Don’t mind me.

Sometimes, my brain forgets to remind my lungs to breathe in my sleep. WebMD calls it sleep apnea. I call it, “my body’s way of fighting a part of it that wants to die.” I’m not suicidal… not all the time. Maybe not even at all. My soul kicks and screams at all my demons just to keep me sane… alive.
 
I actually want to stay alive. I want to live long enough to see the good I could become. I want to live long enough to see if it’s possible to change my mind about having kids. I want to live long enough to meet the one. I want to live long enough to get to a size 2 (Stop judging me. Hey, I want to live long enough to see that, too.)
 
To be honest, I’m not terribly suicidal. I’m not brave enough to kill myself. And since I’ve seen what suicide does to a family, I’m not about to let mine go through that a second time. Is it even brave to commit suicide? Or is it cowardice? Do I truly want to stay alive? Or, am I just overwhelmingly curious? Curious enough to want to find out what tomorrow looks like.
 
To be honest, I don’t really know. It’s just that sometimes it feels better not to exist… at least temporarily. “Is this medical or existential?”, I ask myself as I write this at 4am, a few hours after January 1st, 2018. I’m not even sure why I’m thinking about death at this hour. Maybe because I can’t go back to sleep after my brain forgot to let me breathe again. Maybe because I remember my brother. Maybe because I just feel small and helpless and alone.
 
Who knows? What I do know for sure is that I still want to see another day. My people shouldn’t really worry about me. I want to live long enough to see if I could be happy… finally.

Transient faith.

My faith is fleeting.
She’s a poetic line you thought about
amidst the drowning comforts of sleep
that you couldn’t remember anymore;
if only you had written it down.
Now, it seems like I couldn’t let my guard down
because if I did, even slumber would betray me,
take something away from me.
My strength is one big sham.
I am impregnable and bright on the outside.
I am fragile and dull underneath.
That’s one truth I don’t like to admit.
Because my faith is one fickle muse —
beautiful,
relatable,
makes you feel extra special and then…
gone.
Don’t take your eyes off her.
Don’t even blink.
She’s here and then…
gone.
Want a glimpse of of her?
Look to my rituals —
they’re my muffled prayers;
they’re the silent songs I sing to her.
My faith asks the important questions:
Why would you stain the alabaster
when it held perfectly to the light?
Why would you scar your wrists
when the stencils of your veins on them are the kind of art
Van Gogh would cut off his other ear for?
Why would you let go of this life
and miss out on all your possibilities?
Why would you deprive yourself the ability to dream?
You can be whoever you want to be in dreams.
And just like that,
it all feels like I am breathing through
a clogged nostril for the first time.
She does that…
every time.
I want her to stay longer,
to hold me forever.
But she leaves before twilight.
So I scour the night for her again…
every time.