“No, I’m Not Ok. But I Haven’t Been Ok Since I Was 11, Maybe 12. I Am Still Here Though. I’m

I think the first step towards the life you want is often to just say yes to more things. Accept that coffee invitation from your coworker even if it seems awkward. Sign up for that free class at the library that you're not sure you'll like. Join that club. Book that tour. Say yes to as many things as you can and kill the part of your brain that gut-reacts with a no.

bitch this is all you’re gonna get. this life, this face, this body. you better not ‘maybe in another universe’ your way out of everything. sit your ass down and face this. go make tea and have a picnic and read a goddamn book. kiss your loved ones, send that damn text, and hug your siblings. this is all you’re gonna get.

love elizabeth s.

— Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

I'm forgetful, they say. Almost in a strange way.

I can't remember the simple recipe my mother told me several times, and when I got a notebook to write it down They laughed, and I too laughed with them.

Whenever they ask me to do something later, it doesn't stick in my imaginary to-do list. They say they reminded me multiple times, and I ended up forgetting anyway until it was too late to fix my mistake.

Scrolling through the media, I see those posts, ''write a line that someone told you that hurt you.'', ''what is something someone did to you that caused you the most pain?'', ''what made you cry so much that you wanted so much to scream?'' And I try my best to remember, I remember being hurt and crying, of course, but the reasons just faded away, couldn't remember one single line clearly, couldn't picture the scene before closing the door on myself in the bathroom, I remember the pain, but forgot what caused it, like my brain is blocking it all out of my reach.

I'm forgetful, they say. Definitely in a strange way. But sometimes it feels more like abandoning to me because we never really forget, I only have a back room in my brain, where I put all that hurt, all the things that my brain finds not important, though it miscalculates most times. And when the pain comes again, I revisit this abandoned room, and in order to put in the new pain, I must feel them all again. Then the door is closed, the peace is back, and the memory again fades.

It's a curse. It's a gift. It's something I loath and love. I'm forgetful, but I still remember what I must.

—Virginia Woolf

i'm jealous of the girls with big sisters. i'm not the oldest or anything, i actually have three older sisters. i say older because they were never "big sisters" to me. my family was not made for people who crave individuality; you either fell out or fell in line and i was never quite good at keep the colors in the lines. i see all these people posting about what a big sister is like, how they save you from your shared house of horrors, how you're just like the best version of them and they love you for it.

Mine?

they resent me for shaping out to be just like them but what the fuck was i supposed to do? i looked up to them, at least two of them, and i just wanted them to love me.

I always said i felt like the older sister. whether it's because i'm sending money, holding them while they cry, or cleaning them up from a fucking breakdown; it was me. it was me holding their hands, it was me telling them that everything will be okay while i, a petrified child, trembled in fear and prayed my mantra into existence.

they all left me. first the house, then the state, and then just my life in general. turns out, when you show traits of who they used to be (who they want to be), they can't stand to look at you anymore.