Growing Up Halo-Halo

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, as  if with sharp scissors  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 that they're caged there And I lost the key...

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...

you’ll tell me to speak  say it with my chest  but everything comes out  dripping foreign to you  and you won’t hesitate to make it known  you unleash this imposter in me  still feeling like I’m on a tightrope  at any time my foot will slip and I’ll plunge  hit the rigid, arduous surface of inadequacy   because deep down you’ll never see me  I can see the constant questioning in your eyes  it deepens with every syllable I whisper into the dark  my voice choked by many hands that graze my soul  but dare not venture further  as if afraid to see what lies in wait there  you’ll use pinay against me as much as to praise me  a weapon of choice i have no armour to shield  and I’ll admit defeat even if only to myself  silent and with unbearable weight  I’ll sleep with it like a blanket

It's one AM and I can't sleep  Thoughts are racing, unquelled Anxiety finds solace in the words on a page By the moon and the lighting of a candle  And once my mind has been distracted enough I sink in the softness of cushions The burning of a wooden wick Attempting to send me into slumber The flickering whispers Guiding me to morning.