate clothes for the kicks of it.  Yes, it's a consequence of colonialism when the very people whose traditional garbs are mocked, follow the same path and keep looking down at those who wear those clothes as if they were savages. (this is internalized racism. It works fantastic, just like internalized misogyny!)  who cannot be respected because they are still dressed in « pre-colonial » clothes? 

It's a tired « culture » of appropriation, salvaging, and reducing to nothingness (or a joke) an entirely different culture that needs to stop. We need to work towards making it less difficult for people to wear their traditional garbs (be it for their own holidays, ceremonies, or everyday routine). I really hope that we could stop normalizing this disgusting behavior or at least be a lot more vocal in our fight against it. I am especially concerned about those of us, people of color, who keep throwing shade at those who do proudly wear their traditional costumes without having second thoughts about it. I understand where it comes from but that doesn't make it less infuriating when an asinine comment comes from someone from that culture. It's heartbreaking to say the very least. I for one, am always advocating for western cultures to show/learn how to respect to what feels foreign to them, especially African and brown culture (brown being an umbrella term here, referencing to non-white (read western European/American WASPs) culture/heavily melanized people. ) but also and most importantly for non-western/white people who suffer from internalized racism to maybe someday, embrace this part of themselves they'd rather not. 

Traditional garbs are all interesting, beautiful, and fascinating. They shouldn't be subject to mockery or systemic racist behaviors. They shouldn't be looked upon as if they were a joke or proof of how 'savage' those brown and black cultures can be. If we can respect traditions from Bretagne and marvel at how beautiful and authentic those costumes are during their celebrations, I believe we could return the favor to any Latino ceremonial garbs, any African one, any southeast Asian one and so and so. 

That was my two cents about this little thing that really grinds my gears !

MOET : BURN OUT

He watched as she came home exhausted, holding back tears and fingers curled into fists.

He watched as she relaxed her body and peeled off the layers of exhaustion and pain.

She wouldn't say a word for they lied; she wouldn't cry a tear cause they dried.

But she knew he knew and he knew she was at the end of the rope, every single night.

For months he'd watched her light dull out. He watched her lose her colors due to stress

he knew how focused and invested she was, but he also saw how it backfired at her too.

For months he helped her through his, with love and care and affection. He really did.

So he knew, yes, he knew.

His heart was aching to see her this tired, yet amazed by her resilience.

He watched as she pushed herself further, harder and tried his best to help her not burn.

There were days he wasn't sure about it, he didn't know if he was helping her for real

he didn't know if it was enough, and doubt crept on his mind. He didn't know, but it was.

She knew that once she would be home, she would also be safe, she would always « be »

she knew that work wouldn't find her there, she wouldn't let her mind play silly games

She wouldn't let her failures define her nor would she forget how to breathe again.

He would remind her to exist, he would remind her to « be », and she loved him for this.

He knew loving her was a piece of work, it was never going to be easy yet he kept going.

He always told her that it wasn't asking too much from him to just be there for her

He always told her that he wanted to love her wholeheartedly and nothing could ruin it.

Not even her own head, not even her own doubts, not even her own fears.

She was a burning flame but he would make sure not to let her burn herself out.

My Suicidal tendencies, how to explain them

I don't always talk about it because there is no good way to begin a conversation involving death. I tried to subtly mention them with my drawings or some stories. I tried to alert people without being too upfront that yes, I do have suicidal tendencies and that maybe one day, I wouldn't be here anymore because I decided to jump the shark. How to explain these? I tried to tell my family but aside from my twin, the only response I have is "Don't do that, think of how badly you'd hurt us if you do." or "Didn't we give you enough? why do you have to repay us this terrible way." or "What did we do?" I get it, it's all about you. I can't talk about it because I know most people would simply run away. I didn't even talk that much about it to my therapist when  I was still seeing one because I am not used to talking about it.

I'll try here though, at least there should be a place where I can express myself fully. So here we go.  Those tendencies started back when I was 12 years old. I went and OD'd on medication and it really was because my nanny went to clear my parents' room that she found me on the floor and I was saved when they emptied my stomach. I was 12 and wanted to die already.  I don't know why but I know I was in pain. Later on, as time went by and memories of a sexual assault by a male!A nanny who worked at home came back. I got lucky, he didn't penetrate me so I was still a virgin. But I do remember the assault, the forced kisses, the threats if I ever talked about it, his hands roaming all over my body. Me saying no and feeling ashamed and how bruised my lips were because he kissed them hard. It's a disgusting memory, it's a disgusting moment and what makes it even more disgusting is that because I kept my mouth shut, he went on an raped my twin. He wasn't even fired because of that because nobody knew at that time. He was fired over some "minor" incident involving the safety of my little sister who was still a baby when it happened. Some hygiene issue.  I kept my mouth shut, I was 7 so it wasn't my fault but the guilt is still there. the guilt of not having said anything and having my twin suffer for my silence. I guess that's why I tried to kill myself when I was 12 otherwise I don't recall what happened.

Urges have always been there since then. I was pushed near suicide by very abusive people who were supposed to be my friends. I was tempted to do it on my own, especially when I was experiencing down/severely depressed moments. They always happened after a manic phase. I didn't even realize it was a manic phase, bare with me since I have just started knowing I was suffering from mental illness this year. my therapist believes it's bipolarity which could work with all the symptoms I show, but I need a psychiatrist to confirm it's actually this so I could have medication. But if it's the case, it could explain why the suicidal tendencies. It could explain why a simple thought can fester and turn into an excruciating truth. It could explain why I hate myself so much. I still can't love myself. I think I would never be able to. When I look at myself in the mirror, all I see is a failure. All I see is something gross. and you know, I really believe that if I'm gone it's not going to change anything. People would move on. I don't matter. I just don't. And now that I'm thinking about it, it's a feeling I always had, even when I was extremely slim or curvy at the right places. I always thought I was gross. useless, a waste of air and space and skin. People don't see it and can't see it. They can't know it because I can't talk about it. Every day I wake up and wish I didn't. Every time I go to bed, I just wish I would sleep forever. Everytime.

It hurts you know, to be alive. It hurts because you know you can't-do shit. I know I can't-do shit. I'm just designed to be in pain. Every little joy I have to feel like I won the lottery because the rest of the time I am just in pain.  I believe I am alive only to punish my soul for something I did in the past or an ancient life. I am here to expiate my life. I am here to pay a price. Otherwise, I don't know why I am here and why I am in such a pain. I feel guilty to be alive. I feel like happiness is just a concept I'll never fulfill. It's just a dream.  I feel like whatever I do and whatever I say, I'm just hurting people around me. nobody can even be happy to see me. nobody can possibly be happy to see me.  I'm just dragging them down, giving them troubles. people would be far better without me.

How to talk about my suicidal tendencies? I could tell you that what prevents me from hurting myself in the most gruesome ways are phobias.  I can't stand seeing my blood, so I can't use a knife. I want to. I wish I could find some strength to stab myself but it's going to be messy and it's going to hurt and if I miss myself, I'll ruin my poor aesthetics already.  I can't smother myself, I can't drown, I certainly won't throw myself off of the window because I can't stand heights. I can't break my neck (one of the things I hate to see on movies, can't even bring a hand around my neck). The only solution is of course to OD or if I really really feel like it, just be hit by a car, or starve myself.  Last time I tried to drink bleach but I am glad I didn't, it'll be a mess and I might have survived that shit.

So I struggle every day with eating enough not to starve (I still just eat once a day), make sure I'm not playing with knives because I always was this close to hurt myself with them, to the point of having it nearly pierce the skin and I stay away from meds. unless I have to take them (because of course, when I'm sick, I don't take my treatment hoping it could get worse so I could die) That's my daily fights.

This is really funny... I can't even succeed in killing myself properly. See, that's the kind of thought I have to deal with on a daily basis. That's why I can't talk about it to anyone because it's just too much of a burden to carry.  I'm not that great, I'm just terrible and it's only a matter of time before people notice. I guess, fucking life.

unrequited love is not safe: random thoughts

I used to believe there was a beauty in unrequited love, a safety net because I already knew the ending. Was it an excuse to crash against the wall or to put a distance between people and me? was it an excuse so I could handle better the three moments of my life I let someone in and ended up devastated as a result? because frankly.. these people were a class A assholes.. borderline psychopath for one of them.

Unrequited love is not pretty. It's not even safe. Not when it's a never-ending destructive loop you choose because this way is safer. Not when you can't trust yourself enough to let someone in. Not when you're convinced that everything you'll do would only destroy the other and/or you for all you care.

so, because I'm the champion for falling for all the wrong people, it's better to watch at a distance until I come to terms with myself.

But I still have to say, you are one pretty temptation I don't know how to resist. One I'd eat with my afternoon tea without thinking about the calories because you make my whole self, tingle. Thank you for that. But I'd watch at a distance for both you and myself