Growing Up Halo-Halo

 It’s been a whole year since I wrote last.  I couldn’t tell you where the time went. It’s been a long, exhausting year, and I never thought about picking up the proverbial pen until now.  Some things don’t change, and the idea of writing comes in the dead of night. Uncertain if it comes from the dread of winter or a place of healing. Maybe somewhere in the middle.  I wish I was the more consistent person I want to be, and alas my flaws stare me in the face. However, some things do change (a lot has this year), and I’m wondering if the tone of my words may have shifted.  The act of composing has always been for myself, it reaching someone else that needs it (because I couldn’t expect someone to enjoy it?), an afterthought. And so as my eyes get increasingly strained from the light of my phone against the darkness of my room, I (indecisively) hope that the writing comes back to me.  Ideally maybe not at 12:30 in the morning when I have to be awake by 7....

I haven't been graced or privileged to find a community within my culture. Not since I moved.  It was my mother that gave that to me. She was the glue that held me there, the proof I needed to exist in that space, like a certificate I could hold high. They'd look at her and it clicked when I stood beside her. It was the only thing that made sense. She carried me so far until the biracial weight was too much for the both of us. I feel like without her, I'm just some sort of fraud. An imposter, a phoney. Too ambiguous and too English to be allowed in certain circles. My mom was my ticket for that train, and it's like I'm standing alone on the platform because I missed the last one. Dreading having to step off of it, feeling as if I do, there's nothing beyond it. When I recount memories, she has always been my bridge; and I constantly worry about the day it burns down.  She is always a voice I hear in the back of my mind, whether I need it or not. I could probably ...

What would it look like If I wrote a letter, w ith all the words I can’t say  They come to me in the dark now Trying their best to describe all the ways That they catch in my throat, t angle themselves with my tongue  As I try to thrust them out  spit them out Chest heaving with the weight of them Collapsing with syllables  Sounds lost, choked and cut off Burning as they come up, turned to ashes A larynx severed, with the sharpest edge And even if I could manage, Produce the scribbled lines I’d use those same blades To slice though the pages  Write them down in pencil Just to erase them away  Undo the work of hands that the soul won't allow Leave the paper untouched Clean, stark white  Reduced to silent cries for help In a language no one else speaks Walk away Another day Resigned They say things left unsaid will eat you inside  To let them out, let them go, set them free But they forgot the cage in which the words reside And it seems I lost the k...

Growing up, I took whitewashed and internalized it as a term that equaled acceptance. As long as I had molded to the fray, belonged in the space, that word could continue to be tolerable, used both for me and against me. It's a sad realization knowing that it had stung the whole time, but the thing about stings - the more you endure, you eventually go numb. Sometimes you can't feel them in the first place, and then it's too late.  Numb, like not being able to talk about it, and not knowing how to push away from it.  Numb with compliance, docility and resignation. A misplaced acceptance of others shaping a warped version of your sense of self. Numb to the idea that being anything other than white was an offense; an offense that sorely needed to be prosecuted.  The numbness is melting away, leaving the feeling of pins and needles that resembles something like regret.  Whitewashed was and is a way to explain me away. It's appellation of something you don't understand a...

 Because it's definitely not sleep. There was a lot of reluctance in writing about medications and the vast space between psychology appointments. I'm looking at my page trying to remind myself that one of the best books I've read was a memoir on C-PTSD and all the dark parts it outlined, so I can carry on believing that there's meaning to the words I keep dotting on my screen. When I was diagnosed with MDD (major depressive disorder), it wasn't really a shock nor an epiphany. The whole time I thought it was just the big SAD (seasonal affective disorder), and all I had to do was wait around for the respite and warmth of summer.  To my dismay however, I started Wellbutrin, with the hopes that somehow this would be the cure all (because I remain, in fact, delusional, while knowing it's unrealistic). And as the words left my psychologist's mouth, I immediately had to combat the stigma of being on medication, along with the anxieties of the laundry list of side ...

 I placed my self worth in the hands of someone else, and I let it break me. I was naive thinking someone could offer me part of a world I've been so desperately trying to be a part of, and that they'd dangle it just out of reach, ready to pull it back.  Left with a feeling that they set it on fire and left you scrambling to hold on to the ashes that remain, a sharp ache in its place. A foolish and futile thought that a singular individual would be the answer to your fragile and fragmented identity issues - if they just let you in and accepted you, chose you, that it would signal something. You would be enough - good enough, Filipino enough, if this one person could care about you and let you in then you would belong. You would fit. Something snapped.  I wrote that back in February and it is now May. Before running to Japan for my planned vacation, I ended up deciding to continue my time abroad.  I came to Asia seeking novelty and new experiences; firsts. Japan is so...