colorful love

not luminous as a rainbow

nor vibrant as the sun

faded grays, lifeless yellows

not meant for anyone

black, red, sometimes white

colors belonging to me green, purple, uranian blue

colors absorbed by you contrasting colors in the sphere we breathe always a reminder of you your lips

barely distinguishable from your pale ill skin your freckles

pitch dark, disastrous, burned in your eyes

a notebook somewhere lost or forgotten your tangled, twisted hair

a backpack with broken straps

wasting away in an old suitcase freshly plucked flowers

my candlelit wall your new button up shirt

my blood spiraling down the waterfall the apartment wall we used to share

loneliness, dread and sorrow my mascara running down my cheeks

your heart ;hollow

the shoes a size too big for you

people we once were proud we knew an unwritten page torn out of your journal

your betrayal, like a Judas kiss, beaten up and bruised, surpassed the turmoil the delectable liquor in the cracked crystal in my hand

your moistened papilla that I sink my teeth into, next to my new night-stand weak street light in the night-time sky

lust we partook in so unforced and enthusiastically, sometimes a little shy the burned down, incinerated, plastic Christmas tree

my tattoo'd covered scars I try to hide underneath rusty chunks of worthless copper and gold, our fragile, tormented love, rotten and old your frosted, benumbed hands

regret and rue the day-light sky,

transgress - the colors I'll soon forget, when I make it through

My First Time (seeing a psychiatrist)

This entry regards the fascinating experience of my first visit to a psychiatrist. If you feel triggered or attacked please share your views with me. I hope not to offend or humiliate anyone. The purpose of my writing, in this case, is to inform, share, and encourage hopefully through a more light, humorous tone. I’d like to also note that mental health is important and it’s a real issue, especially when you’re in a strange country with a language barrier and an enormous amount of anxiety.  

So, yes, I started seeing a psychiatrist recently. Long overdue, indeed, but interesting nonetheless. He suggested I start a blog because apparently I’m not very verbal. Which is the first time anybody has ever insulted me like that. Ha! If you know me you’re deeply aware of the fact that I never stop talking. But I've quite enjoyed writing again, and it was excellent advice.

So, let’s start with the actual location of the building. It’s was in a 7/11. And I’m not even joking. Well, kind of. You have to walk through the 7/11 to get there. But it was just an hilarious first impression, which I desperately needed at the time, because I was extremely nervous and sure that in about a few minutes they would tell me that I was completely insane and was under no circumstances mentally stable enough to leave and that I’d have to spent my whole life in a 7/11.

Thinking about it now I guess there are worse places to spend your eternal mental breakdown. At least I’d be surrounded by boiled eggs and sticky sweet potatoes with an odor of one hundred newborn calfs stuck in a closet. (Well, thats what a 7/11 in Taiwan smells like to me, you might differ).

Walking up the stairs, I was obviously giving off the impression of a mentally insane adult that’s having a midlife crisis because people kept pointing to where I needed to go, without any queries or even knowing the purpose for my visit to the 7/11 Psychiatric Hospital. (Side note: I’m 25 people, this is the apparent age of experiencing a mid life crisis in these polluted, politically unstable, short, busy days).

Now, what happened behind the locked (or at least partially closed) door of the psychiatrist’s office, I’m not at liberty to discuss. Basically because not much happened. I sat quietly staring at the little room with a little bed, a container of tissues and a doctor just constantly typing whatever he observed.

With me not talking and him asking strange, half-English questions, we settled on an agreement that I was able to leave with a few pills in hand. (By that I obviously mean little sachets of carefully selected medication labeled “with breakfast,” “with lunch,” “with dinner,” and “at bed time.)”

For those of you who are not aware of the medical systems in Taiwan, I'd like to proudly point out that it is quite exquisite, inexpensive and advanced. Nothing like what I’ve ever experienced in South Africa.

Anyway, I walked out with a brand new bathroom cabinet fully stocked, having to return every week in order to get my prescription re-filled. In all seriousness, these little packets of “drink me nows” have brought tremendous change to my everyday life and I’m so grateful for the courage that led me to the 7/11 in the first place. If ever you’re restless, uncomfortable, or scared, remember that there was even a first time that you had to brush your own teeth, and that now you (hopefully) do it three times a day without even having to open your eyes, or being fully awake. Ha! (No judgement here, who has time these days to brush 3 times a day anyway?)  

So, if you’ve got a feeling in your gut, that screams at you to go “see someone” as they might say, please do. I hope my experience can be seen as a roadmap, or just a humorous babble about how mentally distressed I am. Either way, I hope you’ve learned something.

Our Christmas Tree

Polaroids, glitter and trees.

You said that we should store the Christmas tree in a box under the bed, so that we could use it again next year. We picked out the finest ornaments and hung them on the tree together. We put an enormous star on the peak of the tree. You seemed so excited by the thought of a future, the craving of hope and yearning for happiness, but we both knew that it was going to be the first and only Christmas that we’ll ever spend together.

We were too excited to wait for actual Christmas day, so we decided to have a hurried, premature “Christmas,” exchanging gifts while “All I want for Christmas is You” was humming in the background. And all I wanted for Christmas was you. Your green eyes, your freckled nose, your touch, your prose directed at our growth. I was so deeply devoted, my vision distorted, grasping onto the hope, familiarity and spirituality attached to that tangly, thin tree. But Christmas trees are lacerated by the stem, and before Christmas even began, the tree was lifeless and inanimate.

The Christmas tree stayed up until late June, I now infer that it was because we were both greedy for the sentiment not to fade. The glitter from the carefully selected ornaments were scattered everywhere. On the floor, on our desires, in the crinkle beneath your left eye, only visible when you smile.

A few times we almost knocked the tree over, you propelling straight into it and me stumbling to catch it like a fatal disease. Sometimes you would push it over on purpose, just to watch a rain of glimmer descending on us. The perfectionist in me would pick up all the little pieces of fine glitter one by one, I’d be tired and irritated, but you’d be full of glint and shimmer, so luminescent, gorgeous, unburdened. You asked me “Why don’t you look happy,” thinking the shimmering would make me rejoiced, thinking that I could forget why the tree always kept tumbling over.

After a lot of pain, the tree would stand again, right next to the doorway, sometimes making it difficult to exit the door, to escape. The last time the tree came tumbling down, I started sobbing uncontrollably. You uttered with shock “why are you crying- there’s nothing to cry about.” I cried because Christmas was long over, the tree was to heavy and I couldn’t pick it up, and you didn’t even attempt to try. But you were right. There was nothing to cry about. The Christmas tree was dead when we procured it. It was bound to dry out or rot eventually.

I haven’t seen the Christmas tree since that day, but I’ve noticed that you’ve become an ornament, a toy underneath a Christmas tree, all wrapped up in glamorous wrapping paper. I sometimes take a glance at the names on the card tucked underneath the giant red bow. My name isn’t on the card. But, instead of being disappointed, I feel as content as one could in the same particular situation. I might not have the gift of spangle or flicker, but I have a forest of green trees sturdy rooted in the ground. I might not have a Christmas party or an exchanging of gifts, but your glitter is disappearing, fading slowly, and I don’t intend on wasting anymore time on my knees trying to clean you up. I can't hear the Christmas melodies anymore, but a different, lighter tune is starting to chime. A rhythm that I cannot stop dancing to. I might not have you this Christmas, but I have a lot more. I have trees connecting with the sky, I have sunbeams and light rays raining down on my skin. I have luminescent wings. They are strong, and wild, and filled with brightly gleaming rainbow colours. I have me, and I no longer need your glitter or the memories of the Christmas tree.