The Champagne Soapbox

  • plastic grass, roses, & trees

    graduated and finally celebrated, i anticipated being met in this achievement. i felt like the awkward kid who hung around the high school after they graduated, poking fun of people a year younger than them and acting as if the teachers were their drinking buddies. for this reason, i was jumping for my friends at the finish line and could barely stand with waving hands to collect theirs and continue the marathon together. i stand still now realizing that they’re running a much farther distance than i am, being that their goals are too big for me to witness for myself. hoping that their silhouettes won’t become faded as they pace greater distances, hoping my back still shines against the sun, and hoping that they look back and see me smiling at them from 10 miles away, 4 hours away, states away.

    despite all, still a call away. i hate that phrase. in a moment of months- telling yourself that stupid phrase- you look at the reflection in the rearview and see no one in the backseat. before, it was books we bought together, champagne she left from our sleepover, and soaking wet clothes he let me borrow after spending the whole day getting wrinkled from water. instead now, they only exist below the mirror, propped on a makeshift phone stand screaming through shaky connection on FaceTime. maybe you’ll be able to configure some loose plans or excuses to visit. those plans may fail, and you will give each other grace because you know that if they call, you can’t decline it this time because every call after this moment is practiced effort for the strength of the friendship we grew years prior.

    i wonder if this is what my parents felt when i left home. accepting the heartbreak of missing someone while knowing they’ll be back through the door hinges, welcoming new people and stories and moments you weren’t there for but wished you were. in this case, we were the ones who built this home, an unrelated family of related opinions and desire for closeness, and i am watching it slowly burn in the background like that apartment next to the one we met in. we can watch it burn together, since we’ll all find a new place to be from anyway. hard to admit, but i’m too focused on making sure everyone has made it out alive so we can still have a foundation to return to. one that a graduate degree, a doctorate degree, a whatever, can afford.

    and i know they will make it uninjured, but without them here with me, i am scared that i will also just crumble and burn. i haven’t been too welcoming to change that has been initiated by others, ever. i grasp onto branches so tightly that i have to climb higher up the tree, always, hoping it’s strong enough for me to grab their hand like i want and plea to keep them with me. the pain of missing something or someone like a memory is guttural, psychologically similar to heartbreak but lined silver with sheer hope. just make it out alive, and i will be here fostering our new idea of friendship like the one we shared at the blueberry house and built at that now empty apartment.

    i have the dashboard view of our memories on that balcony, driving past to seeing wrinkled books on the plastic grass and empty cups of water. instead of looking backwards at the rearview, i’m forced to focus on the road ahead of me, just as we agreed when we met at the finish line. will the road be too hard for us to remind each other of each other? to let each other know that we are okay? to admit we aren’t? looking through the dash, the billboard said, “the end is near.” when i turn around to look at the road behind me, i can only hope that there no one there- instead, the end has passed and a new beginning starts. the thing about overthinkers is that we will continue to debate our acceptance of change in hopes to receive better outcome. in my mind, there’s no better outcome than seeing you do the things you first told me on that balcony. different directions, similar roads.

    there’s a tree growing in that empty lot next to that empty apartment, between the crumbles of gravel from the house we worked so hard to build. one day, it’ll billow over a new house that has a stronger foundation. it’s roots build a complicated map that connects the places we’ve littered with beer and tequila, hugs and tears, loud words and peaceful silence. as long as we water the tree, it will continue to grow. over time, it will bring shade to sunny marriages, it will shake when kids scream and call me aunt, and it will listen to the whispers of the thoughts that become dreams that become actions.

    through “don’t talk about it” conversations, i was able to pull the branches hard enough to receive these words: it’s not about where you’re at, it’s about who you’re with. i’ve known this. i never really had a hard time making friends until college, well at first. i had everyone i could need growing up, and we could speak about it now like a trauma bond. having a handful, or two, of people who talked with the same accent or eat the exact creole foods as you or wore the same clothes you do because there are only a handful of stores located there. we were planted next to each other, literally, so when we did separate, our roots were too damn tight to pull away from each other- grounded through hurricanes and food deserts.

    to be fair, most of my deepest friendships came out of fate’s response. through mutual friends and neighborhood potlucks and repeated bar sightings. i have nothing to blame but my big mouth to fear loneliness enough to become brave enough to find familiar people in a strange place. i don’t remember how we met, and i hope i never have to think about how we may move on.

    one day, i’ll look up from my phone after writing this damn post and see my life. i love the idea that we are jagged tapestries of experiences and connections, moments of impact. i can’t wait to sit on that woven blanket while i watch new people (i told you over facetime but the connection was shaky) glue roses on a flatbed by that tree that still is growing after we all left. maybe you passed the same billboard, and you’ll look back at the dirt i dragged onto the floormat. maybe you’ll notice that your clothes smell like my lavender detergent after i washed the chlorine out. you’ll look at the tumbleweeds on the backroads we traveled and catch their luck exactly the way you taught me. the sweetest conclusion is knowing that you too have pieces of me to carry onto the next leg of the marathon. i just hope that when you get to the new place, you will look down at your phone to tell me that you’re seeing your life too.

    let’s not talk about it just yet though.

    this is a love letter to my friends who are taking farther roads to travel. i have an unfortunate tendency to grieve things before they occur, because when they do leave (physically), i’d rather not be unprepared (emotionally) to continue my race without them (metaphorically). yes this was a cheesy one, maybe a depressing one, or a ‘too metaphorical to understand’ one. find people who keep you grounded and hold onto them until you allow their roots to branch off.

    special regards to mercury retrograde, phoebe bridgers, and a four day weekend.

  • purgatory is closed

    this sunday is yet another annual return on sacrifices made during lenten season. usually, people give things up on ash wednesday and continue to omit those things and number of other things from their lives until easter. this season, i decided to journal everyday about how i identify religion. i have held many relationships with god, or the holy trinity, or the universe. at one time or another, i was/am in a religious relationship with three things, one thing, and everything.

    three things.

    i grew up insanely catholic, alike most of the people who developed back home. i guess we could say that it started at my baptism, the moment where the sin we were born with was reset, and i was granted the key to heaven if i were to meet death earlier than expected. i really enjoyed the chaos of being catholic, at least the community aspect of it. repeating prayers back to your parents so they could be recited during the weekly test at CCD. coming to class after school hours and hearing people talk so deeply about their concept of afterlife at a very young age. going back to school the next day as if you didn’t contemplate creation together the night before. looking forward to vacation bible school and water balloon fights and desserts your almond parents probably would not approve of.

    i think my opinion of religion changed when i began to question the routine of it. i remember distinctly a teacher saying that if you were to question if he was even real, or a possibility and this effort was met with nothing, then you were already damned. if you were lucky, you can spend time in purgatory reflecting on your mortal sins for permission to enter heaven. i remember that i walked out of class feeling absolutely nauseated, scared to talk to the person next to me in fear of judgment about the way i contemplated how life was written. was the catholic ego was just an attempt to collect tithes and dismiss culture? now that curiosity was an option, i had to hide the intrusive thought behind many ideas of tradition and teachings. i’m not even sure what the person meant when saying it, but it was the first time i allowed myself to interpret religious teachings.

    however, scared shitless through tradition, i had to fall way deeper into my faith. trauma dumping at confirmation retreats directly to the guys who sexually exploited my friends. confessing widely uncomfortable things to a man you have known since birth behind a partition. listening to women of faith describe celibacy while most girls in my class have already failed the task. being taught to desire marriage over love. crying to shrine of penance bread because you feel so guilty for things teenagers fall into naturally. sitting first pew hoping that everyone in your hometown recognizes your dedication to your faith. screaming into a pillow at night hoping that maybe if you asked loud enough, he will hear you. thinking about the afterlife so much that the present becomes an afterthought.

    i moved to austin, and i learned very quickly that you need to be curious in order to make friends, succeed in classes, and to form real opinions instead of relying on other people’s stated facts of life. i met people of different religions. i met people of different cultures. i met people of different languages. i still felt faithful, to a very robust nature, until i went to a younglife event out of curiosity. it seemed like a very safe place: people were talking about their weekend plans openly, they played loud music i heard on the radio and not in a gospel book, and they wore whatever they wanted. that was the only time i went, only because i felt ten times more confused about what i was taught when my only intention was to gain more clarity.

    in college, my favorite thing to learn was cognitive psychology and development. i thought it was convenient how the most intensive religious education begins directly after our brains are drawn toward individualism, free-thought, and experimentation. right when are more inclined to explore creatively.

    now i’m sitting in a pew sophomore year for ash wednesday. i went alone, right down the street from the UT tower. in the middle of the service, i had to go to the bathroom and chug water from the sink because it became really hard to breathe when the priest looked directly at me. it was like he knew that i was lost, or that i didn’t want to be there, or that this was just a fulfillment of a parent’s holy assignment- take a picture of my ashes to convince them my mind was right, my faith was still there, and that i was still that god-fearing girl who never questioned him much like she did society. the blood tasted like wine, the body tasted like a cracker, and the girl left for one of the last times.

    one thing.

    junior year, i decided to take a writing credit course called “the bible and it’s interpreters.” i thought this would be my salvation, discussing christianity in a multi-cultural context with a teacher who speaks with a thick norwegian accent and was as kind as jesus himself. a few people in that class always introduced ideas by saying “as a catholic,” though i never felt comfortable to admit that i was one. not only did i feel that it was not necessary to announce every other minute, i did not feel comfortable talking to others about my awkward experience of what i knew church to be. the class was only intended to discuss historical context and not spiritual philosophy, and at one point i began to debate with the catholics using a hard bias of religious trauma. this peaked interest from those who joined the class for the historical context, varying religions and only present to learn about the origin of this huge religion. i finally felt comfortable talking to others about their religion. subsequently, i healed a lot of the shame i carried from my strictly catholic childhood by asking questions and considering that my idea of god was separate from religion and practices. maybe god had more than three names. if he has an abstract presence, how am i to assume that no one else experiences him.

    everything.

    i had to read a lot of scripture for this class, way more than i ever did in catholic school. now that i was held boundless for interpretation (compared to “this is what he meant by this, learn it and live it”), i began to form a beautiful understanding of what those words meant regardless if they were from god himself, by proxy, or some random dead dude in the middle east. god made everything in his own image, so he is the sky and the beaches and the dirt between your toes and the air that you breathe and the water you drink when you become nervous matching eyes with a priest who is guessing your motivations for appearing in church after so long. i didn’t want to associate myself with a god who punished curiosity, especially if he made our minds so free thinking. i didn’t want to associate myself with a god who restricted connection, because our mouths were made to speak to others with open ears. i didn’t want a god who shamed people for accepting the way in which they were created. i didn’t want a god who favored creations and allowed society to create a false narrative of supremacy.

    people don’t write books to dictate opinions. they write them to inspire.

    last week in a conversation about religion, someone told me that purgatory is closed (it was a joke… maybe). i think in this whole religious journey, which is a contemplation for many my age, i began to accept the universally unknown. i know everything happens for a reason, whether fate or god or being written in Bailey’s Chronological Life Plan according to Age dictates that (it’s probably all the same). i know that there is something that made us so individual and similar, despite whatever name we give to it (god is a good word for it).

    i know that belief makes life purposeful, even if that belief is contrary to those around you. i believe in energy and understanding motivations. in growing opportunities rather than constricting paths. in people and their psychological desire to find solutions to their curiosities. in guidance opposed to teaching. how experiences shape beliefs. how age boosts position and how those can be manipulated through ego. whatever you believe is yours, and thank god we have that freedom forever.

    now that purgatory is closed, i guess it’s finally time to start being good people! this concludes my lenten season contemplations. all that really matters is that you have your own relationship with whoever built you. if anything comes out of this, i hope you take your time to think about what you believe in. i’m glad i allow myself the space to do so, and speaking about it to my friends, myself, and the virtual abyss is more healing than intended.

  • cassie, jules & femininity

    In the most recent episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race, the queens were presented with a main stage challenge of holding a panel discussion about men. I sort of found it robust, people (mostly male identifying people) dressed in a feminine illusion discussing toxic masculinity.

    The Gloria’s explain that racism and sexism are intertwined and both issues can’t be uprooted without the healing of the other. They’re engrained between the black and white lines we base our legislative proceedings on, highlighted in the new contracts from employers that make inclusivity a priority, and are rehearsed by politicians trying to snag the minority votes that distinguish the general population from white men. In regard to the relationship of toxic masculinity and empowered femininity, black women are more easy aware of bullshit in one form, and are able to identify it again in a different experience or event. Gay men and Trans women are more easily aware of bullshit in one form, and are able to identify it again in a different context. The issue is the bullshit, not the people experiencing it or speaking on it, unless it is socially determined that you have and will never experience such a thing because your birth rite contributes to the bullshit. It’s just the facts.

    According to a Google search, “The woman performs the role of wife, partner, organizer, administrator, director, re-creator, disburser, economist, mother, disciplinarian, teacher, health officer, artist and queen in the family at the same time. Apart from it, women play a key role in the socio-economic development of the society.” I mean, this literally took one second and my first question is why are women defined by Google, the other gender, and the state government, by their fertility? Before being an administrator, artist, or economist, you’re telling me that my purpose is to be a mother, wife, and partner first? In this context, women aren’t even considered to be creators but instead re-creators of (let me guess) male creations? If we’re stemming our purpose based on reproductivity, wouldn’t women be considered the hosts of the most valuable creation? This is an overwritten argument that requires more attention. I’ve allowed the space here for it, because the current state legislature ran out of it.

    Jules in a conversation with her therapist explains that she wants to get off her hormones because of the intensified gaze between both (and other) sexes. The men stare longer, and the women stare deeper, wanting to study the parts of her that make her more qualified to distract the male gaze from themselves. I like this plotline in Euphoria, because women are often held against each other like pageant contestants for male judges to look at and competitors to compare themselves to. Cassie manipulates this gaze that Jules speaks of by stealing her best friend’s appearance to win Nate’s affection more, when Maddy was the only one who understood his attraction to her to be rooted in trauma-induced narcissism and masculine dominance. Maddy also understands Cassie’s trauma-induced insecurity and need to use feminine submission to receive validation. He doesn’t like Cassie because of how easy the chase was, but he likes Cassie because the psychotic spiral to replicate femininity in a way that he historically supported boosts his ego. She doesn’t like Nate because of how hard he was to get- that would make his abusive language and behavior a reward- but because she correlates his attraction as validation. Pageant Princess Maddy understands the gazes- the one that comes from both spectrums.

    I am a woman, and I don’t often think about my position until it’s questioned or manipulated. I would love to share all of the bullshit I have heard trying to pave my way through work opportunities independently, yet I fear retribution this very day for it. Phrases that are etched into my brain, such as “Women don’t know how to ask for raises” (gaslighting) and “This job is homework for marrying a man in the same profession” (narcissism) are simply examples of said bullshit. I thought, since I live in Austin, it wouldn’t be as black and white as back home where men wear blue collars and women have done their homework to stay at home with the kids. Instead, it is behind a computer screen through Teams calls, or worse, in his new house on Lake Travis sipping wine and getting a tour of his racecar garage. Sexism in the workplace is very real and valid, and I shouldn’t have to dump my face in ice water to feel confident enough to speak up for myself during meetings where I have to defend my value.

    This may be controversial, but I think back to my psychology classes when discussing minorities. I’m in a unique position of experiencing high privilege being white and high disrespect being woman, and I often don’t know the routes to overcome conversations that require me to announce my obvious identities to avoid any assumed biases that my accent may carry. At necessary times, my womanhood was strung as a complementary adjective. At the worst times, I treated my femininity as such.

    I’ve always been a complex paradigm of hyper-feminine and tomboy. Practicing winged liner as if the post-pubescent boys on the field may notice it instead of my thigh-cutting varsity cheerleading mini skirt. Wearing a real bra during practices so no one would notice my obvious developmental delay in growth (I’m still waiting). Purchasing a longboard and sometimes riding it home from school in checkered vans and big t-shirts. Talking to dudes about UFC and how I was raised falling asleep to fight nights at my dad’s friend’s house and Bruce Buffer’s voice. Being cool enough for the guys to be a friend and taking care of myself enough – catching them off guard sometimes – so that foundational chemistry may turn me into some dream girl who straddles many images. Look I washed and folded your clothes! Yeah, I don’t mind hanging with your friends tonight… they like me right? Look at me, I put makeup on today! My favorite beer is Michelob or Dos Equis. This is the male gaze Jules talks about, it’s the behavior Cassie portrays, and it was the male-aligned femininity confused my identity as an empowered woman.

    An unevolved woman finds value through male validation. An unevolved woman finds value through female validation. What’s really sexy and attractive is being your own validation. Picking out clothes that remind you of yourself. Allowing your coworkers to see the person behind the corporate signature. Being an ally to others and yourself. Being nurturing, but being understanding that it’s not your position to be a mother to others. Buying flowers, wearing denim, being strong, and speaking up even if your face is dripping wet from ice water. Looking people in their eyes when they’re telling you a story you connect with. Doing things … while you’re bleeding! Writing notes to yourself and romanticizing your masculine handwriting. Seeing the paycheck come in and realizing that women (specifically, this one) knows how to ask for raises. Not marrying a lawyer just because you did your homework, or becoming the lawyer, or not marrying at all. Not hanging out with people you’re uncomfortable with. Drinking beer because you like beer and also tequila and white wine. All that matters is that my clothes are cleaned, my bills are paid, my cat is cared for, and my goals are being met without the validation from other genders. Owning your womanhood is the most validating thing you can do for yourself, and I think the women are catching onto this. Let’s see how long it takes the men.

    I feel more supported by the women in my life now rather compared to when we were lining up on the football field fighting for a look from number whatever, eagerly arriving to dance practice early to see what role you may have landed in the winter recital, or in between competitive conversations with orientation friends who came to college with titles hanging from their Kendra Scott earrings. Not that those were necessarily bad experiences, but we have to understand that sexism and toxic femininity are institutionalized. When we become cognitively aware of social cues in our development, we are subject to following the status quo. What they don’t tell you is that it is equally as dangerous to our development when we become cognitively unaware to disrespect.

  • passenger princess

    “love is patient, love is kind. love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. it does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth.”

    i have always reflected on this verse, so much that i questioned if it even heartbreak when it wasn’t love in the first place? are we capable of experiencing love without it even being love? are they just annual infatuations? what is a love letter without a denotation of desperation or hope this is it? what is the anxiety in hoping that your attempts will be matched, and if you’re lucky, with more than anticipated?

    alike most girls my age, or maybe not, we are obsessed with the idea of love. most girls of my generation were developmentally skewed by the idea that happiness is when the prince shows up and helps you down from a suffocating tower of isolation, or recognizes your worth once he realizes you look better with makeup on and a new hairstyle, or understands that you’re not just one of the boys who loves beer and watches sports… you’re his soulmate! a lot of the times, we don’t even recognize how impactful these early representations of happiness were. ever since our cognitive development allowed, we have been trained to understand that love equates to happiness through plastic tiaras and songs. we may not believe it now, and it’s obviously famous enough in the discourse of female love to have become a cliche, but before we could even form words- we were being taught that love is shown to us when our prince charming teaches us how to love ourselves. bullshit.

    at my age, girls go to bars, boys buy their drinks, girls think about what his parents look like or how he introduced her to his friends without hesitations, boys (at least the worst ones) wake up mad that they spent money on a girl who wouldn’t put out. girls go to coffee shops, boys make eye contact with girls, girls think about that interaction and romanticize how they’ll tell their children how he drank his coffee with whole milk the day they met. girls go to school, boys go to school, girl wears a calculated outfit that does not show much skin but just enough to be perceived as casual and cute, boys only notice girls with greek letters. girls post on instagram after editing their body for hours, boys like pictures, girls show notifications to their friends and don’t check the app for the rest of the day.

    this could easily be an autobiographical analysis about the love i did or did not receive when i was younger, but i like to believe it was our culture that promoted me to follow a romanticized life. girls (see above) are so primed to desire and secure love that it is often second thought behind our image. it is engrained behind every social media post, behind any interaction with an interest of attraction, and often times written in the unwritten step-stone of life accomplishments. love is not a goal to reach before you begin “aging” or reach past the point of unacceptable child-bearing age. because love is obviously not the young repetition of romanticizing sweaty dudes at bars or guys with their dogs at coffee shops or earning random social gratification from the desired interest, i am forced to believe, out of hope, that it is patient instead. i don’t think it will appear when you are starving or full, but only when you are perfectly satisfied with yourself that you allow someone to help you prepare the next meal.

    it is human nature that considers failure when we are not able to find an answer to things. millions of grant money to academic researchers to prioritize finding the solution to such a specific problem that the majority of the English speaking population would not understand the concept explained simply. hundreds of religions discrediting each others beliefs because of books written by bone-rotten ancestors who spoke languages non-transcribable to the generation directly after them. people being murdered, in streets, over seas, about who is right and who is wrong and your whole country should consider this right too because we segmented another portion of our federal defense budget and martyred too many of our own people to protect against anyone who thinks otherwise of our national priorities. i’m not saying that any of these scenarios lack passion, purpose, or love AT ALL. i’m saying that sometimes finding the answer is deadly serious, and complicated. as much as we want to convince ourselves that love can be murderous or manipulative- love is simply kind.

    i once always wanted a love that was hard so that it felt worth it, and i feel like a lot of women and men have to go through deep deprogramming to understand the balance between love and lesson. once a long (long long) time ago, i wanted a love that scratched the back of my brain so deep that every biological emotion would have a scar of their presence. i wanted a love that made me nauseated, for which i was able to confuse anxiety with utter excitement. i wanted a love so scary that my heart would stop beating and would only begin again when i heard my phone ring with a response. more than i would like to admit, i have sacrificed my own love for the sake of an unrequited one. calling friends endlessly to put my confusing collection of pieces together only for them to fall apart and have no assistance putting back together in the name of whatever i thought love was pre-maturely. part of maturing is realizing that love will not force you to sacrifice yourself for the sake of feeling any love at all. honestly, if you are at that point- that patient, kind love that i speak on is one that you should graciously dedicate to yourself, which is harder said than done.

    loving yourself is, actually, probably the hardest, which is why i believe we find the concept of love to be so difficult in essence. we live in a world of critique. we are graded among performance and ask our classmate what their score was while sharing that we made 10 points higher than we did in reality. hold our images next together through an algorithm where skinny bitches with long hair are triumphed above your edited perception of whatever you may look like on a good day. annually, the person who basically funds your living will pull you into an office and describe the things you did well on, evaluate if those things are worth a reward, and in the worst case, end your relationship to this once secure establishment of financial stability. this is a working process, and this is not the blog post for me to describe to you how to accomplish whatever the $450 billion self-care market claims to sell or replicate some Refinery29 article about how women compensate for inequality in their love lives and families due to institutionalized patriarchy (which is valid and true).

    learning how to love yourself, even in the instance that you believe that you are incapable of it, is the purest form of love there is. it is only a bonus if you get to share that love you have for yourself with someone else who believes it is worthy of celebrating, especially on valentine’s day. it’s also with your cat who is only able to rest on your chest so he can fall asleep to the sound of your heartbeat. it’s in the vulnerability between sharing a secret and it being accepted with unanticipated empathy. it’s in the stillness following that, lighting a candle and feeling how it’s smell consumes the space. in the texts that aren’t some guy just trying to see how far he can push your sexual boundaries. it’s accepting that although these moments are passing, they are yours.

    when i reflect on if i have ever truly felt love, going by these principles, i would be selfish to only use that in reference to past relationships. that one time he bought you flowers, or drove when you were asleep in the passenger, or whatever else you like to fantasize about rather than understanding the reality of love. and honestly, the reality of love can be painful. it requires you to learn the truth behind your insecurities, and why you feel the need to post pretty pictures every time a guy lets you down. it forces you to compare all the love you have received before and trust that you have healed from that shattering realization that those were just lessons a stupid, love-hungry girl refused to learn at the time. it’s creating boundaries and defending them, even though it is much easier to accept their instability at the cost of your peace. standing up for yourself, staying silent, willing to disagree for the sake of your morality or agree to keep peace, and so much more than it being considered simply. we are literally products of love, so why do we believe we are incapable of accepting or giving it? because we accept the love we think we deserve.

    I love the feeling of love, but love itself can be a risk. Sometimes it’s worth it to take the risk to feel loved, but would you do anything to simply be loved? It’s something to think about.

    i like to believe that we all have some form of love in our life, whether that is through ourselves, our friends, or even a romantic partner. if those Disney princess movies taught me anything, it’s that happiness and love are both exclusive and contextual. give love, make love, and show love for what it’s worth in your capacity because that’s all that you can promise yourself, even if it’s unrequited, not returned, or unacknowledged.

    if you are like me today, scrolling through posts of couples in love or whatever that means, prepping your 5 o’clock glass of sav cab, just know you are loved, regardless if you believe it or not. imagine you are someone who watches the news and sees several news stories of violence in your city. although your likelihood of being a victim of violence has not changed, the memory of violence in your city remains salient in your mind and makes you feel more vulnerable when leaving your home. the hate that exists in this world is much more salient than the love, but it is surely not more valuable.

  • seasonal depression

    it’s the damn season where solitude becomes the denominating activity, underlining nights of forced entertainment and poorly chosen outfits under 5 year old puffer jackets. i would rather just stay inside and watch the glow of the sun transfer into the warm lighting of my bedside lamp, where comfort is contained under my bedsheets and behind the blinding light of some Netflix series i begin over and over again for some grasp on familiarity. sunsets turning cold and younger while we’re getting old and older. much like the air, our attitudes turn crisp only remedied by burning smell of the heater and the jingle of your keys being thrown on the counter.

    i grew up in warmth, waking up to wet pavement when my expectations were of snow. i’ve never been skiing, and even in attempts i much preferred the calm ambiance of pot luck dinners and stale wine. there’s something exciting about the cold, expensive even in texas, in the way that ice baths are effective resources. meant to be enjoyed in tolerance. though on the other hand, i’ve always been the one to go swimming when the pools not heated and spend a few more hours with chapped lips to speak frankly to strangers. both summer and winter help me revive some childlike innocence. though now as i get older, i start to wonder what stole that innocence from me in the first place.

    after all the holidays and rewards of the season pass, we are confronted with a sharp reality to maintain resolutions, mainly those ambiguous toward hormonal imbalances. the whimsy of the winter has passed and suddenly we’re back on the path popularly traveled and illuminated with fluorescent cubicles and silent nights. it’s the depressive after the manic, and maybe even sometimes identical of the numbness of both. i feel quiet during these times, so much that i’m forced to reflect on why i feel different during the winter than i do with any other season. there are no leaves to watch fall, waves to watch pull back, or flowers to watch bloom. hell, you can’t even enjoy watching snow in texas, because when you do, hours later you’re evacuating your flooding apartment and carrying your inherited items to a curiously “safer” place.

    your friends are back from holidays, and all that time you spent lingering for their return remains still. my active impulsivity thrives in times where I’m forced to be still, looking to create chaos from contentment. it’s like i’m itching to create entertainment, for others, so maybe they too feel less barren in a dry spell. and so when they smile, i see the reflection of warmth i offered, and that is enough to keep me satisfied until the fire of social acceptance burns out shortly after. winter is nothing more or less than perfect humility pulling us back to our developmental essence. it’s the same girl who watched snow fall for the first time the day of her winter recital, stuck in a costume and smashing rosin on her pointe shoes at a ripe 10 years old. it’s the same girl who once lived to preform for others and is only recently feeling satisfied with performing for herself. no more costumes, no more grades, no more firsts, and no more limiting expressions of ego. just living, and sometimes merely surviving through the day.

    seasonal depression doesn’t necessarily consider time or weather. i always get sick around this time, somehow more and more intense than the prior. my throat feels tighter and body feels weaker. sometimes i wish to blame my disposition and inheritance of abnormal allergies. i only blame my perspective on the environment. there’s no sunshine in between the rain, only after or in little sections between clouds. during seasons like this, the sun comes out earlier and goes down later. until it resets, it’s simple nature of being sick of being sick, tired, and cold until you waste enough time inside to realize that the sun always been there but it’s your fault that you took it for granted. and when you don’t take it for granted, you still return back to a cold bed.

    that guilt forces you to plan to be more productive tomorrow. you stay up so late making these plans that you almost feel uncomfortable in your own bed. you wake up ten times more exhausted the next morning, despite your alarm clock still ringing from an hour prior. you’re head is killing you, and you don’t know if it’s from that Pinot you finished last night alone, the cedar that your older coworkers say is getting worse, or the little to too much sleep you had. google says it could be a number of things, but you wait an hour more to settle for your allergy pills, nasal rinse, nasal spray, ibuprofen, and cocktail of medicinal supplements. you stay in bed for a little bit longer hoping to pass some time before real life starts again, until it does start again. every single day.

    i guess a nice way to go about it would be to focus on the warmth others bring to your life. comparing body heat between loose hugs is much better than the strong wrap you’ve made tossing in the covers on your own accord. anyway, in the attempts to hug yourself, it is much easier to do so without all the layers and with a pair of arms that aren’t yours. the whole “self care” motif has been abused by the media so much that we only feel comfort when we see other people preforming acts of self care on tik tok or whatever. instagram. i don’t know, wherever you get your hours on end fix. although self care culture and its exploitation is a separate argument, seasonal depression simply forces us to look for the warmth we’ve been seeking within our own selves. not through little face masks or bubble baths or wine nights and what not, but through spending valuable time with yourself and the people who help you light that fire.

    Did you know that it’s not rest if you’re thinking about work the whole time? Or that it’s not socializing when you forget half the things you shared the next day? Is it not comfort when you only feel safe in one place? Am I calling you out right now? Am i calling myself out? Do we, the digital age, really understand what it’s like to be alone and how to feel okay with being alone? Without posting about it online much like I am now? Why do Sundays feel much like Fridays? Why is my bed so much more comfortable when I am forced to be productive? Can we blame it on the weather?

    i think i will for now, until i feel like getting out of bed today.

    i think the winter forces us to re-evaluate the colder parts of ourselves so we can feel warm again. that’s the simply stated version. really, it’s a time where we finally feel security (or, interestingly insecure) in the balance between silence and chaos, socialization and solitude, and hibernation and activity. however, i’ve only been taught in school that a balanced equation has zero output. without an uneven representation of either and or, my temporary and passing time means nothing. though i don’t particularly believe that, i believe it explains my arresting desire to tip the balance between remaining a mystery and becoming front page news for the evening. when the world stands still but the wind shakes the bare branches cold, my mind runs fast and my body is stunned frozen.

    it’s a time to realize that even though you want to spend just a little longer in bed, life will go on without you. the sun will set without you. the snow will fall without you. the friends will move without you. but, the cat will die without you. get up dammit! in all seriousness though, if you are struggling with your mental health, please reach out to a health professional. i mainly wrote this as a result of a temporary period of intrinsic angst and as a funky way to reach an appreciation of the cold, but take care of yourself. and not in the marketable and commercial way of taking care of yourself either.

    seasons pass, emotions fleet, and you will be okay.

    “I was at a friend’s house, and all of a sudden I was convinced the house was on fire and it was burning down. I was just sitting in her bedroom and obviously the house wasn’t on fire, but there was nothing in me that didn’t think we were going to die.”

    Emma Stone

  • champagne-filled fountain

    i wouldn’t necessarily call myself a productive person, maybe a distracted one at that who can distract herself with social events or impulsive thoughts concerning my fate by becoming completely engulfed by the desire to achieve better outcomes- for herself, for her friends, for her parents, and for the little girl she once was.

    when i applied to college, i assumed the role out of necessity. the whole matter was completely written out for me given the expectations of my family and myself. over time, it formed to be a goal of mine, graduation and all, though it was certain that the pursuit would be more of a social formality rather than a wavering expedition. it’s a very privileged perspective, and i almost despise myself for it. being the first born of a small family, i assumed any goal to be my responsibility to set the tone of achievement- whether not those were extrinsically motivated was not my distinction to make. in some easy way, i also never considered the life of a housewife. even though i watched my mom play the role effortlessly for some time, i quickly understood that my father would want me to wear the pants and the skirt. i agreed, and i collected a sum of scholarships and made a grand move four hours away from the refineries.

    in the good “arguing over politics, embracing differences, introducing feminism” way, i appreciated my parents pushing me to join only a few other extended family members in their collegiate status. in a bad way, i felt captive to institution, expense, and expectations of the world outside of my family. it was always what if i don’t, but not in a serious way, just in a “i bet i could do without” kind of way knowing that wasn’t an option.

    every moment was an attempt to satisfy the rebellious teenager that felt too loud in a quiet town. it’s hard to not think about the dramatic nature of my first year away from the house i felt was home. riding a lime scooter in the pouring rain only to spin out and miss class because the health clinic needed you to get a tetanus shot. studying on campus with people whose last names you don’t know and romanticizing the whole thing. hoping that the bartenders assume your vodka whatever is just water. this was the typical college experience, sort of sneaky and relatable if you’re reading.

    sophomore year was a glimpse of that very whimsical spirit, though covid took away a chunk of that experience. i remember the moment we found out school would be canceled, amused with my friends that our break was extended and hoping that my boss wouldn’t expect me to come in that week. it soon developed into many under-stimulating nights that would introduce me to the extent of what most of my classes discussed- mental health. although that experience taught me loneliness, to be frank, i soon learned how to enjoy it. it was somehow bartering a bottle of wine and finishing a book about self improvement. redecorating your apartment for people to understand, just a little bit, how colorful i understand myself to be. it was trying to figure out how to keep yourself entertained alone in a 2×1 living space while wondering how much time you would have to steal back from a crisis of political turmoil, violence, and pain before internalizing all those negative projections into your own.

    before i knew it, my favorite professor for a class i anticipated during the entirety of my college career was announcing that she was glad to have had us experience what she had to offer. i walked home, and realized it would be the last time i would exit that building. for being a notoriously fast walker, always looking to the next task, my feet dragged behind me like a lost puppy who felt abandoned by herself. that’s it? i was almost driven by anger, wanting to steal back that lost time before i had to defend my experience behind a desk of a future employer. even for the next few days after that, i made excuses to visit campus and sit in that very library cubicle where freshman year, i silently carved my initials. it’s hard to not contemplate where you left your mark, if you even left one at all, so i sat there and hoped that another confused freshman may ponder who those initials may belong to, ignorantly unaware to the fact that i too am just as confused.

    in that particular class, i was taught that happiness is not achieved through the satisfaction of reward, but it is more so achieved momentarily through a byproduct of your input in regard to the personal and cognitive effort you may apply to your health, relationships, and overall well-being. This concept of application explains that goals are the precursors of happiness and your commitment to the goal is the rewarding output. in turn, it is much more difficult to identify your goals rather than achieving them. in the same way, it is much more satisfying to succeed in an effortful pursuit rather than to contemplate their outcomes, even if the pursuit is defining your short-term and long-term goals. even if those goals are socially constrained. even if they are not really yours.

    i’m at the difficult point of identifying my goals, like… legit goals that i now have time to execute and have the freedom to pursue regardless of their underlying cultural value.

    for the next few weeks, and even now, people ask me how it feels to be graduated. simply, it’s lonely. it’s realizing that your friends are stilling working for the grade while you practice interview responses in the mirror. sometimes even facial expressions in fear that your worry is easily translated. it’s midnight scrolling through linkedin and saving potential job offers considering “am i ready to move away from the city i made my own home at?” it’s debating with your parents on how much responsibility you will take on the following months. it’s realizing that you knew less at 22 than you did at 18 and that all you have worked for, technically, depends on the next step you take. a wide-eyed, abnormally pessimistic, fresh out the pond college graduate who has the world in her hands but doesn’t know what to do with it.

    i embody a completely different woman from who i thought i was freshman year of college. my accent is now thin and only introduced after a glass of wine. country music resembles Christmas music through nostalgia and only tolerated at a specific times. the high-school knock-off amazon boots now replaced by a nicer pair of leather skins that bear the cracks of endless steps made through the medians between campus roads. the same girl drives the same backroads home, and every time, realizes how small her room is and how big the world is- especially now.

    in this way, graduation was like grieving the deaths of those previous versions of me all while giving birth to a more mature, socially expected, and classically conditioned woman. the best way i can explain my position is that she is still at the funeral and please expect her to be late to the birthday party.

    i could tell you so much about the value of negative emotions, the cognitive process behind attention and how to optimize performance, how polarization is the death to community, and other psychological phenomenon. i could also describe to you how write grant proposals for issues you somewhat understand the necessity for, how to care for your apartment after it floods in snowing weather, and how to nurture the damaged ego of an abandoned cat.

    however, just because i can tell you what it’s like to survive doesn’t mean i can tell you how to live. i think that’s what i’m racing to do now, which notes the exciting part of graduation. although it feels like i’ve reached the finish line and my reward is another marathon, i realize it’s because our culture is oriented around doing. it’s silly to admit into the electrical abyss that now i just want to focus on living now that i have the option to do so.

    and, the real world is scary. how crazy of a feeling is it to feel like you have more time to make money to buy more time. being bred under a roof of expected achievement makes me contemplate the roof i spent 4 years building for myself, troubled by a disillusionment of teenage rituals and now disoriented with responsibility for my own livelihood. i want my name to exist beyond a printed name on a paycheck, a degree, and a blog. i hope that desire is understandable.

    i’ve never been interested in exploratory hallucinogenic drugs that enhance one’s definition of being part of the earth, though i have heard stories and developed an interest in understanding psychedelics and the refractory period of induced euphoria. in every anecdote i pondered, i realized that users achieve something i naturally experience: a sense of belonging to a higher purpose of existence and appreciation of surrounding presentations of life. in turn, i naturally experience an ignorance to the moment. i can tell you what i want in about ten years, just because i understand that we all feel secure in the adaptability of the future. i can tell you what i want six months from now even, but now? like this second? how about some water or a breath before the starting line ribbon hits my waist. even better, can i retire from surviving and simply live instead?

    a little heavy for an exciting post about graduating? sure. in a way, i discount the positive outcomes of this moment for me. lonely, yes, but the solitude of the pandemic taught me how to be still in the storm of chaos. in a funny (haha, really funny) way, those nights spent journaling about my cognitive dissonance or spiraling staring at the same damn ceiling prepared me for the loneliness of graduation. they taught me to appreciate this abstract concept of unknowing, labeling your reality, and to understand that it begins again (and again and again) until i reach the final finish line.

    i would like to thank my parents for tirelessly pushing me to get the job done. my friends for keeping me sane or introducing me to my insanity, either or. all the people i connect with on LinkedIn for showing me what true jealousy is. myself too, for finding stability in the unknown but also being determined to refuse offers that don’t correspond with my experience and accept those that project growth. and my cat, for no particular reason.

    i know i’m late for the birthday party, but i will be there in a minute. I’m leaving the funeral as we speak.

    cheers bailey!