the art of touch.

It’s getting harder and harder for me to express myself in words. I find myself drifting to sleep and seeing the words I want to say but when I wake up I’m unable to find the words anymore. It’s almost like I imagined them, but they were very real in my mid conscious, sleepy state. For weeks, I’ve been trying to find the right way to say that I had finally hit rock bottom. I don’t know why I’m having a hard time; maybe because I’m still in denial or maybe I just can’t write anymore. I don’t know. It’s been hard to focus on expressing myself when I have a thousand deadlines coming at me like piranhas in the ocean and life is continuously breaks my heart.

When I was in primary school, I was stabbed in the hand by my seat mate at the time because I wouldn’t wake up when nap time was over. I could hear him calling my name but I just couldn’t get myself to open up my eye lids. Trust they did come flying open when I felt the lead of his yellow and black stripped, 2B pencil pierce through my skin, lol. You might be wondering why I brought this story up; that experience is the best way I know how to describe my rock bottom. On my finsta, this was exactly how I described what rock bottom felt like for me. My body betrayed me and I paid the price (being stabbed), only in this case, I actually had trouble falling asleep every night and when I would eventually fall asleep, I didn’t want to open my eyes back up.

Last month, I wanted to disappear. I wanted my journey to be over and my chapter closed forever. I was just tired and frustrated. The only escape I could conjure up in my mind to escape my life was to just disappear and cease to exist. Ironically (or not), for the longest time in my naivety, I would always tell myself that I was like a top tier sad bitch because I would never consider death (lol). It was really hard for me that day because while I was internally begging to cease to exist, my heart was simultaneously breaking because I had betrayed my own self. It was this internal tug-of-war where one part of me was over this shit and the other part was not going to be a giver upper (yeah, I know that’s not a real word but you know what I mean, grammar police). I was in a bit of a trance for a couple of days after that, shutting out my family and friends because everyday I woke up, I was a little disappointed. I was in a strange place where I was awake but I felt disconnected from my body; like I was a passerby watching me float through life.

I know this is meant to be a blog about my journey but I don’t know how to deal with what happened to me that weekend. I don’t know what I learned about myself from that experience. I don’t even like thinking about it because it makes me feel not only embarrassed but extremely melodramatic. I wish I had a nice little bow to tie up this story with. I wish I could say, I came out stronger after that or I started appreciating myself more but I can’t because none of that happened. I had to physically scold myself to snap out of it and get back to doing school work, participating in group work, doing research, and being active at work.

For me, I wish life was like my favorite flavor of Talenti gelato; sweet, light on the taste buds and a source of extreme happiness. Life is messy and sucky but my brother reminded me that even on my worst days, I will be ok and that I’m doing better than I think I am. That’ll have to be enough for me for now. So I named this post after the massage place he took me to; The Art of Touch. This blog is my therapy; the only thing that makes me happy tbh. I am writing this at work, trying not to cry so my co-worker doesn’t bother. I hope March is good to me.

Yours,

girl