A nameless empty (or so I thought)

So, here we are again. I wish there’s a better way to say that there’s a physical ache in my chest and I don’t know how to get rid of it permanently.

How can this be so incredibly difficult to maneuver? It should be easy. Like breathing. Or getting dressed for work. Love should be easy. Effortless. At least that’s what I have always believed.


I’m so tired of getting in this kind of situation over and over again but it seems like I never learn at all. I’ve been rooting for every single person who has been involved with me romantically for so long, but who’s rooting for me? No one. It’s not like they said they were to begin with yet is rooting for me a little too much to ask?

I don’t get it and I guess I never will.



My Mad Fat Diary

This is the first time I’m talking about the show My Mad Fat Diary. This will probably be the last, I don’t know.

I just saw the latest episode of season 2 and that changed the game for me. Being able to relate to Rae Earl made me lost perception. I forgot that the show is so focused on her and what she believes to be true, because it’s her diary after all, and so I get suckered on this belief that Rae is a wonderful, well-adjusted human being and everyone she loves hurts her.

Until today when the episode focused on Chloe and I got to see bits and pieces of what truly transpired in some of the episodes. I don’t know why I’m feeling sorry for Rae still because it’s true what Linda said about her, that she’s being self-centered, and that she has been a disappointing friend to Chloe. She’s supposed to be Chloe’s best mate.

I also don’t know why people are still nagging about Finn. I know he’s charming and cute and absolutely still in love with Rae but come on, that’s not the focus now.

It sucks that Chloe isn’t different from Rae. They both have insecurities and by the end of this episode they both settled for less. You accept the love you think you deserve.

I don’t know anymore.



I’ve reread a couple of entries from this forgotten journal. It wasn’t the most pleasurable read; my eyebrows arched in disbelief, my nose crinkled in slight disgust, and my brain a little tired from the constant disappointment and waiting.

Last Friday I got invited to an overnight stay at a hotel in the city not far from where I live by a friend I met on the Internet. She is an intelligent woman and a decent one, I guess. Although she had tried to invite me on several occasions (that I politely refused), this time I thought: fuck it. So I went. It turns out she did not invite me to murder or scam me; she just wanted company and that made me settle in a bit. At one point in our conversation she told me the secret to her relationship with her long-time boyfriend is that she knows what her priorities are and at the top of that list is herself.

I find it strange because in all the years I spent looking for love, the love that is not the inherited type, I learned that I don’t have much control. I give everything. My time. My pride. Myself. I do not leave anything for me, not even a tiny piece. It’s go big or go home.

And now I realize how idiotic this ideology is. The moment your family stops financially supporting you, you are on your own. You move out and find a tiny room the size of a bathtub and call it home. You have to get a job and pay your bills. You get to be your own anchor.

It’s no different with love. The moment you fall in love with someone, you must be independent still. There are boundaries and you have to go about it quickly or you get left behind. You cannot ask for guidance from your parents or your friends, you have to do it yourself or you’ll get in all sorts of trouble and you wouldn’t know how to cope.

The stains from almost lovers and boys who change their fancy minds every time I decide to let go are still here. And what do I do instead of getting rid of them? I wait. I’m a very impatient person, it runs in the family. I want answers now and I’ll try to shake it out of whoever no matter how much it will hurt me. Once I get my answers and they have given me the kind that I don’t want – or need – to hear, I remain in a rut. It’s like I have been paralyzed and I don’t have the money for therapy because I’ve given everything up.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: the wait time is over. I’m carefully removing the go big or go home sign from the facade of my fist-sized heart. I’m shaking the cobwebs and drawing the curtains up. I’m wiping the stains no matter how strong they are. I have paid my dues. It’s high time I collect what I deserve.

18 Years

I know you’re watching over me. Maybe as I am typing these words, you are behind me reading. I just want to tell you that I miss you terribly. I wish we had more time.

I’m not blaming you for the struggles life has thrown me but I wish you were there to guide me to the right direction. I never understood your passing until I was old enough to make decisions for myself. Life is hard, I bet you know already know that. But it so much harder when your father isn’t present.

18 years. You have been gone for 18 years. Has it been that long? I’d admit that there was a time I got used to not having a father. Mama did a great job raising two kids alone. But there are days when I wonder what it is like if you hadn’t died? Would I have ever been this damaged?

In case you are wondering, today is one of those days.

I also regret that I wasn’t old enough to tell you how much I love you. And I cannot remember a lot of things from when you were alive. Except for that night you went home from the hospital and you told us you sneaked out of the hospital to get us Dunkin’ Donuts.

I am furious that we don’t have a lot of memories. We could have created tons of stupid memories so when the time comes that you have to leave, I am left with something.

You were gone to soon, Daddy. I love you.

New Year Woes

I always say that I want to disappear. I didn’t put much thought in that sentence to be honest. It is possible that I was drunk and utterly unhappy when I created this blog. That happens a lot. Anyway over the holiday break I had time in my hands so I’ve given that some thought.

Do I really want to disappear? Disappear to where exactly? It turns out I just want to be found. By you.

I don’t want to be sad anymore. I guess there comes a time in your life when you are ultimately tired of sulking and writing sad words and you just want time well spent with your person. I want that. I want that with you.

So find me. I am here.

Dear Dallas,

I don’t think I can ever survive this.

It has been exactly seven days, eight hours, and twenty-five minutes since you implicitly dumped me. Since then I can only ever think about you and how you whispered sweet nothings in my ear. How you called me your queen. Or how you patted the top of my head and kissed my forehead when we were freezing our asses off at my place.

You don’t understand how this little break of yours has affected me. Lately I have found myself at a loss for words. It does not make sense because I always have words for everything, even if I am under so much pressure. I cannot write about anything other than you.

I am terrified that you are not coming back but I am also frightened that I will spending a good amount of my time waiting for someone who has no intention of coming back.

I guess I am writing not to beg for you to come back. I want you to give me a concrete answer. I want you to be sure this is what you want because when I get back to my senses and realize that I have been watering a dead flower all this time, there is no turning back.

Is that what you’re waiting for? That I hit my head on the pavement and suddenly I come back as an empowered woman with the highest sense of self and will not take shit from confused guys like you? A lady who knows her place, who wouldn’t budge at the sight of a boy who wants to have a taste of all the candy in the store? A person who cares about rights and the oppressed and not about who says I love you first or the minutes it took for you to reply?

I’m exhausted, Dallas. Really exhausted and confused and hurt and it’s fucking impossible to move forward when a part of me is still with you. Either you give it back and tell me it’s over or you come back and stay for the long haul.

Make up your mind.


Boy Trouble

Dear K,

I’m writing under pretense that I am not hurt or destroyed. Let’s just pretend I am not. I did not know if I should tell you this in person or through writing but decided to write since I am much more better with written words.

I met a boy. There always is. He is the most intelligent, mature, and philosophical person I have met in my almost 25 years of existence. When I think of him, it’s like muscle memory. I know every feature his face has. His big brown eyes. His slightly freckled cheeks. His short, skinny fingers. The way the light nestles on the peaks of his sunburnt face.

He smells like home. His crooked smile is the best freaking smile I have witnessed. He held my hand three times; my fat, stubbly fingers fit snuggly with his. It is heaven just thinking about it. I don’t even want to forget this feeling.

Backstory: We met on the Internet. We have discussed a couple of stupid things along with socio-political issues I rarely talk about with anyone. He made me feel safe to express myself and that made me incredibly happy. He went here in February 2013 to join an international art convention and we met. Three times. He is a joy and pleasure to be with. We talked over coffee and dinner and beer. We’re friends and that’s what friends do – friends hang out. Long story short, he had to go back home. The emails and the conversation continued which is pretty cool.

In September 2013, he told me he likes me. Like really, properly like me. It felt like I had found my person. Finally, I thought. I did not mind the transatlantic friendship, not really. We stayed in like. I like that. I did not ask for anything more. What we had was enough. Until today.

He told me he has to “get off the face of the earth.” What that means, I don’t know. Maybe he’s trying to hide? “I have a lot on my plate. I need to decompress. Sorry.” That was what he said.

I asked, “How long will you be gone?” He said, “Not long.” But it already feels like an eternity. I have not found my person and now I am terrified to beg him to stay with me, just me, even for a bit longer. That maybe he is just a little confused.

I want to remind the Universe that he needs me more than I need him, not the other way around.

I don’t know but with him, it’s different. We do not have a concrete grasp of what our relationship is and obviously for some people that is a red flag, but I don’t feel that way. Is there something wrong with me?

Am I reading into this so much more than a normal person would? It really hurts. And I miss him so damn much. I just want him to come back. I really, really need that to happen.



It only occurred to me today that love is an addiction. Speaking from experience, I can compare my kind of loving to my nicotine addiction.

The very thought of it did not scare me. How could it? It is so tiny. No, a stick that short is not my ticket to the afterlife, I thought.

A person so pale and warm and freckled and with the saddest brown eyes cannot hurt me. His short but skinny fingers fit snugly with mine so how can it be the cause of my demise?

So I jump. That is the most logical thing to do when you do not know what is better.

I put the thing that is continuously killing millions of people between my chapped lips and I breathe in the smoke. I let that smoke linger in my lungs for a couple of seconds and I exhale with a royal grace and that makes me smile.

I let the brown eyed man through the metaphorical walls I built throughout the years. He flinches ever so slightly when our pinkies touch for a second. That triggers something inside me. That makes me think he is the most fragile person in the planet and he needs me more than I need him.

The days pass and I get used to taking five minute breaks to be alone with my cigarette stick. When I am stressed at work. When I get to the grisly part of a new thriller novel. When there is nothing else to do. I smoke and smoke and smoke.

The brown eyed man became my confidante. My partner in crime. The missing puzzle piece. Every day I can see clearly – he is The One.

I need him more than he needs me.

You would not know what you got yourself into until you are slumped in a chemotherapy lazy boy along with five people you have no intention of getting to know. When the words are said and you are left with nothing but a memory. When you are on your death bed and you regret every single stick you put between your lips. When you are lost and the only thing that can rescue you is a pack of menthols and kiss from a brown eyed man with pale and freckled skin.


Bad Day

It was a bad day and I want to get drunk but why would I get wasted when I can wallow in self pity sober? That way I can feel the pain in all its gloriousness.

See this is what I am good at: hurting myself to the point of not caring about the repercussions. Take that, optimism.

I wish I can write about something other than this pain but it is all I’ve got. Thank you, Universe.

But maybe tomorrow will be better than today. Maybe not. Let’s not get all up on that biz because caring is not cool.

Daily Prompt: Land of Confusion

A time when I felt really out of place was in high school. I never belonged – not to a single person, not to a group of friends, not to a person.

I was often seen roaming the grounds alone because I never made friends in high school. Sure, there were times I hung out with five skinny girls who talked about boys and fashion but that wore me out. I was not interested in either boys or fashion. I am an introverted fat kid, have you met me?

Back then I liked performance art (I still do) and music and anime. I am partial to staying in on a Friday night instead of going to parties. It made me uneasy that my bullies were breathing the same air as I did. The thing is: I haven’t found my people yet.

And I happy to announce that yes, I have found them, and yes, it was worth the wait.

Written for The Daily Post.