0111001-blog

[0111001-blog]

“Your healing is about you. It doesn’t need a stamp of approval. Don’t worry about how long it takes or how ugly it might seem. It is about you, and your wellbeing.”

— Unknown

[0111001-blog]

Date a boy who makes you feel like the most loved person in the universe

[0111001-blog]

[0111001-blog]

Someone once told me that human beings have three dimensions: how you see yourself, how others see you, and how you want others to see you. The closer the distance between the three dimensions, the more at peace you are and the more stable you become.

Marwa Rakha, The Poison Tree

waiting for the day to come

(via serious)

[0111001-blog]

But stars are a million miles too far to touch; and galaxies too infinite to explore.  You, you on the other hand, with your unkempt hair, and scattered freckles. You, with your lame jokes, clumsiness, and unapologetic glow. You, made of universes and  infinite spaces, stardust and all that.

“You are tangible” remnant-thoughts (via remnant-thoughts)

[0111001-blog]

u will find ur Person. sometimes it may confuse u bc they’re not shiny like a movie the way u imagined, but u’ll know by the calm they bring

[0111001-blog]

“… and we are in bed together laughing and we don’t care about anything.”

Charles Bukowski

(me)

[0111001-blog]

Is silence not an act of violence too?

Blythe Baird (via wordsnquotes)

[0111001-blog]

Sharks

Having big plans, but inconvenient fears. Wanting to travel the sea, but being afraid of sharks. Moving to a big city, and blending in like a blue boat in a blue ocean. But thinking about merging into a highway of new people Reminds me that I’m still afraid of sharks, And highways. I’ve begun to understand that sharks come in all forms. Sharks can be the people that I’ll miss when I leave. They can be the thoughts that plague the depths of my mind Or they can be fear of my plane crashing into a shark infested ocean. I try to fight these fears because I feel trapped where I am, And I want a change. But it always comes back to sharks.

[0111001-blog]

Did The Therapy Work?

My parents asked “did the therapy work?” and I said yes, which was a lie. I have so many reasons why the therapy didn’t work, but I didn’t want to stop going either. Because in this world, sometimes I just needed someone to talk to, even if that person is paid to listen. Even though none of it was helpful to my psyche, none of the self help or advice was really helpful to my psyche. And in a sick, twisted way, I didn’t want to get better. Because I knew that if the therapy was working, I would miss my scars, I would miss the bruises on my knuckles, and I knew that I would miss being sad. And I know that sounds like a contradiction. Why would I want to go to therapy if I still wanted to be sad. It probably doesn’t make a lot of sense, but for some reason it made sense to me.

I found that it was hard to let go of the sadness, because it’s what I’ve known it’s what I was used to. Eventually my parents stopped asking “Did the therapy work?” and they stopped sending me because they thought I was getting better. But In reality, I wasn’t getting better, I was just getting better at hiding it.

Flash forward, almost 2 years later. I am actually, truly better… Most days. I found that the therapy wasn’t supposed to cure me, I was supposed to cure me. The sadness still comes in waves, and some nights it’s like a storm. But I learned that even the worst storms pass. And I don’t think of my depression as a personality trait anymore, I think of it as the old friend who stops by my house uninvited. And I’ve learned to greet this friend with open arms, but not let it stay long enough to join the pencil sharpener and bandages in my bottom right hand bathroom drawer. My sadness is tornado weather, a mixture of hot and cold that leaves nothing but destruction in its path. And I am caught in the middle without a storm cellar.

But throughout it all, I am actually thankful for the therapy because even though I didn’t think it helped, in the long run, it did, but not in the way it was supposed to. It helped me learn that I shouldn’t have relied so heavily on it alone to make me better. I did that myself. And I know that I’m still not completely healed, and I’m still not strong enough to throw away the pencil sharpener and bandages. But now, my bottom right drawer is filled with travel sized shampoos and conditioners. And the pencil sharpener is nestled at the very bottom. I’m still not completely better, but I’m stronger than I’ve ever felt before

[0111001-blog]

Dear Public School System

You’ve left students with hours of school work a night. You’ve made kids feel so stressed that the lunchroom is filled with jokes about how many mental breakdowns they’ve had that week. You’ve taught students that getting an “A” on piece of paper determines their self worth. All of my life, I’ve been trying and trying to strive for this perfection that the public school system expects, but I’ve come to realize that it’s unattainable. Dear public school system, there are so many times you’ve let me down

The first time was in 1st grade. My class was in the library and I was coloring a picture of slice of pie. I took my dark brown colored pencil and colored inside the lines like my father taught me. As I was finishing the drawing, the librarian approached me and told me that I completed the assignment incorrectly. This was the first time I’d ever been confronted by a teacher, so I was thoroughly confused. With my small voice trembling, I asked what I had done wrong. Unsympathetic to my distress, she told em that I was supposed to use light colors instead of dark ones. In frustration, I drew a big X over my paper and asked for a new one. In return, I was scolded for making a mess, and I went home in tears.

In the second grade, I was considered an advanced student, but since my school didn’t have an advanced program, my teacher allowed me to go to the third grade class for english. After an hour of feeling like a “big kid”, I returned to my second grade classroom. We were given an assignment and I was ready to show off my newfound knowledge. So I wrote my name in cursive, perfecting every letter. I proudly raised my hand to show my teacher my penmanship. But instead of getting praise like I expected, she shook her head and told me “no cursive until the 3rd grade”. That night my mom asked me why I was so upset. I reluctantly told her what had happened. After I finished my story she called the office and my 3rd grade teacher denied ever teaching me cursive. The next day, I went to school and got in trouble for lying.

In the 8th grade, we were asked to take a career test so we’d have a good idea of what we want to be when we grow up. By the end of the week, we had to write our future career and if we still didn’t know then we’d get a zero for the week. It’s scary to think that they’re forcing middle schoolers to make such important decisions so early in life. School put so much pressure on young kids to grow up. How are we expected to know what we want to do for the rest of our lives, if we still have to ask permission to use the bathroom.

Last year, my little sister’s social studies teacher lined up all the girls at the front of the classroom. She walked up and down the line, stopping before each other, determining if their outfit was “school appropriate”. While she publically humiliated each girl individually, she allowed the boys to have free time. She thought that embarrassing every 12 year old girl in that class was better than pulling them aside to discuss why the length of their shorts affected the class’s ability to learn. By doing this, she also decided that the way these girls dressed was more important than actually teaching her class.

While I know the quadratic formula and how to calculate the total velocity of an object. I don’t know how to write a check, or do taxes. In reality, I don’t really know how to do much of anything. In school I’ve learned a minimal amount of knowledge that will actually benefit me in the future. At this point, all I know how to do is pass classes and get A’s on standardized tests.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m incredibly thankful to be in a situation where I have access to a free education. But you can’t deny that the school is teaching all the wrong lessons. We’re taught not to ask questions and to be ashamed of being curious. As if adolescence isn’t bad enough. School kills creativity, humiliates, and pressures kids. It leaves its victims with a damaged psyche and a depthless education

[0111001-blog]

Inspired By “Why Do I Keep Counting?” By The Killers

Beams of light entering small windows. The gentle hum of the box fan in the corner of my bedroom. Everything is just as I left it the night before. As my feet hit the floor, I sigh. My sleepy, dazed self begins to fade. And my self awareness kicks in. I think about how repetitive life is. I wonder “should I change my way of living?” I could cut my hair and rearrange my personality. I could make all new friends and find new interests. But I don’t. I realize that I am me, but sometimes I don’t want to be. I feel like a walking contradiction. I question why I dream of improvement but never follow through. I have a limited amount of time to change, And life should be unpredictable. Yet I have a schedule, and every day is identical to the next. Sometimes I wonder. “If all our days are numbered, why do I keep counting?”

[0111001-blog]

Forever Times 3

He remembers small details about me. Like how I prefer the window seat next to the wing of the plane. Or how my favorite color is gray. How I was too shy to dance alone So I asked him to dance with me, and he did. I wonder if he realizes that I repeat things three times when I really mean them. I’ve began to notice details about him too. Like how he moves his hands when he’s nervous. His efforts to sit to the right of me when we eat, Because I cut my food with my left and he cuts with his right. The way he laughs at my bad jokes, like I’m the funniest person ever. But while I was realizing all of these little details about him I realized that I’ve written countless poems about him. I’ve realized that he’s become a big part of my life, And I’ve realized that I want him there. Forever, forever, forever.

[0111001-blog]

Ceiling Fan Consistancy

Lying on the carpet with closed eyes. Continuous deep breaths: In through the nose, Hold it, hold it, Now out through the mouth. Staring up at the ceiling fan, And focusing on a single blade. Watching it spin around, and around, and around. The quick rotation consumes all thoughts, And the mind is being cleared of all worries. The body is slowly being taken by sleep, Falling into a peaceful nothing Until the sound of parents making dinner wakes it. Pots and pans clink together, It is the chaotic calmness of home. Eventually getting called into the kitchen to eat, but Before rising from the floor that is becoming all too familiar Lay back and examine everything. Appreciate the four surrounding walls. They don’t move. They are constant. When reality ruins lives Appreciate consistency.

[0111001-blog]

When We Die: Creative Nonfiction

     At the mere age of five, I was already afraid of dying. I grew up in a very religious household, so my idea of death was terrifying. In my church, we were taught that when we die, we would have to confess our sins to God. This concept provoked a series of nightmares. I began to dream of what it was really like to fall off the grid forever. In my dream, I imagined everything going black. A dim light would appear and shine on a steep staircase. I would climb the stairs, which radiated a slight glow. When I finally reached the top, there was a gold platform, and on this platform was a throne. God Himself would be sitting there, wearing a white robe and leather sandals, just like they showed in the pictures during Sunday school. I would get in line with all of the other dead people, and I watched every person talk with Him. While I was in the line, nobody spoke to each other. Chit chat seemed trivial when perpetual fate was only a few footsteps away.

     Finally, it was my turn. As soon as I approached him, He began to lecture me about every sin I have ever committed. Of course, my child self was very mischievous, so God would spend what felt like hours scolding me. As He continued to speak, my small eyes were filled with tears, and my hands were shaking. I was truly afraid. When He finished talking to me, the next person in line would step up and they too would uncover their destiny. After that, an angel would escort me down a long, dark hallway. As a wiped my eyes, I continued down the never-ending corridor. At the end of the hall, I would be met with two doors. One led to heaven, and one to hell, and I didn’t know which was which. Another angel would descend from the sky, I knew they were about to point to either my hopeful future or my eternal damnation. At this point in my dream, I would wake up, never knowing if I was going to heaven or not. Even now, 10 years later, my dream self’s fate still remains a mystery.

     My personal idea of death has changed throughout the years. As I got older, I began to change my ways of thinking. I no longer believe that God will send me to hell. Thinking about it now, I’ve always had a wild imagination when it comes to death. My theory of what happens when a person passes has been constantly changing as I grow older. Although it is fun to fantasize, I can’t help but wonder what really happens when we die?

     After extensive research, I learned that there really is no distinct answer. No one really knows what happens when we die, except for the dead, but they obviously can’t share their experiences. The closest answer we can get is what scientists have provided, but even they have limitations. Researchers know the scientific process of death, but they obviously can’t visit the afterlife and report their journey. Since scientists still don’t have answers to every question, some traces of uncertainty remain.

     Although I can’t provide an explanation of where we go, I can explain what happens to our bodies when we die. As of now, experts say that there are two stages of death. The first phase is referred to as “clinical death”. This phase is like a blurred line between life and death. The process only lasts four to six minutes. While in clinical death, the victim’s breathing halts and the heart stops beating in a regular rhythm, which is called cardiac arrest. All of the body’s vital functions come to a standstill. Although the person is technically considered dead, some organs are still alive, such as the kidneys and eyes. A resuscitation attempt is more likely to be successful while a person is in the phase of clinical death.

     The second stage of dying is called “biological death”. In this period, the body’s cells begin to deteriorate.The victim’s brain is damaged, and all organs are shut down due to lack of oxygen. Doctors will try to induce hypothermia, by cooling the body. This procedure prevents the cells from continuing their destruction, and the possibility of reviving the patient is now possible. Despite attempts to save this person, the damage caused by biological death is permanent.

     These stages of death are well known, but no one really knows what happens to a person’s conscious when they are both clinically and biologically dead. The best way to get information is to talk to people who have experienced near-death situations. Most of these people reported similar sensations. They feel as though they are floating outside of their body, or rapidly moving through a tunnel towards the light. Some people believe that they actually left their bodies. One man reported that while the doctors and nurses tried to resuscitate him, he observed his operation from the corner of the room. In some cases, the nearly deceased person just experiences pure nothingness. One patient described it as “Pure, perfect, uninterrupted sleep, no dreams”. I found it interesting that so many people experience the same exact thing differently. Not everybody’s body functions the same way, and on the other hand, many people may experience it similarly, but it still remains a mystery to everyone.

     The topic of death is infatuating to me, and maybe to others. As a child, I was afraid of it, but as a teenager, I have come to the understanding that it is inevitable. Instead of fearing it, I decided to educate myself about it. While I was researching, I came to the conclusion that scientists’ research about death is extremely limited because no one has actually died and then come back to give us a report. I enjoy the fact that death is both ambiguous and certain. Many people have differences, but this is something that everyone has in common. I find it interesting that scientists know what a person’s body goes through before death, and how it decomposes, but nobody knows the in between. Do they ascend the glowing staircase like I did in my dream, does golden chariot arrive, or does it feel like pure sleep. I’ll continue to remain curious as to what really happens when we die.

[0111001-blog]

Hypnagogic Hallucinations: A Short Story

     He was trying to go to sleep, but the eerie sound of static was surrounding him from all directions. His eyes felt heavy and he was struggling to move. His limbs wouldn’t budge and he knew, that for the time being, he was trapped in his body. The voices were getting louder. Their whispers were indistinguishable, but one was slightly louder than the others. It was a woman’s voice. He tried to ignore it and take back control of his body, but he couldn’t. The only option left was to wait for it to stop.

     This turned into his nightly routine. Every time the sun was swallowed by the hills beside his house dread filled every inch of Lucas’s body; because whenever he closed his eyes the static and voices would return. He would try to stay awake until the sun rose again, but often it didn’t work. The voices were haunting, but he was unable to stop them. After a while, he adapted and began to listen to what they had to say. Most of the voices were nothing but absurd chatter, but night after night he noted the significance in particularly a woman’s soft and gentle voice. As time went on, he began to hear her voice even when he was fully awake.

     When the hallucinations first began her commands weren’t entirely unrealistic. They were quite simple actually. They began with “Stop doing that”, or “Walk here”, and for the most part, he obeyed. Although, as time went on, her commands grew more extreme. As Lucas paced the aisles of the grocery store while looking for his favorite cereal he noticed that a frail, old man in front of him had dropped his wallet on the ground as he was walking. Out of nowhere, he heard her say “I want you to steal that man’s wallet, Lucas”. He turned to the man and took in all of his features. The man was wearing thin-rimmed glasses and walked with a slight slouch. From his appearance, he looked like a very nice man, possibly a grandfather. Lucas couldn’t bring himself to do it. “But I don’t want to,” he thought as he grabbed the man’s wallet and ran to catch up with him. After returning the money he heard her contempt filled voice whisper “You’ll regret that”.

     That night when he laid down for bed the voices returned. Since the voices shifted from scattered surprises to a daily routine he had begun to grow accustomed to them, and he just drowned them out and tried to fall asleep. Just as sleep was taking over his body she returned. “You should have stolen the wallet,” he heard her voice say, and then everything stopped. The static and voices were gone, but he felt a sharp pain and noticed that there was a fresh wound on his shoulder. Everything was transpiring so quickly he couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened. His heart was beating rapidly, and the only thing he could hear was his own erratic breath. From that point on he decided that the best thing to do from then on was to follow her orders.

     “It’s been going on for almost a month. I don’t know why it’s happening, but when it does, I can’t move and I feel stuck inside my own body. How do I make it stop,” he asked with tears in his eyes. “You can’t make it stop on your own,” the therapist said while looking up from his notepad. After giving Lucas a sympathetic glance he started talking again. “I’ll prescribe you some medicine. Come back this time next week and tell me if it works out for you”. He handed Lucas his card and ushered him out of his office as he greeted the next patient. His first trip to a psychiatrist was successful. While walking home, he looked down at the card which read “Dr. Anderson”, both a phone number and address followed it. That night he took the medicine his doctor gave him. It was the first time he’d been able to experience a satisfactory amount of sleep in a long time. There was no static or voices, only sleep.

     Lucas was able to live comfortably for the rest of the week. He felt happy, something he hadn’t felt since the hallucinations started. With his life improving, he decided to treat himself to a movie. As soon as the idea came to mind he decided to leave his house. On the walk there he watched the leaves fall off the trees while he inhaled the fresh air. For the first time in a month, he was at peace. He was so preoccupied with thoughts of his new carefree lifestyle that he forgot to take his medicine. With a shrug, he decided that skipping one pill wouldn’t make much of a difference.

     Once he got to the theater, he took a seat in the back row. He kicked his feet up and grew entranced with the screen in front of him. To Lucas, munching on popcorn and drinking diet soda had never felt as good as it did in that moment. About half way through the movie he began to hear static. Initially, he thought nothing of it, until he heard the familiar sound of her voice. “Why are you trying to push me away?” His breath hitched and he heard the heavy palpitations of his heartbeat grow louder with every passing second. Noticing that her voice was both concerned and angry he told her, “I don’t want any of this. I want to be in control of my body, and I don’t want you here”. Lucas felt tricked. He thought that he was finally better, but he came to the conclusion that it would never end. “Get out of my head!” he angrily whispered to himself, trying not to draw the entire theater’s attention to him. Impulsively, he began to bang his fist on the side of his head, but she wouldn’t leave. “You can’t get rid of me,” She said, in a surprisingly calm tone. “Now burn it down.” “Burn what down?” Lucas asked. He could feel his cheeks and ears growing warm, and his thoughts began to spin out of control. At first, he was extremely surprised by her violent command, but in a twisted way, he saw it coming. “His house,” She answered, and then she was gone.

     The air was cold, and the sky was filled with stars, but Lucas wasn’t paying much attention to his surroundings. His mind was clouded with thoughts of doubt, hatred, and fear. He knew that she would be upset with his therapist for prescribing the medicine, but he didn’t expect a task so drastic. He didn’t want to do it, but he knew that if he didn’t obey her commands she would hurt him again. He continued walking down the dark, damp street. The only thing lighting his path was the moon and the flickering street lights. His footsteps were echoing in the streets until he came to a halt. He had reached his destination. He looked down at the card that Dr. Anderson gave him, and looked back up at the house. “This is it,” Lucas mumbled under his breath.  He stopped at the curb and slowly examined the house. “Burn it down,” her voice repeated, even more profoundly than she had the first time. After pouring gasoline around the perimeter of the house, he lit a match and tossed it at the corner of the building. He watched as the flames lazily engulfed the house. In a strange and terrifying way, Lucas felt a slight sense of pride. He watched as the house deteriorated before his eyes, and he smiled.

      When he returned back to his house, she told him to flush the remaining pills, and he did. He did everything she told him to do. One night as he was falling asleep he heard her voice once again. “Wake up”. Lucas was confused, he brushed his brown hair from his eyes and looked around the room. “I am awake,” he thought. “No you aren’t, and this isn’t real,” she explained. At this point, he was disoriented beyond belief. “Wake up,” she repeated, and then she was gone. Forever.

      Lucas gradually opened his eyes, and he was greeted with the scene of a hospital room. His eyes scanned the room; everything was dreary and he heard the quiet beep of the cardiac monitor. He was at a loss. He had so many questions flooding his mind all at once. “How did I get here?”, “Where am I?”, “What’s happening?”. As the gears in his head continued to spin, he heard faint footsteps approaching him. It was a nurse, “Oh, you’re awake! Let me contact your family,” she said. Lucas noticed that her voice was familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. As she was exiting the room, he noticed that she turned around and shot him a perverse smile. After that, he never saw her again.

     Once Lucas was stabilized, he could leave the hospital and go home. His family had explained to him that he was in a coma for a little over a month. Lucas felt relieved that the hallucinations weren’t real. He was thankful that he would never have to take another order from her voice again. Later that night he went up to his room to go to sleep. He took off his shirt and crawled into bed, but he noticed something rather unsettling. He had a healed wound on his left shoulder. He didn’t remember it being there before, and it looked like it had only healed up recently.

     A few weeks passed and Lucas was feeling almost entirely better. He still had a few questions in the back of his mind. They all regarded his health and everything he had experienced while in the coma. He decided to go for a walk to clear his mind. The crisp autumn breeze was blowing his hair, and for the first time in a long time, he felt free. There were no restrictions anymore, and he was able to go anywhere. He continued wandering the abandoned streets until he realized where he was. He looked over at the familiar curb and his eyes slowly wandered to where a tall house once stood. All that remained was the damaged frame and the ashes of what used to be. Lucas was both perplexed and shaken. He couldn’t move, and once again he felt trapped inside his body. The temporary feeling of liberation was gone in an instant. In that moment, the only thing that crossed his mind was her all too familiar voice. “Burn it down”.

[0111001-blog]

Self Discovery & Sushi Rolls: A Personal Narrative

     When I was only one year old I was adopted from China and brought to America. As a child I had no concept of race or ethnicity, I thought nothing of it. When I began to realize I was different from the other kids I thought that it was a wonderful thing, until I was taught otherwise. 

     Only being a small kindergartener I learned that kids can be cruel and pick at you until you wish to be invisible. I remember going to school and being asked why my eyes are so small. That was my very first experience feeling bad about myself. From there the terrorizing only continued. I was bombarded with questions like “If you’re Asian why are your parents white?” or “So they aren’t your ‘real’ parents right?”. Throughout all of my elementary school days I remember feeling extremely out of place, a struggle I wish I didn’t have to go through. Every night I would pray that one day I could be as pale as the other girls in my class. Most of my childhood consisted of hoping that maybe someday God could make me white. 

    As I grew up, the pestering continued, but in different ways. As a child, most of the harassment came in the form of innocent questions, but it soon grew into harsh jokes that would make me grow achingly informed that I didn’t belong. I distinctly remember within the first few months of my freshman year I was at a party with a group of friends. We were all in the living room and the sun began to descend. People were starting to grow tired and the conversation went dull and faded into nothingness. The only sound in the room was the quiet hum of the television. As I diverted my attention to the screen I noticed there was an allergy commercial featuring a cute dog. Since dogs are my favorite animal, I instinctively got excited and broke the silence by saying “Look how cute that puppy is!” as I finished my statement, a person who I thought was my friend cracked  a joke and said “I bet you’d eat it”. Hearing someone who was completely unprovoked make a comment like that made me wonder if I was doing something wrong. I felt his words seep into my chest and I could barely develop coherent words. I almost felt like I deserved it, like I had set myself up just to get knocked down. I just accepted the fact that I couldn’t get mad because I brought it upon myself. As the gears in my head continued rotating, I was contemplating so many different things, but at the same time nothing in my head made sense. I was asking myself so many questions, but I had no answers. I was thinking so much, but the only thing I couldn’t quite think of was a response; and so I just laughed along with the rest of my white friends. Deep in my gut I felt extremely sick, and at that moment I just wanted to disappear. After I left his house, I thought about ways to avoid that friend for the rest of the week.

    A few months later, I had brought sushi to school for lunch. In the back of my mind I was nervous to bring it because I knew I’d get teased. Despite my conscious telling me no, I was still looking forward to eating it. When I pulled it out of my lunch bag, my friend to my left asked for a piece. As I handed it to him another boy across from me mumbled under his breath “Way to embrace your gross culture” while stifling a laugh. To divert the attention from me, or simply to talk about himself, I’m not sure which but frankly it didn’t matter to me, a third friend began to explain that he actually quite enjoyed sushi. While my other white friends began to agree with him and discuss their favorite fish combinations, a fire grew in my stomach. At first I was upset that this boy had the audacity to insult me incorrectly, considering sushi is Japanese, and not Chinese. The more I thought about it, the anger began to subside and turn into confusion because I started to realize that my “sushi eating culture” is more socially normal and accepted for white people, than it was for me. It seemed that I wasn’t allowed to enjoy something as simple as a snack without my race being dragged into it. My skin color was a burden, and at the time, I was far too weak to carry it.

    My self awareness intensified and I began to hide my culture the best I could, I would ignore when people asked me questions about my heritage and background. I asked my parents if we could stop going to the Chinese New Year celebration and I didn’t bring sushi to school anymore. I changed myself so much, that one day, the same boy who had patronized me countless times, including the time at lunch, had told me that I’m “basically white”. At that moment I thought that was the best compliment anyone could ever give me. I accepted it with a giant smile. The more I think about it now, I should have told him to leave me alone and that he was “basically the most annoying and prejudiced person I’d ever met”. I continued to be painfully aware that I wasn’t white but I did my best to act like I was anyways. I disassociated myself with my culture as much as people would allow me to. I didn’t stand up for myself or others anymore, I wanted to blend myself into the crowd as much as possible. I would stay silent when people made fun of my Asian classmates and pretend that my heart wasn’t breaking for them. Since then I have learned that remaining quiet is a form of violence as well.

    Being an Asian American I knew that people like me were in small numbers. Although it seems strange, I found a sense of pride again on Twitter. There was a hashtag trending titled #WhiteWashedOut. It was a collection of tweets from all sorts of Asian Americans explaining their backgrounds, experiences with racism, shutting down misconceptions, and most importantly, taking a stand against Hollywood for consistently casting white people in the roles made for Asian people, also known as whitewashing. I scrolled through the endless tweets until I reached the bottom. I read articles and watched videos of people describing problems that I have faced my entire life. For the first time in my life, I felt like there were people who understood me and I wasn’t alone. I continued to do research, and after months of hard work I slowly learned how to accept myself after years of hating my body.

    It’s easy to get broken down, and at times it feels nearly impossible to build myself back up. After all of the hours I’ve spent reading self help and surrounding myself with as much positivity as possible I’m still not all the way there. It’s difficult, but I’m constantly making progress. I’ve learned that I’m not alone and that countless people have endured similar hardships as me. I’ve learned how to love and accept myself. I just hope that one day others will understand and accept me as well.

    I don’t feel the same uneasiness I used to experience when people asked me about where I’m from. I’ve learned to Google “Asian makeup tips” without feeling ashamed. When someone mocks me by asking why my eyes are so small, I don’t laugh because I’m uncomfortable, like I used to. I laugh because they don’t realize that they’re making themselves sound foolish. I’ve become such a better person after realizing that being different makes life wonderful and much more exciting. I’m thankful that I’ve learned to love my situation and that the discomfort that has lived with me for so many years has finally moved out. As I have grown older things have gotten better, and I think that one day I might bring sushi for lunch again.