nothing/everything

some days just hurt. and when they do hurt I feel like i’m failing: like how have you let yourself get so far just to let the bad feelings come back in? and usually i’ll sit with it and accept it and move forward because rumination has only ever held me back.

do I let myself be defined by what society deems successful? do I join a church, wear some makeup, meet some dude named Eric or Jim or Carter and sell Mary kay cosmetics to groups of maga-hat wearing blondes with botox? then: then will I be like, aha! there’s what i’ve been missing! I can’t believe i’ve been led astray by feminists with blue hair and septum piercings with their pictures used as memes by redpill Jeff rogan fanboys? and maybe I was born in the right country surrounded by the right religion and i’ve been so curious about different cultures and religions for no reason at all other than being dragged to hell?

when I flip through art books or take a ceramics class or am told by a transperson they feel safe with me and cry in such vulnerability: am I eve just bobbin for apples in a giant sea of sin? am I doomed to hell for believing someone loved me once when my desperation to feel wanted and seen drew cloth over my eyes from reality?

and am I wasting my life away? writing to nobody about nothing but inward thoughts and small steps forwards (backwards?) and deleting and readding some app where I find potential partners through one-liners and selfies with whited out faces of their friends? am I going to wake up tomorrow, look at my apartment full of things, and think: i’ve wasted it all. it’s too late.

and then fifty years from now: when some person passing my tombstone (if I have a loved one who spares the pretty penny) will they just know based off vibes that I was some loser childless old wench who was never quite enough for anybody to love? will some grainy black and white picture I hate be posted in an obituary, with words written by AI that’s taken over the world - the prompt hastily put together by a nephew’s second son?

and will any of it actually matter? will the life I gave up and never should have had in the first place be the ghost of someone who may have cured cancer, or maybe spent twenty years in prison for smuggling drugs?

and maybe I have it all wrong. maybe the bars i’ve built in self isolation let me miss my only chance of True Success and True Happiness ten years ago. Maybe the quiet cutie with the place in Ballard was my fate that I crushed by walking away when friends and family needed me most.

and maybe I meet them tomorrow. just walk down the street and I trip and drop my stack of papers i’m carrying for some reason and the woman helping me pick them up just looks at me and I look and her and we’re like: oh. (but then maybe hell is real and I burn for eternity because our scissoring cuts off my only chance of white clouds and Sonic-ring halos.)

so then I ask myself again: does it even matter? maybe the real deity is a south-asian non-binary entity I never learned about. and all those people I see with their big families and fancy cars and movie nights with popcorn are really just all humans trying to figure it out, too.

it’s hard to not look backwards when they keep reminding you: hey, remember that time that awful thing happened that you’ve tried to move on from? here’s some additional information you never knew that will ruin your day! or: oh hi! you know that abuser who you’ve long forgiven and hold deep love for? turns out they don’t even want to talk to you and have also abused their new target who is probably going to die any day now. or: by the way! proud of you for no longer trying to understand the pain of this person who tried to kill you. here’s a cookie! did I remind you how this person tried to kill you when you just wanted to finish your saturday cartoons? or: hey btw! that thing you never wanted to talk about and only shared pieces of to avoid passing jokes about it? so sorry you went through that alone! you know- in case you weren’t thinking of it and trying to move forward…. sorry that happened. sorry you did it alone.

and it’s all well intended. people have their own way of processing, grieving, understanding. but then when I don’t listen or try to ignore there are screenshots and direct questions and Big Talks and attempts to get you to remember the things you hid so long ago for a reason.

and when you think you’re doing better and happy the questions start all over again: are you sure you’re happy? that look of pity because you mistook kindness for friendship. the backhanded compliments. the pointed questions.

so then I start to question: is peace within myself enough?

because I make surface level connections wherever I go. the post office man who remembers me from a year and a half ago. the barista who changed stores and acts like you’re old friends. the clerk who shows you pictures of their graduation. the person you fired two months before reaching out to ask for a reference. the family of family who hugs you like you’re one of their own. the small group who invites you out again and again then teases you when you try to give them a way out and they insist: we want you here. the emcee in the parade who spots you and waves wildly. the engineer from six years ago who runs half a block to pat you on the back. the uber driver who cries when you listen. the new transplant who beams and hugs. the classmate who messages just to share admiration. the four people you have to stop and talk to on the way out. the old cousin who tells you that you were one of the few rays of lights.

i’ve grown to accept and am proud of the way I can make people feel. the amount of people who tell me ‘you were the only person who,’ or, ‘you’re loved,’ or, ‘thank you for listening,’ or, ‘i’m grateful I met you,’ just in the past couple of weeks sort of force me to know it.

but I also would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge where that comes from.

because I know what it’s like to never feel seen. I know what it’s like to feel like i’m not good enough. I know what it’s like to feel broken completely. I know what it’s like to have only learned to self-criticize instead of how to be loved. I knew abandonment before I knew shelter. I knew my faults before I knew I had anything redeemable at all. and so I hid, and I hid some more, and it took over 30 years before I learned: it’s okay to love yourself.

so when I hear someone make a self-deprecating joke I stop them. when I see the doubt I try to lift them towards hope. when I see the tears I sit closer and offer tissues or space or patience or silence or a hug or whatever they need. when I hear the tremble of fear I offer affirmations and safety. because I cannot just sit witness to that deep-rooted pain without trying to help or fix or aid and often to my own detriment.

so I can’t help but be okay if I only ever succeed in being the bright part to someone’s day. and if I die tomorrow: so be it. I gave my nephews a couple of good days, helped my sisters with shelter while they worked on their degrees. I let my grandma know her impact in my life, let my mom know how I had forgiven her and wished only for her to find peace and healing.

so some days hurt. some days I feel like: do I want more? do I even deserve it? am I capable of living within happiness and not questioning whether each person I come across deserve more than lil ol’ me? after all: maybe something could have happened by now if possible. maybe I am only meant to be the hurdle for someone to overcome, the little laugh someone else needed in their day. maybe my only purpose is someone’s lesson learned or regret or painful memory.

we’re not all destined for greatness. i’d rather give that to someone else, anyway.

so I hurt a bit today. but what’s one day? there’s always tomorrow.