an archive of growth

welcome, welcome, welcome

[probablynauseous]

of course I still think about you

[probablynauseous]

can i hate myself enough

into being something lovely

has anything beautiful

truly beautiful

been birthed by hatred

i wrack my brain but cannot find an example

[probablynauseous]

shame is an odd thing.

there’s something chilling about the fine line between the objective shame you feel for your parent—the kind of shame you’d complain to your friends about pretty readily

and

the very, very acutely upsetting shame that makes you not recognize the person who has always been your hero.

I had a sad thought the other night.

“How will people remember you when you die?”

“Will they remember the person who was incredible, or the person who completely lost their filter in the last 20 years of their life?”

I think about what I would say at each of my parents’ eulogies.

I still can’t decide whether I’d write something down or just improvise it.

Improvising it feels better. Feels more natural. More authentic.

But I’m afraid of what I might say. Will it be too much? Will I offend people? Will they resonate with my feelings or will they say “No way, that’s not how I knew them.”

How will I be remembered?

[probablynauseous]

I've always held the same visual in my mind

lying on the floor until i melt into it

each of my atoms, held together by the laws of our universe, suddenly giving out

falling apart from one another

cascading away, down, into the earth

like a bucket of marbles kicked over

the concept that

the laws of this universe would never allow that

no matter how many times I visualize it

used to comfort me

used to

[probablynauseous]

I decided to start annotating the books I read sometime last year.

Books, in their original printed state, used to seem holy to me. Not to be touched, creased, stained, or wrinkled by humidity. Perhaps it was the beauty of a perfectly symmetrical book that I wanted to preserve, my obsession with straight, crisp lines and the idea that maintaing order equalled maintaining beauty.

then, sometime in high school, it became mandatory to annotate my books. I wanted to believe this was done so that my English teachers-the ones I constantly and desperately wanted to leave a lasting impression on- could look at something I had annotated and connect with me on a deeper level. i later realized it was done moreso as a way to confirm that I had done my reading. a rapid way to complete checklist. I don't blame them, but I wish it were different.

anyway, I was hesitant for maybe a minute. but once I started the habit of annotating my thoughts, and underlining portions of text that resonated with me, it became unbearably second-nature. now I can't seem to read as quickly as I do without a pen in hand, and I always, always have the urge to annotate.

but I never dared to do so with my personal copies of books. that need to preserve was still deeply rooted inside of me, and it was constantly at odds with my itch to annotate.

i bought a Kindle sometime later, so as to hopefully mitigate that urge, and also to reduce my purchase of paper products. I had already gone through a round of donating my old books that I didn't feel particularly attached to, and I didn't want to have to go through that purging process again. I like stuff, and I can be a bit of a hoarder, but the stuff always has to be meaningful in some way. so I decided that I would sample books on my Kindle from that point forward; should I run into a book I adored and felt it worthy of purchasing a hardcopy for my future library, I'd do so.

sounded like a great plan at first, but that urge to annotate persisted. but what really did me in was something stronger than the urge, something about my past self that resurfaced.

I've never wanted to be famous in the typical sense, and that is especially true now. I don't long for the limelight and a lavish living style. I would much rather be anonymously impactful. but, there was a time in my life where I felt this desire to leave something important behind. "One day, I want to be quoted" I'd say. so I'd try my best to leave behind the word vomit that tends to resurge, like bad acid reflux. it started with handwritten diaries (all failed attempts), and has settled into infrequent prose and even more infrequent poetry on this website.

which is great, except a select few read this, and I keep it pretty hidden from the rest of the world. kind of contradictory, I know; I want to be known, but on my own terms. my words here are to be read, but also to be protected. my intimate thoughts are just barely filtered here, but I still fear them escaping.

why? I couldn't tell you. I feel it comes with the lesson my parents repeat unrelentingly: keep yourself as private as possible, because you are safest when no one knows who you are, what you think, and what you do. no one can hurt you if you don't give them anything.

which supremely sucks for me, an artist with crippling anxiety. all I want to do is share, and all I want to do is hide. I want to express, to expose truths, to lead, and then I want to recoil into a hole and never come out. (being a lawyer is going to be a blast).

as I grow, I continue to try and find a happy medium in this. I'm tired of hiding and suppressing my emotions and my thoughts.

so now, I purchase books again. and I annotate them. I grab a special Muji pen, in a beautiful muted navy blue (and only that pen. ever.) and annotate my heart out.

my hope is that, maybe someday, a friend will want to borrow my copy of a book, and resonate with my annotations. or maybe my kids will read my copies of books, and learn a little more about their mother in ways I couldn't express with spoken words. maybe after I'm gone, whenever that may be, my feelings towards literature will help others remember and try to understand my own thoughts and feelings.

maybe they'll write their own annotations.

I used to find discomfort at the sight of a worn-out book. now, I welcome and hope for a book riddled with ink. imprints of people. each of us, our own special set of scribbles.

[probablynauseous]

mental health is

hard to talk about

hard to deal with

hard to accept

hoping to be better in coping and being open about my struggles. how can I hope for a more normalized society when I don't do my part?

I am in another low. I hate to realize it, because it feels less like "hello darkness my old friend" and more like "omg this AGAIN?!?".

at least now I have the time to sort through it. I'm not in school and my work isn't so demanding.

I honestly wish I could call in sick but my guilt won't let me.

I also wish I could just ask for a mental health day but, again, my guilt (and embarrassment) won't let me.

this too shall pass.

[probablynauseous]

it’s cold out.

and all I want is to sit outside and feel it.

in silence.

with nothing but the smell of crisp air... and maybe the smell of burning wood, if i’m lucky.

but all I hear are cars. and all I smell is someone vaping floors below me.

it makes me realize that what I’m fighting for more than anything is a sense of agency. the ability (read: money) to find my perfect space, with just enough crisp air, just enough quiet. the stuff of dreams.

my home has some of that. but home comes with family, and family always wants to know how you’re doing. sitting outside alone on the dock to think seems to give off this sense that i need someone to talk to, to be with me, to probe. 

but sometimes i just want to be alone. or maybe with one other person who can share that space with me. usually the latter, and maybe that’s the thing that causes bitterness; that resentment my mother has towards me choosing to be in that vulnerable state with my person, or my friends, than I choose to be with her.

it’s weird whenever my mom suggests that i can always come home. i know she respects my space for the most part, but i’m just so damn picky about it. sometimes i want to be with her, but not always. she’s my mom. i know she wanted her girl to be her best friend, and she is my best friend, but... i don't know, just not like that.

so that’s what i can’t forget. how easily i could lose it all and be somewhat forced to return home. that's just not the space i need. a nice retreat, sure, and definitely a shelter if i need it. but i left home out of near desperation for a reason. I can't forget that.

that life i dreamed of, it’s definitely changed its shape. I thought I had abandoned it completely, but I think I just needed to remold it. and now it feels closer than ever.

keep fighting. don’t forget. you’re so close.

[probablynauseous]

little tears

bringing a new definition to "down time"

[probablynauseous]

I actively avoided my deepest feelings

“don’t”, I’d say to myself

“don’t listen to that song. don’t think about those words. don’t watch that show, that film. don’t think about it. don’t sing. don’t write. don’t paint.”

“don’t sob into those kisses don’t hold that face, forehead to forehead, and weep thin fingers softly gripping onto the one you want to trust to see you in this way, breaking down, unraveling, like satin ribbons, revealing this tiny body, naked, pretty, soft, and ailing”

“don’t, because it will all pass anyway- so why bother? why create such an intense, traumatic moment, a horrible mess? why create such discomfort for this other person? the one you swore to protect?”

they’ll say they want to help.

“never apologize for feeling how you feel” “I will always be there for you”

they’d all say those things, in the same way you would to them.

but they don’t really want to help, you’d convince yourself; they think they do, because it’s the right thing to say, the kind thing to say. and these are good people.

but your breakdowns are always messy in their purest form

messy, messy, messy no one likes messy

orderly, orderly, orderly a home where everything has a place. everyone likes a home like that.

best to avoid it altogether. best to keep it to yourself.

because you have a job to do. you have papers to write. research to conduct. classes, appointments, responsibilities. 

people to protect. people to hold, to tell them:

“never apologize for feeling how you feel” “I will always be there for you”

the same things they say to me... except, I actually believe it when I say it, because I know I’m capable. but are they? are they truly? is anyone?

is it arrogant, to stand in this position, believing I am the rock of my family, of my friends, too worried to let them see that their rock has cracks in it? to claim that I have this great, infinite ability to bear the brunt of everyone’s pain, because I can rationalize it? 

I operate under this sensation that I am capable of ANYTHING. obviously!!! but am I capable of continuing to swallow all of this, without letting it out?

even in my lowest moments, I never stop moving. maybe that’s why I don’t let myself believe that I am truly unwell.

i’m fine, it’s fine, i’m fine, it’s fine

I repeat and repeat and tack on to the end of every emotionally revealing paragraph. 

because because because

I don’t want anyone else to worry. I don’t want to cause any rifts, any pain, any additional trauma to this already traumatic life we all live.

I know I’m always fine in the end, so it’s a waste of their time and emotional space to worry about someone who is always going to be ok.

I’m capable of anything. i’ve always felt that way. so it’s always going to be fine, i’m always going to be fine! so don’t bother bearing this with me seriously, i’ve got it. 

but

I look to my mother.

and I remember those times where she would break down to her tiny children- not her husband, not her family, not her friends, not a therapist- her children: the only people she felt she could trust entirely, vent to entirely. 

thin fingers softly gripping onto the two tiny, worried children, the ones you want to trust to see you in this way, breaking down, unraveling, like satin ribbons, revealing a mother’s body, naked, pretty, soft, and ailing

it hurt to be me, during those moments. it hurt to be daniel.  is that who I am becoming?

mother, mother, mother “I am fine, it will always be fine”

did I get this from you?

there has just got to be a better way.

[probablynauseous]

it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine !

[probablynauseous]

an old message from a more emotional melanie

author’s note: I wrote this a while ago. I honestly don’t even remember when. I didn’t post it, because I felt it was too raw, too real, too revealing, too direct... and despite the fact that this is my outlet, at the time, it felt like too much. then, a couple of days ago, I posted it out of a burst of emotions from being reminded of some of the pain I felt then, that still lingers today. but then I deleted it as suddenly as I posted it. I think, even then, it was too raw, too real, too revealing, too direct.

but you know, this is my creative outlet. my emotional outlet.

so I would like to say the following:

there are a lot of feelings here that I still feel. there are also some that I have reconsidered. with that being said, I leave it in its unedited form to remind myself that at one point, I felt all of these things. At one point, these feelings were valid. they may still be. honestly,

i would like to know if they are still valid today, but the fact is, I haven’t had a real conversation with the people to which these messages are addressed. therefore, a lot of this is based on assumption.

and I don’t feel comfortable with assumptions. 

i would like them to be able to defend themselves. I would not want them to see this as an attack. this is just a girl who misses her friends. .

i still love these two people. more than they know. they are so special to me. that’s why the contents are so sensitive.

i hope that one day I can have real, face-to-face conversations with these individuals. I hope one day I have the strength to show them that I love them. And I hope they know how much I want them to be happy, and how much I miss them.

 a kind of missing, a kind of love, that leaves me gripping at my chest with hot tears from the pain of losing their friendship.

i don’t mean to be dramatic. i am being completely candid. i am cursed by the way that I love. 

i love my friends. i invest so much in them, so when they leave me, i am as broken as a girl who was freshly dumped by her significant other. it’s that profound. i don’t know how else to convey this.

anyway,

i know I have to keep learning to let go. i have to accept that some people are only comfortable holding me at a distance. i may also have to accept that some people may out-grow me. some people may not want me in their lives anymore.

i am learning... but as i learn, these are the words that come out.

so, please, don’t view this from a lens of scrutiny.  these words come from a young, sad girl, who just... misses her friends and mourns the past. 

that’s all.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

you willingly remain in the shadows

not an active participant of my life by any shape or sort.

not even a bystander. a fly on the wall. something I'd be able to see. to notice. --- one:

to notice that i am no longer your close friend.

I pretend that I don't care, but it’s clear that I do.

its hard to ignore. and I recognize that it’s a form of jealousy. of course I hate myself for it. but not because I NEED what you give to others. I never ASKED for it.  it hurts and makes me jealous because it highlights how you actively sifted me out of your life.  and I was brave once, and met with you, to ask why? had I done something wrong? to make you distant?

no, you said, you’re just so busy. you treat all your friends like this.

but I don’t know if this is true anymore. social media is a demon that constantly reminds me of all the ways you are present- active- in everyone else’s lives

except

mine.

tell me how you really feel! i’d rather your honesty than your superficiality! if i’m not good enough to be your close friend anymore, then fine! but just say so!

you preach inclusivity, social support, openness. but i’m too much of a coward to express my feelings to your face for the second time.

---

two: flashback to the winter: an old friend warms me a cup of tea. we sit in her living room. I express my continuing anguish over you. she, in her bluntest way that I've come to love her for, informs me that most likely, you don't feel.

you don't feel.

how could he, she says, tell you how he really feels if he just stopped feeling a long time ago.

and it sinks in. and I laugh nervously and tell her "you're right"

"you can't hold out for someone like that, Melanie"

"you're right."

it isn't love I seek. but it is. it so is, isn't it? romance is gone. it died. I buried it. 

but your tenderness. your genuine concern, not guarded by this idea that you pity me or feel the need to respond out of politeness. where is it? 

where is your face?

"I haven't seen her"

"I probably won't"

I wish I knew why. 

---

it's funny. you're both becoming these personas. these websites. these pictures of people online. a presence. a string of hashtags. a resume upon request.

but I know you're both more than those things. yet I feel like I'm no longer allowed to get to enjoy the physical people beyond the digital profile. 

I feel like I've lost my membership to your friendship.

you're the only people in my life who have made that decision about me. I guess that's why it hurts. because it's so rare.

it makes me feel like maybe I'm just not enough.

why do I care?

because, my dears, once upon a time, I cared about you two.

 so. damn. much.

i guess i still do. maybe i should stop.

[probablynauseous]

i hate being so sensitive.

[probablynauseous]

am I a fraud?

or am I the most authentic I've ever been?

[probablynauseous]

Chiquitita, tell me the truth I'm a shoulder you can cry on Your best friend, I'm the one you must rely on You were always sure of yourself Now I see you've broken a feather I hope we can patch it up together

Chiquitita, you and I know How the heartaches come and they go and the scars they're leaving You'll be dancing once again and the pain will end You will have no time for grieving Chiquitita, you and I cry But the sun is still in the sky and shining above you Let me hear you sing once more like you did before Sing a new song, Chiquitita Try once more like you did before Sing a new song, Chiquitita

[probablynauseous]

the last time i grew this much was when i finally let go of one of the people i loved the most

that was nearly 3 years ago

i wrote a song and moved on

i think the most liberating fact about that transitional period, and this transitional period, is that both were under my control, and both were my decision.

when he left, i didn’t think i could be whole again. i thought he had let me down, in a sense. 

in this case, a part of me passed on to a better life, became my angel, and i was left to see who truly cared the way i cared for them. there were those who reached out to me despite being abroad, and those who were in the same city and didn’t even shoot me a text. 

i was bitter, depressed, lost, frustrated, and i tried to escape through endless hours of scrolling through instagram, and bottomless bags of honey nut cheerios. i was constantly searching for a visual image of what i wanted to be. this happy person. that beautiful person. that fit, skinny person. etc, etc, etc. constantly looking for something i refused to find for myself, somehow convinced that if i looked long enough, it would eventually happen to me.

the funny thing is, i coped the same way after i got dumped. i searched, and searched, for inklings of what his life was like. who he was without me. who he was becoming, and who he had already become. i figured if i could see it, then i was somehow still a part of his life. and yet, i felt alone, without any friends in the flesh to hold me up.  

in both cases, there just came a day where i became fed up.

it’s been exactly one month since i began this journey. i’m grateful for the passage of time. i am grateful for the realization that i have control over my own happiness. as i shrink around the edges, my inner person grows. 

change is good. scary, but good.  

[probablynauseous]

abuelito

mi dito

you were the only grandfather i had. the only grandfather i knew.

you never left the house without a comb. you loved to cook. you made the best mandocas in the world. they will never taste as sweet. 

you were elegant, and noble. a family man who raised three wonderful children. my brother bears your name as his middle. 

Luis Alfonso Medina.

you loved Argentinian tangos. when we went to Rincon Argentino together, you started to cry out of nowhere. I was too little to understand. you loved those tangos. now i know why my mom cannot bear to listen to them.

i wish i knew your favorite ones.

i was too shy to get to know you better. i regret that more than you know. i hope you forgive me. i saw you so infrequently, and you were often sick. but you were beautiful and kind. you loved me. i always knew that and i always will. 

i will never forget sitting in your apartment. you would cook for us while my brother and i watched the same spanish cartoon video tape. i am convinced that was the only one you owned. i loved it anyway. 

and i will never forget how funny you were. you were so smart. you loved to practice english with me. 

im sorry i took all the opportunities i had to see you for granted. i was naive to think i would always have that option. now the venezuelan government won’t even let me say good bye. 

but i will strive to know you. i will ask for all the stories. i will keep you in my memories forever. and you will live on in me. you are a part of me.

te amo. infinito. 

tu peluquita,

melanie

[probablynauseous]

i definitely give way too many shits about people who do not deserve any of them