I wish it wasn’t about them.

I wish I didn’t hate them. I wish I could live without the intrusive flash-backs, without the black, endless nights spent sobbing myself to sleep, or the paralyzing anxiety and panic attacks that arise whenever I witness a trigger that makes me remember what they did to me.

I wish I could say that it wasn’t my own family that broke my mind, but that would be a lie. The people whom I loved the most, the ones in whose hands I put my absolute, naive trust, showed me that the heart means nothing. That I meant nothing.

Growing up too fast, realizing that adults weren’t the benevolent and all-knowing deities I thought them to be. They were human, and flawed, lost beyond what I, as a child, could do for them. Yet I tried. After every insult, every threat, every wooden spoon broken, every hole punched into my bedroom door, I tried. I tried explaining to them how I felt, I tried taking up less and less space, diminishing my needs to meet their own. I asked only that they respect me, but I was met with derision.

Ingrate. Monster. Mistake. My mother used to tell me that I was unlovable. That no one would ever tolerate me. That I would be alone, and pay for what I had done to her. That one day I would understand what life was really all about.

Almost 20 years later, I can safely say I understand what she meant. Life really is all about pain and suffering, but only because people like her, like them, spread their vitriol of self-hatred and infect young, pure, impressionable minds that don’t know any better.

The stream of narcissists coursing through my existence never stopped, even after leaving the nest. What I learned about self-worth, I perpetuated into my adult life, begging people to stay with me, fighting to win their love, their approval and loyalty. I believed lies, and blinded myself with childlike hope, all because I wanted to feel, just for once, the warmth and comfort that normal, sane people thrive under.

I wanted to believe. I started again, over and over, losing a bit of my spark each time, telling myself it would get better. It had to get better. I refused to become the villain, to sink into despair and forget about the small fire I had burning inside my chest.

It never got any better. The world didn’t get any brighter. As the years passed by, I realized that people strayed further and further away from compassion, from profoundness and selflessness. They grew up, and I still felt like a child, left behind, trying to not get stomped on by all these giants with no emotions that I couldn’t understand.

In a world where everyone tries to be better than their neighbor, there is no time to stop and feel. When all is left up to reason, when people are afraid of their own emotions, that is when the world is plunged into pain. And when someone has the sensibility to point out this chaos, this madness, they are turned away, ignored, and shunned. The people know, somehow, that should they heed their words, their shield will crack, and they wouldn’t survive. Because if you keep yourself busy enough with meaningless things, you’ll end up forgetting, for a time, that you’re suffering too.

These cuts haven’t healed. They are routinely re-opened by the ugliness of humanity. And I’ve amassed such a charge of desperation within my small and bruised heart that I don’t know how much longer it can survive. This small, useless, beating thing…I loved it. I cherished it. I wanted to show it to the entire world. But the world didn’t care.

Vengeance was what kept me going all this time. I wanted things to be fair, for once. I wanted the universe to know that I wasn’t going to accept what had happened to me, and that I would make my own way. I swore they would all pay.

But I know now, that I could never be fueled by such feelings, because that’s not who I am…and it never will be. I will always be that bright eyed, little girl, who makes friends and listens to the ones who are forgotten.

And because of that, I will continue to suffer until I die, alone.





It will be three years in October. Already.

I vanished from this place. I didn’t write. I barely read. I concentrated what little energy I had left on starting over, alone in my pursuit of something more nourishing. Soul food.

In one more year, I will have finished what I started. My new direction in life, my hope, my dream. It has been difficult, so, so difficult, more than I could have ever imagined. I’m not even sure if it will bring me the peace and comfort and sense of belonging I so desire. But at least, I can tell myself I tried, instead of falling in line, instead of selling out to the system.

I’m not sure if I’m cut out for this, for this early-life passion that may have died at the hands of my depression…but I know that instead of being plagued by what ifs, I can ask myself: what now?



J’aimerais devenir lumière, une lumière tellement forte et éblouissante qu’aucune ténèbre ne pourrait la pourfendre. J’aimerais être cet astre dans le ciel, cette étoile, source de vie, qui réchauffe et fait grandir. J’aimerais pouvoir vivre à travers chaque goutte de pluie fraîche et laver le monde de ses impuretés. Je voudrais naître à travers l’enchevêtrement de mes racines, et saluer le ciel bleu de mes jeunes feuilles tendres. Je voudrais être le vent qui siffle dans la tempête, la neige qui brille malgré le froid, l’oiseau qui vole par-delà les montagnes, le poisson qui nage vigoureusement dans l’eau. J’aimerais être le goût et l’odeur d’un baiser, échangé furtivement, puis longuement, au clair de lune.

Je désirerais n’être qu’amour. Mais je suis humaine. Mon esprit se gangrène sous les plaies. Je suis blessée, comme nous le sommes tous. Quelque part au fond de moi, je sais qu’il existe toutes ces merveilles, toutes ces possibilités, si seulement j’étais capable d’ouvrir mon cœur avec sagesse, avec intelligence.

Comprendre que les autres souffrent, même s’ils ne souffrent pas tous également, m’aide à voir plus clair, m’aide à avoir de la compassion, même si je ne comprends pas toujours, même si parfois je ne suis centrée que sur mon propre univers.

Et si je ne m’attendais plus à rien? Et si j’acceptais les choses telles qu’elles le sont, sans vouloir nécessairement les améliorer, ni les réparer? Et si je travaillais sur moi, jusqu’à devenir profondément, réellement bonne, afin de partager ce bonheur, cet exemple, avec tous ceux que je voudrais aider?

Mes pensées s’orientent de plus en plus vers cette idée, la seule qui n’ait eu que du sens depuis le début. En laissant tout partir, je sens que je peux tout gagner, et être davantage que ce que je suis en ce moment.

Je ne veux pas plaire, je ne veux pas manipuler, je ne veux pas posséder: je veux aimer. Je veux m’aimer, aussi, tout simplement.

Et si je commençais, maintenant?


Forcing myself to eat this morning. My mouth feels dry and tastes awful. I didn’t sleep last night. I haven’t been sleeping well for more than a week. I go to bed in the early hours of the morning and wake up at midday, confused, disoriented and dizzy. I know I’m being self-destructive, but I can’t help it; the pain simply overwhelms me.

I knew I had been avoiding the inevitable for several months now. I knew we were going to have to part ways. I just thought that maybe, somewhere, there was still some hope left. But as much as I tried, as badly as I tried, and cared, and wanted to love, I have once again come face to face with the rift; another tear in my soul, in my heart, inside my brain. Another failed attempt at living the good life.

After all is said and done, I have decided that this time, things would be different. No more cavalcades of high strung feelings, no more running after another, no more jumping from insecurity to fear. It is time to go at it alone, with my own thoughts, and feelings, and desires. It is finally time for me to take a breather, to pace myself and reassess what exactly has been going on with my life for the past decade. It is time now to cope, learn and digest.

Because I don’t want to fake my way through anymore. I want to find out who I am, what I want, what I deserve. And when that special person will be ready to meet me there, I will be ready to accept him with open arms and a clean heart.

I am making my own prerogative from now on.

Iron Sulfide

I do not remember the exact day it happened. But it did happen, almost ten years ago now.

It began slow, like a creeping shadow, clinging to me when I wasn’t looking. It came in the dark of the night as I stared unknowingly at my empty ceiling. It trickled down my spine as I learned to see the disappointing normalcy of the adults around me. It made a knot in my throat as I felt my first rejection, and then my first betrayal.

I never saw it coming. One day, things simply weren’t the same anymore. Colors weren’t as bright, the air wasn’t as fresh, my thoughts weren’t as nimble. And then, I began hating them. I hated them for their futility, their inability to understand me, their self-centered and selfish way of making choices. I had so many emotions inside of me, so much passion, so many dreams, and they had so little. They were reality, cold, harsh, unyielding, and I was fiction. But where does fiction go when it is clearly no longer needed?

I took refuge in my depression. I was still functional, but everything came and went very slowly. Getting up in the morning became difficult, yet I could stay up all night if I wanted to. I did not feel like bathing or taking care of my appearance anymore. Day by day, my mind seemed to weaken. My memory, my attention and my problem-solving skills became stagnant. My studies did not matter anymore. Drawing and writing didn’t matter anymore either. All I wanted was rest, rest that never satisfied my body nor my mind.

Today, I understand  that it is the discrepancy between my beliefs and what our world actually is that made me wear that lead veil for so many years. I read too many books, indulged in too many stories, projected my heart unto everyone else. I don’t know why I was ever surprised to see that humans are weaker than they ought to be.

I am not quite right yet. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be quite right. But now, though it may be difficult, though my mind cries for protection, I try to believe again. Even amid all the chaos and pain, I have seen a few who were still able to burn brightly.

So I pray. I pray that I will find something other than fool’s gold someday.

The Wolf


Naive. Naive. Naive. Naive.

It is the only word polluting my mind this evening.

I was naive for believing you. I was naive for caring about you. I was naive for loving you.

I wasn’t ever special to you, not the way you were special to me.

I was simply another notch on your long list of people who were there to support you, to wipe your tears away and share in on the secrets I thought only I knew.

It revolts me to see that there are men like you out there. Men who can only collect and bask, instead of pursuing and treasuring. Men who manipulate suavely, with just the right words, and just the right tone, and just the right amount of attention, enough to keep you wanting more, but never sufficing in quenching the thirst in a woman’s heart.

Naive. Because I was and still am just a little girl, living her fantasy, roaming across her own fairy tale, thinking you could join her.

But now I know. And it hurts. You cannot begin to comprehend what it is that I feel right now, as I type down these words with shaking hands and bated breath.

There are indeed two wolves that live within ourselves. And you are the one I feed.


And here is that feeling in my chest again, crushing, heavy, leaving me breathless. I do not want to admit it to myself. I do not want to have to reason my way out of it either. I just want to let it be. But I can’t. If I let it out of control, I will be lost again. I will be vulnerable, transparent, susceptible to being manipulated. I feel stuck in between two doors, unable to choose the middle path. What awaits me behind each one? Misery? Joy? If I stand still, I will never know. That is no way to live a life…

But who would ever truly, really pick me. It’s not that I am a bad person; I simply seem to be expendable. The more I give, the more I try, the less I am valued. It’s as it has always been. I am somewhat smart, but I am not that pretty either. If my goodness of heart isn’t enough, isn’t what anyone is looking for, then what else can I do?

How do I know if my heart will ever be safe in someone else’s hands? How can I know if my name will be guarded as a treasure behind their lips? How will I realize, and believe, that I am the only one they truly car for? People are very good at hiding their motives…and as good as I am at reading others in return, I am at an unhealthy disadvantage when it comes to seeing through those whom are closest to my heart. I just never seem to see the truth in time. I am as naive as a child…

Jealousy is an ugly emotion whose only real benefit is to make its owner realize that he or she truly cares about something, enough to fear having it taken away.

How is it, then, than I can fear losing something that isn’t even mine to begin with?

My heart aches…And no one must know.