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what it is

I published a post back in November about the state of my well-being and how I wasn’t really sure of what it was that was making me lose sleep and feel anxious. I didn’t want to call it what it is because I hadn’t received a diagnosis nor had I been given any hints that what I was feeling was as severe as I thought it to be. My therapist whom I recently started seeing has finally given me an answer.

I suffer from low-level depression, also referred to as dysthymia or persistent depressive disorder or even high-functioning depression. The explanation I’ve been using to clarify it for my friends and family is that people who have major depression could be at 20% of themselves for a month or so but I’m at around 80% of myself for a longer period of time. I can go to school and do most normal activities, but it’s harder for me to get things done. I have trouble concentrating, often having to re-read things, rewind songs or videos, or focus on anything other than my predicament for very long. I have headaches everyday, I’m irritable, I’m forgetful, and I get overwhelmed by very simple tasks. I’ve had a lot of success this month including a second school Olympics win, winning a speech competition and qualifying for the national tournament in Fort Lauderdale in June, getting into Kingston University London’s Design Marketing course, interviewing for the London College of Fashion, and winning a big scholarship from my forensic speech organization. All of that success and I’m not terribly excited (not by choice). Overall, I’m not myself, and I’m not doing great! I’ve found myself having to take a deep breath before explaining my illness, and I feel like I’m taking a never-ending deep breath in coming to terms that this is, in fact, an illness.

This was a long time in the making. It’s  a combination of my traumatizing experience in the vocational program I took last year combined with the mounting pressure (I put on myself) to succeed in everything I do (which is a lot) and other personal issues that are hard to deal with.

 I’m sure this may come as a surprise to some because I tend to be charismatic and even gregarious but I think I can say that I’ve successfully spread myself too thin and can’t put as much effort into forming and maintaining healthy relationships. I’m physically and mentally exhausted almost all the time, but I’m working on it!

I’m doing what I can to help myself by walking more, writing out how I’m feeling, and seeing my therapist weekly. I have so much support from my family, friends, teachers, guidance counselor, school psychologist, and even my principal. She sent me a little encouraging card in the mail and I started crying before even opening it. It was very sweet.

Here’s a video about my condition that I find to be really accurate. I promise that despite the tone of this post I am optimistic that I will be fine! Just wanted to explain what my deal is.

Peace and blessings!

A

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who run the world?

Womanhood has taken on many different meanings for me over the years. As a child I knew women to be caregivers and educators. My scope widened in early adolescence when I started to appreciate female musicians and writers, and now, approaching young adulthood, I’ve come to know women as multifaceted, complicated, important human beings--a lot of whom are responsible for fostering life. I’ve also come to know myself and what I am capable of.

Most importantly I’ve come to learn that being a woman doesn’t mean one thing. There are all kinds of women with different body types, colors, classes, genitalia, abilities, sexualities, and countless other things that aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. This can apply to anyone , of course, but I’m especially proud of those who I share one of my many labels with, especially considering the obstacles we have to overcome in our every day lives and in the global status quo. It’s no secret that women are disproportionately afflicted by a number of things, and I think the effort set forth by them to turn that affliction on its head is incredible.

I’m one of the relatively few female student congresspeople in the New York Catholic Forensics League, and wear my “A Woman’s Place is in the House and Senate” shirt with pride (often). I did my part to end sexual harassment at the vocational school I attended last school year (see my first post) and am currently working on a campaign for my high school regarding teen sexual harassment.

Tackling taboo and stigma surrounding women’s bodies and sexuality has been my main priority in recent years. I’ve seen what sexual harassment, slut-shaming, and misogyny in general can do to my peers and it is horrifying. There is a silence that exists among women regarding all things sexuality, and I intend to and encourage others to break that silence. The extent to which objectification, unrealistic gender roles, and blatant sexism have been normalized is absurd, and I look forward to continuing to fight the good fight and making this world a better place for everyone that I can.

There are a multitude of accomplishments that have come out of addressing the (equally as abundant) issues that women face, though, and I am absolutely celebrating them in my own little way.

I’d like to see Lady Bird but I don’t think it’s being shown in theaters nor is it on streaming platforms so I will wait until I can give my (parents’) coin to Greta Gerwig and the other women behind what seems to be an excellent film.

This was kind of all over the place but I think you get the point. Happy International Women’s Day!

Peace and blessings!

A

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a handful of pain

Recently I’ve developed a chronic condition called Raynaud phenomenon (or Raynaud syndrome, typically referred to as “Raynaud’s”). Basically my fingers and palms turn a ghastly shade of bluish-green and pulse/ache/go numb due to my arteries constricting when I’m stressed and/or cold. It’s just as fun as it seems!

It came out of nowhere. I was at school, and caught a glimpse of my thumb, which looked as if I’d pressed it into blue highlighter liquid. That’s exactly what I thought I’d done. After some time and unsuccessful napkin-rubbing, I went to the school nurse and she told me about how her sisters suffered from Raynaud’s and how common the condition is. I suspected that that’s what it was, but went to the emergency room later on to see if there were any cardiac or blood issues that could be causing my pain, which had gotten worse throughout the day.

The doctor I saw said it could be Raynaud’s, too, or “just one of those things”. He suggested I keep my hands warm and avoid stressful situations. There is no finite test to diagnose the syndrome, and my endocrinologist confirmed this a few days later when I saw her for an unrelated issue.

So I self-diagnosed. My pain had only gotten worse, and my flare-ups were happening daily, regardless of if I wore gloves outdoors or not. I needed relief, or someone to relate to, because though one of my friends has poor circulation triggered by the cold too, she does not experience pain in her hands like I do. I looked around the “raynauds” tags Tumblr, Instagram, and BuzzFeed and found that I was indeed, not alone. Other “spoonies” (here’s a definition from Urban Dictionary) were discussing their symptoms and sharing photos of their flare-ups. Some of them looked like mine!

This may seem dramatic, but I was nearly brought to tears. I had started to feel that my condition was invalid because I was under the impression that Raynaud’s hardly qualifies as a chronic illness, but reading posts written by those who literally feel my pain was incredibly validating. I’m not alone, and I’m not over-exaggerating--Raynaud’s is a real chronic disease.

I’m still struggling with the fact that there is no cause nor cure for it, but luckily, there is research being done to find both. In fact, this month is Raynaud’s Awareness Month (my first flare up was on the last day of January, oddly enough). From what I’ve read, it doesn’t seem like the majority of those afflicted by the condition experience it in a severe way, so much so that most don’t know they have it, so that’s why it isn’t very talked-about, but regardless--it’s still important for those who need answers to get them.

Some ailments aren’t entirely visible, and I cannot stress the importance of understanding this. All of my teachers and friends have been supportive--which I am endlessly grateful for--but I know that circumstances vary.

Even if you don’t understand another person’s situation or pain, try to be sensitive if the situation calls for that. I don’t want or feel entitled to special attention or treatment for what I go through, but in explaining my condition to my teachers, it’s made me feel worlds better knowing that they understand (a couple of them have even told me to feel better, which isn’t really how chronic issues work but I’ve been totally appreciative of their well-wishes nonetheless) (lol).

I can’t think of much else to say other than “stay warm”. Keep moving! Keep that blood flowing! Go see Black Panther when it comes out!

Peace and blessings!

A

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it’s all happening

All of my college applications have been submitted. I’m not entirely done with the process, of course--I have to apply for as many scholarships as I can, but as for everything else, I’m set. What’s next?

As of the end of next week, I am a “Second-Semester Senior”. I’m told that this is when senioritis reaches its peak. I believe it. Time has gone by so quickly that I don’t even feel like a senior at all. I feel like I’m just floating in between grades like I’ve transferred from a school in another country and I have no assigned grade, rather an amount of credits that I have to complete.

This is really happening, though. I’ve been accepted to my “safety school” already, so I’m definitely going to college no matter what my other three schools decide. All the middle school years of envisioning dorm life and endless freedom were not in vain. That’s not to say I ever doubted that I’d make it to college, but it seemed so far away that it felt as if it wasn’t possible.

My attitude towards this whole process has been relatively lax. Maybe it’s because my trade is relatively niche in the community I live in or that I’ve only applied to four schools--none of which are out of my league--but I am truly not worried. My top choice sends out its decisions two days before my eighteenth birthday. I’ve spent many years obsessing over its admission requirements and acceptance rate and how I stack up. I’ve done everything in my power to earn my place there, so if it’s meant to be, it will be!

I’m grateful everyday that my trade is specific. So many of my peers have no idea what they want to do and that’s totally fine, but for me, I know that I won’t be taking courses I’m not passionate about. Fashion business--marketing specifically--classes are fascinating. I was looking through the London College of Fashion’s Fashion Buying & Merchandising course modules  the other day and had to calm myself down. “Product Development”? “Merchandise Planning and Trading”?? “Retail Concept Development & Product Management”??? I could cry.

So now we wait. Correction: we apply for scholarships, keep our grades up, take care of ourselves, and wait!

Peace and blessings!

A

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hey, u ok?

I haven’t posted anything in some time now. I starting drafting a post about my current mental situation, but I got too far deep into a train-of-thought metaphor and didn’t feel like writing anymore.

Don’t confuse this for laziness. I’ve been in somewhat of a state for the past month or so. I’ve never been the type to let my teen angst surface, and I’m usually very composed, but it seems like something’s got me all over the place. What is it?

I’m usually a morning person! After my morning shower, I’m up and at ‘em. Lately, though, I haven’t been sleeping through the night and everything hurts when I try to get out of bed. Seasonal depression? Well, it was seventy degrees just a week ago, and it was warmer when this all began, so I doubt it. Am I still a seventeen-year-old going through constant hormonal changes? Absolutely, and I’m also a human being with fluctuating emotions, imagine that.

It’s been so hard pinpointing what exactly is causing my fatigue, random anxiety, and irregular sleeping patterns that I’ve consulted a professional: my school’s psychologist. She deduced from my schedule and extracurricular activities that I have a lot on my plate. I suppose from an objective perspective it may seem that way, but as she stated, it seems as though I take it a day at a time. That’s entirely accurate--my stress comes in snack-sized portions that I get to peel open everyday. How appetizing.

I have a page of thoughts about all of this scribbled in the one notebook I use for everything. It’s not as calculated as what I’m used to writing and MAN does that feel good. Writing it down has helped somewhat, so has going to bed before 10 and dancing a bunch.

Everyone goes through this at some point or another. It’s super important to feel like there are others who can relate. Sometimes people are unmotivated for no reason, it’s cool, everything works out.

I write and think a lot about having a moment of liberation in life where I’d be freed of any overwhelming emotion or stress. Perhaps the only taste of this I’ll get is in accepting that life is literally one thing after another and that yes, this too shall pass.

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falling out of love with fashion

In the fourth grade, I made a single Microsoft Powerpoint slide featuring a low-res photograph of racks of colorful clothing with a gold gradient oval overlay that read “F.I.T.” in a classic Microsoft Office script font. My teacher had directed us to make a slideshow about our futures as an end-of-the-year project. Naturally, I dedicated all of the allotted time to making a single perfect slide to reflect where I belonged: the Fashion Institute of Technology. I had already taken the virtual tour, this was my big break. I did everything in my power to secure my place in the world of fashion. I took advanced art classes, pre-college courses, and doodled constantly. Then, in my sophomore year of high school, I found myself in a slump.

Art is deeply personal, and its quality is entirely subjective. I felt that my work wasn’t very strong, and I was losing my passion for creating it. My justification for wanting to design clothing had been that I didn’t see fashion that reflected my style, so I wanted to change that. This wasn’t a misguided thought: Mohandas Gandhi said himself that you should be the change you wish to see in the world. There was a flaw in my reasoning, though: my idea of appealing fashion existed, I just needed to make it more popular. This launched my interest into the realm of marketing and business.

Towards the end of my reflective sophomore year, a guidance counselor stopped by my English class to discuss course selection for the following year. As I began to flip through the guide given to us, I stumbled across a page dedicated to the programs available through a partnership with a vocational school in my county. My eyes darted directly to the words “Fashion Design & Merchandising”.

Was this real life? Was there actually a program tailored exactly to my needs? My hand shot up into the air.

“What is it?” the guidance counselor said, looking slightly annoyed at my enthusiasm. It must have been a long day.

“What is this program?” I asked, pointing fervently to what I had found.

“Oh, yeah, that’s a technical career program, talk to your guidance counselor about it if you’re interested.” She didn’t seem too impressed.

As soon as the bell rang, I ran downstairs to do exactly that. During my conversation with my counselor, I began to see why her co worker wasn’t thrilled about my discovery. The kids who did this program had reputations for being unmotivated and in need of academic intervention. I was not one of these kids, and I didn’t care. In fact, I thought that it was unfair how a career training program was associated with laziness, considering the sheer amount of time and effort it takes to gain certifications in certain trades.

After visiting the school and meeting my prospective teacher, I applied for the program and was accepted. It began a few days before the rest of my class started their junior year. I had no free periods and only twenty minutes to eat my lunch/watch out for the bus that took me and roughly six or seven other students to what essentially became our second school.

Upon entering the school, I was greeted by a security guard with a thick Jamaican accent.

“How you doin’?” he’d say, holding the door open for me.

Initially, my teacher would be waiting for me at her desk because she taught the same class in the morning. That class was eventually dissolved because of low enrollment, and after a month or so, she would be late every day because she would come from a different school.

My teacher was a middle-aged Puerto Rican, Southeast Asian woman who had  kind eyes and a fake laugh. She had been a head designer for a men’s luxury athletic-wear company for two decades prior to the start of her teaching career. When I first visited, she said all the right things. My class was going to sew, create mood boards, cut patterns, design clothing lines, etc. I was going to be well versed in the fashion world in no time--or so I thought. Her kind eyes had nothing behind them.

Classmates trickled in over the next few weeks, each one bringing a bit of diversity to the group. Three of them were seniors completing the second half of the program in order to secure college credit and a certification to work in retail. There were ten of us in total from all over the county, I was the only one from my town. One young lady in particular took a liking to me and insisted that we work and sit together all the time.

The only reason I’m going to assign this character a name is because she was instrumental in my demise. Let’s call her Patricia.

Patricia was from a relatively upscale town in the county. Her skin was a a beautiful dark shade of brown, similar to that of Naomi Campbell, who I assume was one of her idols. She was too short to be a runway model, so she did commercial modelling. Her hair was short, and she wore over-the-knee boots often. Her mother was Belgian or French or something, and I believe French was her first language.

I put up with Patricia for a while. I wasn’t making any other friends. I bonded with one young lady over Nicki Minaj and our shared Aries-ness, but she dropped out of the class before the halfway point of the first quarter.

Gradually, I became impatient with Patricia and felt it best I work alone. In doing so, I missed the chance to open up to my peers and form connections. As the year went by, though, I realized that that was how it ought to have been.

There were about ten of us in the class, roughly four young men and six young women. Conversations often surrounded controversial topics, and my teacher had to address the class multiple times. I steered clear of these and abided by the rules on the “Professional Conduct” sheet posted above the whiteboard that I had made the design for myself. The rules were simple: Stay on task, avoid inappropriate conversations, and be diligent in your work. This was, after all, supposed to be treated like a workplace. They don’t call it career training for nothing.

I won’t comment on the quality of my classmates’ work because like I said: art is entirely subjective. I will, however, point out that my technique was more advanced, which was to be expected, considering I had an immense amount of experience in drawing fashion figures. Between my skill level and determination to follow the rules, I achieved the highest grade in the class and was nominated to be the “Student of the Quarter”, which meant I got to miss some of my class to attend a brunch. My parents were invited, too. I also earned a perfect attendance award.

My mental health was deteriorating, though. There were constant arguments in my classroom. I began to dread seeing the bus pull into the roundabout in front of my school. One argument in particular struck a chord with me.

Another key player in this story is a young man who we’ll call Randy.

Randy sounded like Drake and tried to act like him, too. He sagged his pants, though, and was a raging homophobe. Every day I would hear the phrase “that’s gay” come out of his mouth. I knew what he meant, but he didn’t say what he meant, and instead chose to use a word intended to be positive as an insult. He made the argument that gay people are raised to be homosexual, and that they’re not born that way. As a matter of fact, he’d seen a study that confirmed this belief.

At this point, I had been an active member of the New York Catholic Forensics League Student Congress, and was doing extensive research about everything from Sub Saharan African infrastructure to the American electoral college. I was hearing eloquent speeches that were cited accurately on a weekly basis, so when Randy made this highly uninformed argument, I was unimpressed and offended.

Where was my teacher, you may ask? Doing something more important, I suppose, and letting this hostile environment fester.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I snapped.

“Randy. Randy. Randy.” I said firmly, trying to get his attention. “Stop saying ‘gay’ as if it is an insult, because it’s not. If you mean to say ‘stupid’, say it. Oh, and as someone who has grown up with a gay sibling I can promise you that it is not because she was raised that way.”

He dismissed me and looked away, but everyone else’s eyes were glued to me. I hadn’t addressed anyone in weeks.

“See?” my teacher exclaimed from her desk. “I told you someone would be offended.”

Later that evening I received a direct message on Instagram from Patricia apologizing for Randy’s actions. I wonder where her remorse was when he was being blatantly homophobic. 

There were several instances of bigotry in that classroom, some too painful to recount. It got to the point where I would literally cry on the bus to and from the vocational school.

I loved the curriculum, everything about it. I felt like I was in my element when the main perpetrators weren’t present. When they were, though, I was often anxious and upset. My teacher eventually stopped intervening altogether.

Around May, I started listening more carefully to the subject matter of the boy chatter. They were always talking about how young women were “valid” or “thick”--that is, young women on Instagram and Snapchat. Other times, they would call young women “ugly” or “too skinny”. Another young man, similar to Randy, but mostly to-himself said “fag” or “faggot” in regards to other young men he was either friends with or knew of if they way they dressed or acted suggested something about their sexuality. I worked three feet away from where my teacher spent the majority of our classes, at her desk, and I wore headphones with music playing relatively loud. I heard everything these young men were saying loud and clear.

I recall the exact moment that I broke down. It was after Patricia, while looking for her commercial size on a pattern envelope (they’re typically five sizes larger than your retail size), gasped.

“Size SIXTEEN?!” she exclaimed, looking horrified. “That’s HUGE. That is SO BIG. OH MY GOD.”

I was a size sixteen in retail, and a size 26 in commercial. I was huge.

It took many years for me to feel comfortable in my skin as a “plus size” young woman. I was never encouraged to love myself for who I was, rather to slim down to look socially acceptable and to be able to wear certain types of clothing. My self-love came from me, and I wasn’t used to my peers being disgusted by me or my size. Her words were like knives.

I gave her the worst glare imaginable and promptly left to go to the bathroom. I sobbed for a good ten minutes, absolutely hating where I was. It never occurred to me that I could have a bad time doing what I loved, but that’s exactly what was happening. My teacher let all of these things happen without correction, and the environment was incredibly toxic.

Eventually, I returned to the classroom and continued my work. After some time, my teacher called three young women, including myself, over to her desk.

“You know, next year, you girls should sign up for the morning class,” she said in a low voice. “You’re all very quiet, and it would be more productive because there wouldn’t be so much chatter.”

This had to be a joke.

“Angelina, don’t you think so?” she addressed me. “Will you do that?”

There was no way I was returning the next year, but I nodded my head and left for the bathroom again. This was the second time I bawled my eyes out that day, and I knew I would be crying on the bus back, too. I called my mom, but I was crying too hard to get a clear word out.

I visited my guidance counselor for the vocational program a few days later and told her everything, holding back even more tears. She was heartbroken to hear that I wouldn’t be returning, and suggested I try another program. Fashion was it for me, though. I had no interest in Architecture or Commercial Art, and I didn’t particularly like the Commercial Art teacher either.

The director of the entire school, the guidance counselor for the program, and the social working  who was also in charge of enforcing the rules of DASA, or the Dignity for All Students Act that made bullying of most kinds punishable by law visited my classroom and spoke about how the derogatory language was unacceptable, especially in a room of young women. After they left, the young men in my class denied the accusations outright, and for the first time, my vocal female classmates acknowledged that they were always saying vulgar things. Somehow they caught wind that I was the one who had reported what was going on and they thanked me for saying something. It blew my mind how they were always saying gutsy things to these young men, but never once had the nerve to address their foul language.

We had a meeting with the principal, my guidance counselor at the vocational school, my parents, my teacher, and the school social worker.

When asked to elaborate on what had been going on in the classroom, I broke down, but managed to get one phrase out.

“I feel like...there’s a lot of hearing...but no listening,” I said.

What I meant was that my teacher had been telling my class to lower the noise level, but not actually addressing the subject matter of the conversations that were being held and putting an end to them.

“I don’t even hear it,” my teacher scoffed.

She didn’t even hear it.

My mother was furious, as was my father. The administrators, including the social worker who had previously been very friendly with my teacher, were appalled. I couldn’t blame them, it was simple: my teacher was not doing her job. It was her responsibility to intervene and prevent that behavior, and she failed me and every other young person in that classroom.

The month after that was relatively peaceful. A lot of the main perpetrators didn’t show up to school very often. My relationship with my teacher was fine.

On the last day of classes, I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. I left the building in tears of relief and cried the entire bus ride back to my actual school, where I thrived.

I maintained a satisfactory grade in Fashion Design & Merchandising, never falling below a 90. That was by my own accord. Don’t get me wrong, my teacher was an excellent seamstress and made impeccable art, but fell completely flat when it came to having some compassion for me and my classmates. Those young men could have benefited immensely from some discipline, and it was her job to enforce the law, but sexual bullying was occurring right under her nose, and it was ignored. I had to advocate for myself and my female peers who were just as uncomfortable as I was. Ironically, my teacher was editing a brochure for the Women’s March while the whole ordeal was unfolding. She was helping stand up for women all over the country, but not in her own classroom.

The administrators did their jobs, and helped make that place tolerable in my last month or so there. There was catcalling occurring in the hallways before classes started, and I was the only young woman present to witness it because my bus always arrived early, and the administration corrected that immediately.

This wouldn’t have escalated to the point that it did if it had been a real workplace. I learned the importance of professionalism and removing myself from stressful situations in the name of preserving my mental health.

I nearly lost my love for fashion. Just typing that makes my heart ache. It has been my life since I was little, but it became my personal hell as a sixteen/seventeen year old. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, though. Sometimes that has to be learned the hard way.

I’m still going to college for fashion merchandising. I won’t let this awful experience ruin what I’ve worked so hard for. I’m a member of the National Technical Honor Society, I earned that. My determination has been recognized and rewarded on multiple occasions, so I don’t feel unfulfilled in the least.I feel it necessary to share my story, though--not as a cautionary tale, because the other programs at this vocational school are lovely, but rather as inspiration to speak up. As my vice principal says: “Your voice matters”.