In Search of Inner Peace: Beginnings

"Write hard and clear about what hurts." - Ernest Hemingway

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When I was a kid, I couldn't wait to grow up. I couldn't wait to grow up because I had this vision in my mind, this idea, that when I was older, everything was going to be okay. Everything was going to be right, everything was going to be as it should be. I was going to be okay, I was going to be fixed -- I wasn't going to be sick anymore. 

I'm not sure what put this idea in my head, but I just couldn't imagine a future where I was still sick. Surely, it had to end. But high school came and went, then 18, 19, 20, and.... nothing. Nothing changed.

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I feel betrayed by my body. I feel angry and cheated. This isn't how it's supposed to be, this isn't how it's supposed to work, but that's just it - it doesn't work. Something went haywire in my immune system and instead of functioning properly, it can't tell the difference between healthy and foreign cells, so it goes into overdrive, leading to joints that swell and bones that ache, skin cells that don't know when to stop reproducing, causing bright red patches across my face and limbs, and leaving a body and mind that feel tired beyond their years.

So here I am at 23, feeling betrayed and tired. But also feeling like I'm finally ready to come to terms with my body, my reality, myself. There are a lot of things that I've kept bottled up my entire life, things I've never faced or vocalized or worked through, things that have caused so much inner turmoil and anxiety. But I think I am finally ready to start letting go and to start on this journey of searching for inner peace. I'll try to be as brutally honest, transparent, and vulnerable as I could possibly be -- feel free to come along for the ride.

honey

i.
honey -
on the tip of my tongue it lingers
honey -
how was your day?

I want to wrap you up and around between my arms with my legs squeezing you tight hoping to make you feel the warmth that's swelling from my chest and I want to call you
honey

ii.
honey -
but we're not quite there
honey -
so I bite it back

Speaking to me softly thoughts swirling around this way and that wondering do you don't you will you won't you but I won't let myself linger because I could get stuck in your words of
honey

iii.
I think that you could love me so sweetly
like honey
but I'm scared to ask you to try

Conceal to Reveal

With all the talk going around about "real beauty," not only are extravagant uses of Photoshop critiqued, but often times, any use of makeup is tossed into the mix. People are often telling women, "You don't need make-up to be beautiful; you're perfect the way you are!" and others saying they like the "natural" look. But in the same breath, they often tell their female peers that they look sick or tired when they fail to wear mascara or eyeliner.

Everyone has a preconceived notion of what others are supposed to look like. Critiques of the above are many, but those are for another time, another day. Today, I am making a case for the positive aspect of using makeup and giving into these preconceived notions.

I have been wearing make up for years. And the reason behind it is perfectly summarized with Dermablend's Camo Confessions campaign. You can view the most recent videos here.

I do not put on make-up every day to fake who I am, to "trick" anyone, or put on a false persona. On the contrary, I do it so that people can instead see who I really am -- the sarcastic, witty, emotional, loyal, indecisive person that I am. Because if I didn't, they would instead focus on my physical appearance. The preconceived notion that I am ascribing to is looking normal.

Perfect skin is not something that I have been blessed with. I'm not talking about acne or pimples; I have instead been beautified with a continuous, crimson complexion. And I do not want that to be the first thing that people see and judge me by. I want people to look past my skin and instead judge me by the content of my character, however charming or repellent it may be. And that is why I conceal to reveal. I wear my makeup, and I wear it proudly, because it helps me be who I want to be -- my face is a canvas, one where I can show the rest of the world how I see myself, how I hope that it can see me. And for that, I will not be ashamed.

Україна

It's quite bewildering that the political turmoil, civil disaster, and overall strife of a nation I've never even seen with my own eyes makes my heart so heavy. But it somehow aches like home.

Боже, я молюсь за Україну,
Боже, молю Тебе за людей.

Realizations

I would feel your eyes on me, during a movie or a drive or some other menial thing, and I would jokingly say, "Don't be a creep, stop staring." I guess I was just scared that if you looked for too long, you would realize you didn't like what you were seeing.

Will You Still Love Me On Sunday?

It’s so easy to be head-over-heels under the loud music and the overfull glasses of Saturday night. Everyone loves each other, everyone wants to be best friends. Everyone sees only the best in everyone else. And there is a certain magic in Saturday night, as though you’re so far inside the weekend — so buffered on each side from the unforgiving reality of the weekdays — that everything is possible and real if you want it to be. You say things you might not mean on Monday morning, because for the moment in between the sixth and seventh drink on Saturday, it’s all you can think about.

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But when you wake up on Sunday morning, when your head hurts so badly you feel as though it will never return to normal, when everything that was beautiful and mysterious the night before has been rendered harsh and unflattering in the relentless daylight — will you still want to turn over to me? Will you still be interested in all of the things I have to say, all of the coincidences we took as divine intervention last night when we were only so happy to tell each other how we feel? If the facilitators of alcohol and dim lights and a group of laughing around us are no longer part of the equation, do you still want to hold my hand?

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I will love you on Sunday. If I told you all of these beautiful things when we were standing under the red light of the bar, peeling the label off a beer bottle, it’s because I want you to remember them the next day. I want to pounce on my momentary lack of inhibitions to say all of the things I’ll later want to sweep under the rug, but which I truly mean. I am telling you these things on Saturday because I won’t be able to on Sunday, but I’ll want you to know that I mean them. And I hope you know me well enough to know that I never say anything I don’t mean — even if they’re a bit embarrassing to remember in the morning.

Will You Still Love Me On Sunday? | Thought Catalog

Deserving

You ask me how I'm doing and I say everything is fine and it is - nothing, nothing is wrong - and yet I keep finding it difficult to breathe. So filled with a gnawing desire for solitude, self-loathing, and gloom, reasons for which cannot be found but the feelings existing nonetheless. Existing  and stifling and ever present. You look at me with eyes filled with love but when I see them all I want is to turn away and push you further because I could never feel deserving. I see in myself no redemption for I am neither considerate nor sympathetic nor benevolent, and yet you stay patient and supportive and kind. You, you who have been with me for near a decade and you, you who have been by my side for not even a year; you, the collective you who have been intertwined with me for whatever reason, for whatever duration, you, I don't deserve you.

Kisses

"I love you. I love you. I love you." He repeated time and time again, kissing her fists, her scars, her fingers, her wrists, her hands, her knuckles, her palms. Thoughts, feelings, words, hopes and fears swirled in her mind, and her mouth opened - silent. Instead of release, instead of letting her go, they grasped at her throat, clawing, and choked her from the inside out. Her head swayed slightly, side to side, and she tensed fleetingly, unable to bring her exhausted, diffident eyes to the eager, desperate ones that were fixed on her, a mere face-lengths away. Again, she opened her mouth; again, she closed it - silent. "But I love you."

Panic

Lungs clenching, sight blurring, I walked and I walked, trying to steady my breathing, to regain some control. But Pandora's box had been opened, and all those nameless feelings and fears that had remained suppressed for so long were suddenly freed, let loose to form into conscious and coherent words and ideas. And once they're out, they can't be put back. They're swirling, swarming in my mind, choking me from the inside out; I'm finding it difficult to breathe. I need to catch my breath, to clear my head, but the weather is too warm, the night is too light, and I am no where near alone enough.