Wednesday, July 8, 2020 – 8:12PM
I woke up from another nap around 7PM and it took every fiber of my soul to escape the clutches of some sweet dream and force myself to write.
I didn’t mean that the way it sounds, it feels good to write every single day, especially when my ankle is preventing me from following up on my daily yoga or pilates calendar and the neurotic control-freak inside of me is starting to spiral. I just mean sometimes (and this week in particular) it feels good to sleep forever and breaking out of this comatose state is harder than it seems.
I can’t believe it’s Week 2 already, which means there are only 3 weeks left in July, which is crazy. I saw a meme about how each day in quarantine feels 900 hours long, but how each month feels like a week, and it couldn’t be more relatable. I have so many personal goals I set for myself this month – physical, emotional, internal, external – and my ankle injury is so poorly timed I’m trying not to scream. July was supposed to be a holistic cleanse, a detox of negativity and bad habits, and I spent a week in bed before facing another week (possibly) being confined to more bed rest.
This week I want to look at the throat chakra, the color blue, and speaking my truth after holding my tongue for so long. I feel really sad today, a mean case of the blues, but not something that’s escalated into the mean reds.
I feel like I can’t be entirely honest with the people I love which is difficult, I feel like I’m never there for people when they need me because I’m so emotionally and physically inaccessible which makes me angry with myself, I feel like some people will never know how much I care about them which frustrates me but I’m learning that you can’t force intimacy, I feel like I self-isolate to a point where people give up on me and it’s sad because I hurt the people who care in ways the people who don’t care hurt me, I feel like I’m forever trapped in a state of suspended nostalgia which seeps into my reoccurring high school dreams where I wander the halls in search of my locker; a manifestation of my lack of place, I guess. A sign that I need to move the fuck on. But I still care, I still remember everything in such vivid detail, so I can’t. Sometimes I feel really under-appreciated in the face of how much I disproportionally care, and I have to remind myself that being insecure is the direct undermining of love, that I need to learn how to trust.
I read on my birthday horoscope recently that Pisces born on February 25th have trust issues; which is rare for a water sign so open and loving, and I couldn’t find it to be any truer. I feel like people will inevitably grow tired of me, hurt me, or leave me; maybe because I have so little patience for myself, and in writing this I realize speaking my truth reverts back to a foundation of self-love I still haven’t built.
I feel sad today, but I feel lonely too. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve had a real conversation with anyone because of the time difference, my sleep schedule, and now my injury, and I just spend my waking days and dream-filled nights thinking about intimacy. The things I want to share but haven’t been communicating, the weight of all the things unsaid, the lack of solidarity I feel in my current relationships due to my emotional and physical distance, how fragile and eggshell-white everything seems; a sugar-spun candy egg you shatter with a silver hammer.
I’ve tried to open up to someone new recently and I hate the way it feels. Every word I choose in a sentence I spend too much time stringing together makes me uncomfortable in a way that makes me angry to think about. I hate that these are the first necessary steps in getting to know someone and I hate the discomfort I feel whenever I’m forced to be vulnerable. I hate how every realization of my loneliness is met with this insurmountable wall of resistance; I promise my friends I’ll try harder to be more open but they’re always met with some form of distance.
The girl who bullied me in diary entry number one once told me something I remember verbatim when I sought her out at a frat party and sat on the deck trying to reconcile with her because I couldn’t live with the constant tension between us.
“I really care about you,” I said, clasping her hands. She withdrew from my grip and looked at me coldly and said matter-of-factly, “I don’t believe that. I genuinely don’t think you’re capable of thinking of anyone but yourself.”
She said it with no anger, no malice. It was just her appraisal of me and why she treated me that much worse than all of our other friends she took care of so warmly. It proved to me how little she knew me because my greatest vice is that I care too much, that I feel insecure about overwhelming the people I love with my intense feelings, that I cared about her even as she hated me – but as I cried in my room alone that night, none of my roommates expressed anger or indignation on my behalf. What she had said to me didn’t seem incredulous to them and their lack of seeing me continued to build on a divide I needed to erect before my constant irrigation emptied into a chasm and left me with nothing but a desiccated husk.
I don’t want to get into the abuse and mistreatment, the gaslighting and manipulation I endured at the hands of so many different people because I was too eager to please, to help, to give myself up. It hurts too much to think about and I don’t want to spiral when I already feel so fragile; I’ve worked hard to cling onto this frame of a functional being. What I will say is that the insecurity I feel in my current relationships is rooted in repeated experience and that the eyes of every man seem really mean to me. It’s terrifying to admit, but whenever someone attractive smiles at me I feel uneasy; I just see a sneer instead of a smile, I see the man underneath the mask, I see the locker room texts he sends to his friends underneath the sweet nothings he whispers into my ear. I just see the potential to be hurt at the start of every potential relationship.
I want to be loved but I don’t know where to start.
Thursday, July 9, 2020 – 12:48PM
Today was Day 3 of being stuck in bed.
My brother asked about my ankle and the truth is, it’s still ugly and tender and bruised and swollen and I can’t venture outside because I live on the rooftop of a traditional Balinese villa with a slippery stone staircase that gives me anxiety to think about. There are no railings and it’s built with smooth stones and I’ve slipped on them once or twice before but now hobbling down that flight on my left foot seems both unfathomable and unreasonable.
I haven’t eaten much besides my inclusive breakfast and instant noodles so the only solution to my current predicament is to sleep, a lot. I’m going to try and shower and venture out tomorrow, maybe even communicate with the outside world and the loved ones I’ve put on hold for too long, but I don’t mind sleeping in for another day when my ankle throbs even while elevated and is such an ugly black and blue three days later. All this stillness isn’t good for my sadness, my emotional frustrations concentrated by confinement, but writing every day helps and so does the daily reminder to be kind to myself.
Today is the first day I’ve been awake to hear the torrential jungle rain instead of being half-cognizant of the sound against my windowpane while drifting in and out of sleep, wondering if it was a dream. It was such a comforting sound, that rush of wind and water ringing in my ears as a reminder of the outside world instead of so much silence. I can hear the splash of motorbikes in the streets below me as they drive through the rising rainwater in the gutters and welcome the drop in humidity as the whole world takes a breath together.
I want to be more alive; experiencing the outdoors, enjoying a hot meal in my belly, remembering what it feels like to be loved or missed, sweating in the summer sun, feeling my legs traverse briskly to another potential place of exploration with my hand anxiously clutching onto my phone. It’s sad that even here, I need some sort of buffer from the leering men as a woman traveling alone.
Maybe remembering this feeling; hearing the sound of the rain I can’t physically access because it hurts too much to get dressed and walk over to my terrace, maybe this will be enough to get me out of bed and down those terrifying stairs tomorrow. Maybe I’ll go to the café next door and stay for three square meals.
Writing has certainly helped me open up in other ways, convincing me that it’s time to play with vulnerability. I’ve only dipped my toe in the water, I haven’t allowed myself to be fully submerged, but it’s the first step in an exercise of facing the unknown. I don’t want to look back at these entries and continue to feel sad about the amount of love I deprive myself of, I want to utilize my realizations to better myself and face the demons I’m constantly running from. I don’t want to be forever stuck in this negative feedback loop of self-deprivation and mistrust, I want myself to grow into believing I’m worthy of being loved. It’s pointless to write such lengthy self-analyses with no ultimate end-result. The difference between the person I was and the person I am is the self-awareness and willingness to grow up.
I’m talking to someone and I feel much less afraid than I did yesterday. Three months from now I might come to regret my openness the way I did in Korea, but for now it’s something I admit I need. An exercise in trust, the ability to try again even after being repeatedly burned. I actually don’t have any regrets about Korea, I’m proud of the way I handled myself when things ended the way that they did and I’m appreciative of the things I learned even if I didn’t get everything I wanted. I love myself for recognizing what I deserve and staying strong even when my resolve in the first months apart wore thin.
I used to be a self-numbing drunk with a mess of boys, then I became a self-numbing comfort eater with a self-imposed decree of never being touched. Now, self-loving self-respecting me – what kind of love will this person find? It’s definitely scariest because this time it requires me being real; no façade or shield.
Whether or not I will still be speaking to this person even a month from now, it’s worth writing about in this diary because of the milestone that it is to me. This tense, uncertain step forward into getting to know each other that will be the best part to look back on, no matter the end result.
It’s such a struggle to be fully seen that I forgot how equally difficult it is to reveal yourself in careful layers. I want to take my time dancing toe-to-toe with a stranger, mirroring each deliberate confession instead of instantly ripping everything off. My impatience in the past has been my biggest downfall, revealing all of myself in a reverberating tidal wave of young love.
It wasn’t an equal exchange but my own selfish need to be seen, something I realize now can’t be forced. It’s a lesson I’m carrying into the relationships where I still feel hurt, where I still grapple with the awkward distance and the vestiges of nostalgia.
I’m trying not to live the rest of my life as a Papa Roach song.
Friday, July 10, 2020 – 10:39AM
I have to admit that committing to this daily exercise has proved more fruitful than I anticipated. I struggled with the pressure of what to write and overthinking, but now I’ve gotten to the point where I look forward to it (this can change day to day, I’m sure) and find recording all my thoughts as therapeutic as I once did. For the first time, I feel like I have too much to say instead of not knowing where to start.
I’ve learned a lot about myself in the past week and a half and reevaluating my emotional triggers has helped tremendously with my anxiety and negative thought patterns. I feel less trapped, less overwhelmed, less stuck – which is a huge emotional advantage given my very physical entrapment due to this fucking awful ankle injury. I still can’t support my weight after attempting to shower today because my entire body felt as grimy as the inside of a full-body cast and then my stomach forcibly rejected my umpteenth meal of quarantine-stockpiled instant ramen this morning so I’m just not eating at all. Super healthy.
Still, I woke up eager to write, with much to say, and this purpose has kept me from spiraling about my fourth consecutive day of injury-mandated bed rest. I don’t know what tomorrow is going to look like but today has taught me I am far from functional just yet. It is a bitter pill to swallow and I definitely feel restless.
I’ve had about three hours of sleep due to the adrenaline in my body when I lay in bed and all I can think about is what feels like an active betrayal to all of my instincts. I can’t stop thinking about him, but not in a romantic sense – less about him and more about what the fuck I’m doing and if I’m actually ready for this or if I’d feel better just never having feelings forever.
I found myself creating a mental list of all the reasons why I shouldn’t like him and I realized this morning upon snapping my eyes open that this is an unconscious pattern that I subject every fucking relationship to from the start.
And I realized, fuck I need to write about this.
I look back at every boy I’ve ever liked – not just dated – but anyone I’ve ever harbored an emotional attraction towards and realize that I’ve constructed a pros and cons list about every guy. I don’t even know it started, though definitely rooted in my neurotic dependencies on lists in everyday life, but I’ve found that I’ve divided my emotions into two columns for them all. To clarify, it wasn’t a list of physical traits or flaws vs. merits – it was a list about all the reasons why I should like them vs. all the reasons why I shouldn’t; if the chance of flying was worth the inevitable pain of the fall. Almost always, staying firmly rooted won the call.
Time has consistently proven that guys are assholes and nice guys finish last and the risk is rarely worth the reward, but I’m more concerned with this implicit lack of trust I’ve been nurturing since Day 1. The men can come and go, they can beg to stay or run away the first chance they get, it’s all background noise against the forefront of my pursuit for self-love. I am the embodiment of that meme: “Girl, who hurt you to make you like this?” But the answer is, I don’t fucking know.
I don’t ever remember having the courage to not run away, even from an early age, just feeling helpless to do anything but suppress the way I felt out of mislabeled rationale. I remember every burn branded on my skin by the men who handled me carelessly, sometimes hatefully, occasionally abusively, then later self-abusively; puppets under my control, using their hands to carry out my marionette misery, but these men only served to validate an inherent mistrust I had already fostered.
I don’t think men realize the fragility of even the strongest female.
It’s what I love most about being a woman, even with all of the trials and catcalls and discomfort and fear of running in the mornings or traveling alone or the systemic misogyny and constant patronization; I would choose to be reborn as a female for all the lifetimes I have left to live. There is a beautiful duality in the constitution of every woman no man can begin to define or comprehend; strength in vulnerability, vulnerability in strength, softness in all our hard edges.
Klimt and the other artists captivated by the female form understood this. Late in my womanhood, I am only beginning to grasp it.
At my most broken, I had all the men in my life convinced that I was fiercely unbowed; a rare specimen with no emotional weakness. I maneuvered in and out of beds and relationships with a masculinity that left me doubly empty from the energy I was wasting in suppressing my natural femininity.
It worked to keep me alive, for the person I was back then, but I often look back at that time; not with regret as much as disbelief. Every man fell for the façade without seeing the truth so bitterly laid out in front of them.
I used to think that I had come so far but every day I realize I have so much more work to do. To soften these brittle edges, to open up. I’m not as feminine as I had thought, I’m still clinging to that masculine tactic of emotional disconnect and it feels fraudulent and wrong. It’s my safe space, the place from which I’ve operated for too long, but it reminds me of that fucking idiot in my Freshman Year seminar who would go on long, exhausting diatribes about how love was nothing but a chemical reaction in the brain because he was so obviously unloved. Also, a delusional narcissist and pseudo-intellectual, but most definitely unloved. Particularly by me and our female professor who would take turns eviscerating his condescending lectures because fuck toxic masculinity.
I have a lot to say today because I’m trapped in bed and unable to go for a walk or get something to eat, so this is it – this diary is the pinnacle of my daily existence and somehow, I find myself being okay with that. The internet is also not working because jungle wi-fi is the worst so it’s literally just me and my thoughts. It’s funny how when it’s all in my head, it’s so overwhelming but when it’s written down or spoken aloud, these thoughts can almost feel comforting.
So, to you, potential suitor, because I should probably refocus this runaway train on my original diagnosis of me being a runaway bride, I don’t know how honest I’ll be with you about my trust issues or emotional reservations because I’m still figuring out what I want and that requires a degree of emotional honesty I owe to myself, but not necessarily to you. I have this long list of qualms I’ve written up about why this is a bad idea and there’s only one man whose eyes bore through all of my defensive rationalizations to fully see me, hidden underneath.
In some ways, he was a fluke, impossibly kind in a chain of awful men, but he proved the pay-off for vulnerability can be real. No one else has backed that claim so I guess I’m still left wondering if that isolated incident over a decade ago is the end-goal or an impossible-standard. I feel apologetic; to be as unfair as to use him as a measure or to be so cruel as to construct an entire subliminal case against falling for you. It’s self-sabotage like this that I need to become aware of so I can grow into the kind of person who loves as openly as I deserve.
I know it’s nothing serious, I’m not even sure if what I want is something serious, but I want it to become something I’m capable of if I become more open to the possibility. I’ve used a lot of men as emotional experiments; testing out theories, satisfying my curiosity, serving as research for writing material, and I’m learning to not immediately objectify males in an effort to emotionally distance myself by misdirecting their affection towards other means.
I guess that’s another huge realization but my body is aching from typing in bed with my ankle propped up so bookmarking that deep dive for another day.
Saturday, July 11, 2020 – 6:43PM
I slept horribly last night after being so delirious from sleep-deprivation that I wasn’t making any sense. I kept misinterpreting text, conversation, and images in ways that made me feel like I perceiving information in another dimension; not comprehending what was meant at face-value.
This translated into fitful slumber tainted by stress nightmares; of my brother not listening to me and being bullied by gas-lighters from my past. I woke up 20 minutes late for breakfast and felt like I should write before the dreams escaped me like they always do if I don’t jot them down immediately but it’s now almost 7PM because after breakfast I passed out into a kind of instantaneous slumber that was much needed after the past few days of adrenaline, stress, and strange dreams.
I haven’t seen the sun in almost a week but my ankle is still a putrid green and tender to the touch and it’s been raining endlessly; my poorly-lit studio remaining dark all day due to the sea of grey clouds preventing any possible patch of blue sky or sunlight from penetrating through. I think that triggered my inner clock into thinking it was perpetual night, allowing me to sleep this well.
I woke up with a throbbing headache so I finally allotted myself 2 of the extra strength Tylenol I’ve been rationing since buying them in Brooklyn because Asian drugs, and honestly even European paracetamol, just doesn’t do it for me like these American pharmaceuticals. I feel really gross from not showering, over sleeping, not working out, lying in bed for so many days in succession; but this is exactly what I was afraid would happen since the first day I veered off my sleep schedule.
I can’t function without rigid discipline, this week of sleepless nights and dream-filled days proving just that. I also haven’t bothered to plan my daily schedule out of anxiety due to the past week of ankle-injury induced inactivity. I promised myself I would wake up for breakfast, shower, then accomplish a few productive tasks as loose goals rather than regimented responsibilities and each day I just crawled back into bed, propped my foot up on a pillow, and went the fuck back to sleep.
I’ve learned that playing things by ear doesn’t work for me and I need a schedule for the accountability. Injury or no, my body and soul are breaking down from this life-deteriorating pattern of hibernation and I need to do something to regulate my sleeping habits again. A large part of my sleeplessness was attributable to this new vulnerability I’m undertaking and how I can literally feel my body humming with fight-or-flight anxiety. It got so consuming that I deleted every trace of interaction and left the ball in his court to initiate conversation.
I realize I have done this with a long list of past suitors; another pattern I was unaware of prior to the retrospect of recorded recognition. I get so consumed by my over-thinking that I feel like I’m losing myself to someone who will hurt me so I delete their number and our conversation in an effort to stop rereading, stop micro-analyzing, stop obsessing and tell myself that if he cares, he’ll text first.
I didn’t sleep at all yesterday but after finally emerging from a coma-like slumber today, I feel ready to accept that what’s done is done and it was the right thing to do, even if a large part of me has fallen into that toxic spiral of feeling convinced I’ll never hear from him again, because I just need to sleep regularly again. Whether or not I speak to him again; things will unfold as they will and for now, I just need to fill my days with physical activity and outside experiences instead of festering fear.
In the past, every single guy has eventually texted back.
Sunday, July 12, 2020 – 7:31AM
Woke up 20 minutes late for breakfast again. Head is pounding. I slept a total of 19 hours since yesterday and yet this eternal fatigue seems to have no end. After 3 days of perpetual grey, today the clouds look like rolling waves; continuing in layer upon layer like a frosted cake, still not an inch of sky or sun to be seen.
I want to be better about recording my meals here, in the same way I want to be more accountable about writing down my dreams. I know the unique tastes and textures I experience here will pale in comparison to the “Balinese” dishes that are inevitably Americanized back home.
Today’s Balinese breakfast was a delicious egg and batter pancake with chive, onion, and sliced garlic. It was tantalizingly crispy on the edges but chewy and gummy in the center like a rice cake.
It’s interesting how Asian countries all have their distinct version of similar dishes, a continental development that occurred simultaneously in our culinary culture in spite of our country lines. It reminded me of Korean jeons, which are my all-time favorite Korean food and which my mother makes sure to prepare in batches for me and my brother when we visit her because whatever she allots in advance is never enough. The heavier egg to dough ratio reminded me still of Chinese jian-bing and Vietnamese banh-xeo, while still retaining a Balinese profile all its own.
Covered in a pool of tangy, sweet and sour, ketchup-based sauce, it was delicious on its own but made me instinctively crave a serving of steaming white rice for balance. I’ve been craving Korean food and raw, fibrous veggies lately – there’s too much sodium in everything I eat, which would be my one complaint about Bali. To be fair, a lot of the food I order is Indonesian interpretations of Western or Chinese dishes, but even the Indonesian food is so overly salty that I often grimace. I miss the pickles and pasta in Korea, a combination that disturbed me in the beginning but I grew to later appreciate the acidity in tandem with the creamy richness; the prioritization of a well-balanced palate.
My favorite part of traditional Indonesian dishes are the raw cucumber and tomato served on the side of every main dish, so much of it reminiscent to the fried Filipino dishes with the exact same accompaniments and very much needed to complete the otherwise heavy dishes. I remember being similarly startled in Kuala Lumpur, the language having a surprising amount of similarities to the little Tagalog I knew – my research later informed me that a substantial amount of Malay words entered the Tagalog vocabulary during 400 AD due to the trade and diplomatic relations between Asia-Pacific communities. The same was true for the connections between Bahasa and Tagalog, hearing “Selamat Pagi” (Good Morning) and thinking of “Salamat” (Thank You), and learning that both had Arabic roots.
I find it fascinating how inter-related all of these Austronesian cultures are, and shocking how underrepresented Southeast-Asian cultures continue to be; their religion, their influences, their language, their history, their customs are all so unique to the Chino-Korean-Japanese classifications that seem to take up the forefront of the Asian identity. I used to resent the mainstream Chinese-Japanese representation in Western culture; between sushi and Chinese food, ninjas and kung-fu, constantly being mistaken for one or the other as the only “Asian options” until Korea had its moment recently with K-pop and kimchi. Once Korean culture became popularized, I realized how little Southeast-Asian cultures are represented, even within the so-called Pan-Asian communities fighting for visibility.
I moved to Korea last November and was called “white” every fucking day until I moved to Bali in March and was called “white” here too. It was a strange kind of culture shock to be perceived as the same as the very people who rejected me for being too yellow. It’s the age-old story of Asian-Americans suspended in the limbo of neither here nor there, but it was doubly bizarre facing this rejection from a place I considered my homeland before having this perception perpetuated in a place where I felt different from all the other white tourists.
Reintroducing myself to the world of dating also brings up the constant caution of identifying men who fetishize anyone Asian. It’s such a hard line to toe because I certainly have a type myself; my personal line-up of white dudes I’ve dated who all look the same. But there’s something about males and their obsessive Asian fetishes that feels cheaper than my dating preferences, as if race is a prerequisite and everything else is secondary. As a rule, I avoid any man whose dating history is “exclusively Asian” because the reductive sexualization of race isn’t an appreciation, but an undermining of the complexities of being a minority.
What is the line between a “preference” and a “fetish,” and what is the line between an “inclination” and “racism?” I myself am trying to be more open to a more diverse experience but find myself being drawn to a similar archetype again and again; I’ve tried to date Asian guys in the past, only to be rejected for being “too much” or “too loud,” and similar things have happened with other races. For some reason, the guys I feel most connected to happen to be white men, but “white” isn’t a precursor for my dating preference in the way “Asian” seems to be the determining characteristic for so many Asia-philic men.
In the same way that Asian fetishizers make me lose my appetite, so does the bare feet culture in Bali – aka the white girl in the café sitting across from me who has decided to remove both her sweaty socks and her sneakers as I attempt to eat.
I also can’t eat fruit anymore, I keep coming up with creative ways of throwing it out without offending my host family. I get so into my head about certain foods like avocado, red meat, brussel sprouts, beets – I actually enjoy them all in theory, but in practice I get so weirded out from overthinking that I avoid them until they go bad and I throw them out before repeating the cycle. Does this happen to anyone else or is it just me? Is it a sign of my larger issues with food? I am definitely weird about food and it controls my life to a certain degree, also a lot of food guilt after using it as a coping mechanism, and this is validated by online quizzes. It’s an extension of my controlling ways and something I can’t let go of, coupled with my digestive sensitivities. But what it really boils down to is the power of my mind over my body; how my neurosis doesn’t affect just my emotional state and relationships but carries over into my eating habits and relationship with my body.
Update, 11:50AM – In direct sunlight and not my poorly lit bedroom, my ankle is so green and gnarly I can’t believe I’m walking around. Also, moving for the first time in a week has me feeling dangerously dizzy. I’ve lost a significant amount of weight but too rapidly, in a way that makes me feel unsteady. I tried to speak; at the grocery store then later at this café (practicing social distancing) and my voice keeps cracking; almost dusty from lack of use like a forgotten item on a shelf. I speak in whispers, the timbre of my own voice now unfamiliar even to me – I’ve forgotten how to open my mouth and form a consequential sound.
Monday, July 13, 2020 – 7:02AM
I woke up from a very convincing dream but I didn’t record it immediately, instead hopping in the shower the minute my alarm went off because last night I went to bed with all my makeup on and needed to scrub the grime from my eyes.
It’s the first time the sun has been out in days and the room flooded with light as I awoke; I feel filled with a certain energy I’ve lacked all the days before. I read that mercury was in retrograde (I’m not much of an astrologist so at first I took this to be a rare cataclysmic event that occurred once a year, not something as annoyingly persistent as my monthly cycle blues) but that has finally passed and with it, so should my emotional and physical lethargy.
My horoscope continued to say that in the aftermath of the retrograde, I should remember that I am worthy of love and joy. That I should feel as admired, celebrated, and valued as my friends see me. That this reclamation of self-worth would allow me to receive the love the deserve.
I know skeptics always say that this is the folly of astrology, that there is enough universal truth for horoscopes to always be applicable. But to me (though I don’t fully subscribe to birth charts or plan my day around predictions), it’s both comforting and surprising to come across these seemingly personal messages; that the stars knew I was struggling emotionally all week and struggle in my daily life to embrace self-love. The timing of this advice, right as I was embarking on my own journey of self-discovery, seemed more than just uncanny. It spoke directly to the anxiety that bleeds into my mind as I sleep. It’s hard when there is so much truth imbibed into my dreams that I don’t know what to believe.
There is a persistent underlying message of fearing rejection from the ones I love. I know this is a projection of my own self-rejection than any indication of my friends’ loyalties. My friends love me more than I love myself; they would never treat me the way they are portrayed in my dreams – they would never ignore the signs of my sadness or walk away when I need them. It took meeting and reconnecting with the people I was fated to befriend to understand true, unconditional love but I’m afraid the scars of the past have a way of making themselves known even years after superficially healing.
This was also true of the tattoo I got on my left wrist exactly a decade ago, that became inflamed and swollen and itchy and covered in a red rash I couldn’t understand. I googled everything I could, wondering why it was happening now, after ten years of no issues, the outlines of the tattoo angrily raised in contusion. I found myself on that dark path only WebMD can take me down and diagnosed myself with an autoimmune disorder called Sarcoidosis because the irritated tattoo wasn’t from infection, contamination, eczema, allergies, or psoriasis. Sarcoidosis seemed to be the only applicable answer because the rash was specifically concentrated within the lines of my old tattoo and nowhere else on my body.
I also found it was extremely plausible because of the connection to breathing problems; especially after having been diagnosed with Long QT Syndrome in Korea this past February. I had the reddish skin bumps, the blurred vision, the hoarse voice, the pain in my extremities, the benign cyst growth, the arrhythmias, the ringing in my ears, and the fucked up nervous system. I was considerably Vitamin D deficient, subsisting off instant noodles and no fresh vegetables, and most definitely suffering from an unrelenting and unexplained fatigue.
I also had a giant pimple sprouting on my left cheek due to a substantial layering of moisturizer, primer, foundation, concealer, and prime jungle sweat that I left to fester instead of washing my face before bed.
So when my alarm rang this morning, my initial thought upon waking up was that it was all a dream; the discomfort of something growing on my skin, the terrifying rash, the WebMD spiral, but then I remembered that those parts were real. I run my fingers over my now smooth tattoo again and again, almost in wonderment. In the time that I slept and awoke, it’s back to normal again. Honestly the symptoms of Sarcoidosis I exhibit can all be attributable to my anxiety, low blood sugar, and other injuries. Plus I don’t have kidney stones, swollen lymph nodes, dry cough, lesions, or discolored skin so in retrospect I was just reaching.
Also, making good on my promise to write more about visceral food memories, it is officially thirteen days since I went vegan and today I am craving chicken (I know I had an egg omelette yesterday but the inclusive breakfast is beyond my control).
Also, by chicken I mean a very specific type of Indonesian fried chicken called ayam geprek with spicy smashed sambal. Since last night I have been inexplicably craving this dish that I had twice a week when I first moved here, sweating profusely into my dish and smoking cigarettes in between; always the only woman.
I read that different cravings are different emotional responses to things we’re lacking and I don’t know what spicy fried cravings mean but to me, it just means I want chicken and that I doubt I can continue this vegan experiment beyond this month. But it’s an exercise in discipline and self-growth, and to me that’s enough.
Tuesday, July 14, 2020 – 5:55 PM
It’s 5:55PM make a wish!! I know it’s immature but I still feel a kind of magic when the clock strikes in a succession of identical digits and even if I don’t do it for the rest, I always make sure to make a wish when it’s 11:11. I watched an interview with JLO today where she talks about being 49 but still feeling 16 and it gave me a certain comfort in knowing I wasn’t alone in feeling perpetually fifteen or still blowing out candles every sequential year in abject disbelief. Time flies and we are all so pitifully mortal. I’m glad even a goddess like Jennifer Lopez can agree.
It’s the final day of Week 2 and honestly terrifying to think we’re already halfway through the month! I spent the entire second week of July crippled by my ankle injury and spending so much time in bed made me realize palpably that a week is a quarter of a month and a month is hardly enough time to accomplish a lengthy list of goals. I got up at 4AM today, finally, feeling frustrated by my physical limitations and decided to strive for everything I set an intention to finish at the end of June.
I had three cups of coffee and still feel wired and it’s so weird to think that on some days I can have four cups of coffee and still pass the fuck out an hour later. Today is definitely not one of days, I think my body is just buzzing with the adrenaline of ambition and I don’t want to be held back any longer.
After I finish today’s entry, I’m going to plan out every hour of every day from now until the last day of July. I realize this is the only way I can accomplish everything I promised myself, especially now that I’m a week behind schedule. I religiously create my weekly schedule every Sunday so this is nothing new, but given my current circumstances, I would rather plan everything altogether because there are too many things I have let fall to the wayside by assuming I have more time than I actually do. I feel like this is also a metaphor for life and it just hit me fucking hard.
I have a certain writing piece I’ve been working on since May (independent of this project) and while this diary (now) comes easy to me due to the freedom of free-flow (which was honestly debilitating at first, hence the thematic chakra healing for prompted inspiration), the other prose I’m working on has seen little to no progress because I have such a clear intention I’ve set that trying to convey that message in the way I need to keeps tripping me up. I keep missing the mark; endlessly circling around what I really mean to say until I run out of fuel.
So finishing that would be my first priority.
I also meant to run more this month, not just for fitness but because I love it and always feel so much better afterwards. I mentioned earlier that the men on their motorbikes incessantly slowing down to yell shit at me while I pointedly keep my eyes straight ahead played their part in me postponing my run every morning, but there’s nothing like being physically incapable of doing the thing you were previously avoiding by choice to make you wish you could do it again.
I might not be able to run in July, but I’ll start with long walks. The half marathon I signed up for in March, which was supposed to be held at the end of this month, has been officially canceled due to Covid-19. It’s a shame, but did not come as a surprise, and I absolutely would not have participated even if it was still on. It’s just one goal I had this month that I am actually happy to postpone as a later life accomplishment. I guess in that sense, my ankle injury was well-timed but it’s hard to keep positive when I still feel so resentful of this active attempt to overcome my negativity because I am, in fact, very fucking bitter.
I think that’s my biggest hang-up with a lot of out-of-touch yogi teachings, because these days everyone who shops at Whole Foods with a reusable tote is a spiritual guru. I think actively working to better yourself is certainly a good thing and a lifelong journey, but I hate this insincere veneer of “positive vibes only” when there are days where we’re sad, cranky, insecure, bitter, or lonely. Those feelings are a part of me, a portion of my truth, not something to be categorically compartmentalized as something I can outwardly “acknowledge” instead of diving into because it doesn’t serve this unrealistically well-adjusted version of me. I don’t want to be a “version,” I just want to be me.
Messily, emotionally, imperfectly, unapologetically, wholly, humanly me.
noted things 