Saturday, June 27, 2020

Afraid

People often don't want to believe the truth when it's inconvenient for them. 

I was raped in 2018. But that is not the sad tale I wish to tell today. There are bigger, more important topics to talk about.

I finally reported the case earlier this year, in April. There are many reasons a survivor of sexual assault waits to report or chooses not to. For starters, how recalling the details of the experience causes them to relive the trauma. Or, the fact that it can take one years to even realize the trauma happened, as you are prone to being in a state of shock after it does. But the aftermath of coming forward & being "victim blamed" or "slut shamed" is another reason why many keep their stories to themselves. And though I didn't think I could report the incident at first, due to my own naïveté, I also was fearful that the police would blame me as I have heard them do to many before.

I went to Planned Parenthood to get tested & they asked me if I had a history of sexual assault. I told them, & they encouraged me to report it if I was interested. They said they would help me with the process, & they did, which I was grateful for.

We called the police department together, I recounted the details over the phone, but they requested that I come to the station in person. This terrified me. And the representatives at Planned Parenthood knew it was understandably so.

I, a Mixed Race, disabled woman of color, going to the police station, all by myself, on foot, by public transit, with no one to escort me, in the middle of a pandemic?

It didn't feel safe or right at all. But I was also scared to even show my face at a police station.

Why? Had I done anything wrong? Had I committed a crime?

No. I'm a law abiding citizen. I have a reputation to uphold, my education, & career as a therapist at stake. I wouldn't risk losing all that I have worked so hard to earn.

But I know how the police treat people of color, and I was afraid.

After letting them know that I did not feel comfortable coming in person, they offered to come to my apartment. I was still uneasy, but this made me feel a little less anxious.

I left Planned Parenthood and caught the bus home. When I arrived, I called the police department to let them know I made it back.

About an hour later, two officers of color, a female of Latina descent and an Asian male, came to my place of residence. They were both short in stature. Immediately, I felt a flush of relief.

They were very kind and listened to me intently as I reported the incident. They were respectful and compassionate, took all of my info, and were on their way.

But if they were both male or Caucasian, I would have not been as comfortable sharing it.

You're probably thinking, "Why were you so scared of the police? Did you think they were going to hurt you?"

Yes.

Even if they weren't making any physical contact with me, they could have easily caused emotional harm by insinuating that I was to blame for the sexual assault that took place. They could have accused me of asking for it. This happens all of the time.

But I have other reasons to fear the police.

If you're reading this now, or in the future, you've already heard of why protests are currently going on around the world. And you, like everyone else, should be outraged by the many Black & Brown lives that have been lost to police brutality. So I will spare you those details.

But this type of racism and brutality is too close to home for me, as it is for many Americans of color.

Before I was even born, my father was beaten by police officers for kissing my biological mother in his car. They took him out of his vehicle and kicked him while he was down, simply because he was a Black man kissing a White woman.

Years later, long after I was born, the police were often called on my home of origin. My Italian family was loud, argumentative, & volatile. They frequently disturbed the peace. The neighbors would get upset, with reason, and call the cops.

But did they take me away? Did they protect me?

No.

You see, my egg donor (code name for my biological mother for anyone who's new here) was a "Karen" long before that meme came around.

She knew how to use the police to instill fear in my father and I if we weren't behaving how she wanted us to. To get her way, she could easily call the police and make it look like my father or I were at fault for a lie she would concoct, when in reality, her and her family were the true threats to our safety.

Instead of seeing all of the trauma I had went through, the police would talk down to me like I was a juvenile delinquent. They would tell me I had no rights because I was just a minor. They would act like I was a bad kid who had to completely submit to my mother's authority, rather than see that report after report was being made about my family yelling and shouting at the top of their lungs multiple times per month.

I was reminded of this when I watched the recent docuseries on Netflix about the tragic case of Gabriel Fernandez. When the sheriffs were called to respond to all of the abuse, neglect, and torture he went through, they would listen to whatever lies his mother would cough up and then bring him outside to scold him and tell him that he needed to stop making it all up, or he would go to jail for being dishonest.

I'm incredibly fortunate that my childhood was nowhere near as horrific as the one that Gabriel endured before he was murdered, but I have so much empathy for him, because the police would talk down to me the same exact way.

It wasn't until I was 16 years old that I practically begged police officers to make a report to the Department of Children & Family Services that they finally did. And I went to hell and back having to retell my story to a new social worker every couple of weeks, over and over again, because they didn't believe me. They always gave my egg donor the benefit of the doubt, and I truly believe it's because I was a child of color with a father who wasn't able to be there for me.

I literally had to record my family screaming profanity at me on an old, deactivated cell phone in order for them to believe me and eventually place me into foster care.

If you've read some of my blog posts before or know me closely, I've spoken about this in depth.

But this is the reality I'm trying to wake everyone up to. This is how the system is failing. Corruption, racism, hatred, and intolerance are all ingrained into its very fabric. It repeatedly ridicules, beats, and kills those who need its help the most while pardoning the true offenders.

I was just watching Trevor Noah's segment on Rashard Brooks. He discussed how the innocent man was inebriated and sleeping in his car. He spoke about how he was polite and respectful towards the police before they killed him. He said what he thought they should have done, though it may be wishful thinking for an imperfect world, was offer to take him home. With all of the darkness that's shrouding the world in this moment, they could have shown us a glimmer of light by offering to drive him home.

But they didn't.

And though I agree with Trevor Noah, that's what a "good" officer would have done, I don't know if I would have taken that ride.

I would have been too scared to get in the car.

And if I, a Mixed Race, light skinned, disabled woman of color with college degrees, am too scared to be alone with police officers, .  .  . how do you think other people of color feel? 

  Thanks for Reading. 

#BlackLivesMatter
#DefundthePolice
#WeAreDoneDying

Sunday, May 31, 2020

"A Space for You"

This poem was written in remembrance of all the innocent Black lives lost, & in solidarity with the movements that continue the battle for systematic change.

"A Space for You"

I see your anger & frustration,
all of the agony you've been through;
Lay it down here,
let me make a space for you.

For all of the pain,
all of the hurt,
all of the injustice,
that you don't deserve.

All of the hatred & prejudice,
all of the fear,
all of the struggles,
all of the tears.

I see your anger & frustation,
all of the oppression you've been through;
Lay it down here,
let me make a space for you.

All of the trials,
the senseless violence,
all of the fighting,
to prove your innocence.

All of the outrage,
all of the unrest;
Lay it here,
get it all off your chest.

All of the fury,
and all the dread;
Say it outloud,
get it out of your head.

Let me support you,
because I understand;
Equity & compassion
are such a simple demand.

I stand with you,
You are seen & heard.
I value you.
Please believe every word.

I see your anger & frustration,
all the misery you've been through;
Lay it down here,
let me make a space for you.

Your madness is valid,
the masses seethe.
Let me make a space for you;
a space for you to breathe.

#BlackLivesMatter

(Artwork by Starskyline1987)

Sunday, July 14, 2019

Lost Years

They say, "You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." Well, if that's true, then I think that the reverse of it must be true as well. You don't know what you've missed until its there. In your face. To show you what you never had.  .  . 

My friend's mother was in town visiting for a while, & I really got to know her. Got the chance to get close to her. And she told me about all of the things she did with her sons. Like play video games with them, go to concerts with them. (They went to see Linkin Park together! Can you imagine?! Getting to see Chester Bennington in his prime! Oh, I wish I could have seen that while I still had the chance. Rest in Peace, another legend gone to soon.)

But I digress. I got to watch her & her son together, talking in funny accents, making silly inside jokes, the bond that they have. And it's moments like these that make me see all of the years of childhood I lost.

When you come from a tumultuous upbringing, one plagued with abuse, neglect, trauma, poverty, molestation, etc., you're constantly in survival mode. At least for myself, I know I had to become my own hero to get out of it. And I never looked back.

However, once you get out of it, it doesn't necessarily get out of you, & you don't know what was missing. Until you see it for yourself.

I remember being in the 1st grade, hearing one of my classmates get complimented on her Winnie the Pooh overalls. Everyone was telling her how cute they were, & she said they were a gift from her mother. That's when I thought to myself, "Your mother buys clothes for you?" I was used to living in raggedy hand-me-ups from my cousin, or recycled clothing from the 80s that my biological mother (I call her the egg donor, actually) kept in old storage bins. I was lucky if I got something from a thrift shop or a discount store that fit me properly. And I was used to my egg donor constantly berating me on my weight, calling me fat, getting mad at me for growing out of her clothes/shoes, despite the fact that I grew taller & broader than her. Hey, she's 5'4" and got with a 400 lb, 6'4" African American man! What did she expect! It's not my fault I grew like a weed! I'm an Amazon!

But it goes sooo much deeper than that. I really didn't think that the toxicity in my household was out of the norm until I seriously got into daytime & evening sitcoms. I grew up watching My Wife & Kids, Fresh Prince of Bel Air, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Everybody Love's Raymond, According to Jim, 8 Simple Rules, 7th Heaven, The Bernie Mac Show, & several others (A.K.A. the poor 90s kid who can't afford cable starter pack, am I right?) where I saw how "normal" families functioned. The ways they would talk & interact with each other. And it was watching these shows that started to reveal to me that constant yelling & being hit in the face repeatedly were not a normal part of family life. It was these shows that shed light on the sick reality I was living in.

But still, you don't think about these things once you get out of it. At least for me, I processed these memories in therapy, learned to cope, & focused on moving forward & away from these tragic cards I was dealt with.

Though, inevitably, it still comes up, & especially when you least expect it. Like the time I sat in one of my graduate courses, and the professor randomly asked the class such a simple question: "When you were a small child, what did your parents cook you for breakfast every morning?" I sat there & watched everyone fondly reminisce & spit out their answers like rapid fire.

"Oh, bacon & eggs!"

"Pancakes!"

"Huevos rancheros!"

"Um, I think my mom always made me oatmeal or waffles."

"Grits!"

I sat there, dumbfounded, trying so hard to remember. And I couldn't remember anything. Because there wasn't anything to remember. Everyone in the class took a couple of seconds answering one by one in a circle until it came to me.

"Um.  .  . um.  .  ."

I could feel myself panicking, taking up too much time to figure out an answer.

"Um, I don't think anyone ever made me any breakfast. Um, I remember having to wake up early to go to school to get breakfast in the cafeteria. I remember making myself something to eat. But I don't remember anyone cooking for me, not every morning. Um, maybe once in a while."

I think the class took a break after we had a dialogue about culture, and the professor took me outside to tell me that I didn't have to share anything I was uncomfortable with. Legitimately concerned about my well-being, she said I didn't have to feel pressured to give an answer. She noticed how upset I became, listening to everyone's fond answers that they produced so quickly, & then being completely stumped. I assured her that I'm an open book, I really don't mind sharing aspects of my life with others. But I left class that night feeling so deprived of a "normal" childhood. Everyone answered that question with ease, & I sat there, blankly, trying desperately to think of what was done for me when honestly, nothing came to mind. And the fact that everyone else had it so easy made me truly recognize exactly what was robbed from me.

To take it a step further, there was another course in my Master's program where the very first day of the semester, the professor wanted to start a discussion about parenting practices. She asked us what disciplinary measures our parents would take in raising us. Again, this was another unpredictably painful question to answer. I watched my peers take turns telling amusing anecdotes of trouble they got themselves into & what their parents did to punish them. I don't remember details, but all I can tell you is that their answers were innocent & tame. I looked across the room to see my eyes meet only with one other student, who was turning red as her eyes welled up with tears. I knew exactly what she was thinking. We were both dreading having to go next, waiting to go last, doing whatever we could to direct attention away from ourselves. I could feel myself becoming hotter as my eyes welled up with tears too, & they started streaming down my cheeks. But I'd like to think I've perfected the art of the silent cry. I've had to cry in public so many times when random conversations trigger traumatic reminders of my past. And growing up, tears were a sign of weakness, they were considered a nuisance, & if I cried in front of my mother (or sorry, I meant egg donor) the only response I would get is, "Stop crying, or I'll give you something to cry about!" And if I didn't stop, it was an open palm across my face, several times, the usual. Once I got into foster care, we were all teenagers, and my foster siblings didn't recognize the signs of depression I exhibited. They were just annoyed by my inconsolable sulky mood and bad attitude. Little did they know I distanced myself from them so I could cry privately and away from their cruel remarks and criticism. And so I learned from a very early age how to stop myself from audibly crying & hide behind dark sunglasses, go find discreet corners, & hold my sniffles in so no one would hear or see me while I did.

So I did this that day, & I sobbed under my breath & quietly, inconspicuously wiped away my tears until it was my turn to speak, the floor was mine, & all eyes were on me. I just began weeping as I told the class how I was constantly hit in the face, slammed into walls, scratched by long, dirty fingernails, burned with cigarettes, & thrown around, over the dumbest things. If I did so much as build a fort out of sheets or eat someone's chocolate, I wouldn't hear the end of it for hours, & I'd be slapped so many times I lost count.

But I don't bruise easily. Though I'm light skinned and fairly complected, I've never bruised easily. You can hit me as much as you want, & it probably won't show. (Which was quite convenient for my abusers since they got away with it for such a long time, & the cops would be called to our house or I'd go to school with no evidence left behind of their maltreatment.)

But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. Just because you can't see marks on my skin doesn't mean I'm not in pain. But the scars run deep, because my skin may not be marked, my capillaries may not be broken, but the scars I have are psychological & neurological, & their pain seems to be permanent.  .  .

I shared bits & pieces of my story, & this motivated my other colleague, the one that exchanged anxious glances with me from across the room, to share a bit of hers. And sure enough, she could relate to me. The circumstances may have been different, her father was an alcoholic, & that's what led to the turmoil in her childhood household. My family did not consist of addicts, it was solely mental illness that caused them to have such erratic behaviors. But the differences didn't matter, because the damages were the same. Here we were, the only 2 of our kind, completely grown women, crying our eyes out in this graduate course about Human Development because the truth of our pasts was blatantly revealed in its stark contrast to the privilege of our peers.

These moments remain fresh in my memory to this day. Instances where I discovered things I had never known before. Where it becomes clear just how bad I really had it.

Because for so long, & I'm sure many survivors can relate to this, we think it's all our fault. Or it didn't really happen. We made it all up. And we're to blame for everything.

And the gas lighting, or brainwashing that the perpetrators do seems to work to make us doubt ourselves. They will tell you over and over again that they did no wrong, they never abused you. And after a while you may start to believe them. "Maybe they were right? Maybe I did make everything up."

But obviously, you didn't. Yet, you start thinking you're delusional.

Until you have experiences like this. Where everyone discusses their "normal" childhoods, and you can't relate at all. You can't remember any happiness. You can't remember anything other than absence, pain, and resentment. (And in a sick & twisted way, at least it's validating, because now, you know it did happen, it was horrible, & you're not crazy.)

And so I felt some of these feelings come up for me again while my friend's mother was here. How envious I felt that he had a mother who did so much for him, truly cared for him, had fun with him. I told him how lucky he was & that he should never take her for granted. I can only wish I had a mother like her. A badass mother who plays VIDEO GAMES with you!!?? Heck, my egg donor barely knows how to turn on the TV! She struggles to operate a DVD player! She's stuck in the 60s, a video game console would be completely out of question!

Once again, I digress. But the main conclusion I'm trying to get at here is that many of us don't realize how messed up our childhoods were until we see how others had it. And then we truly know what we've missed out on.

I was walking down my street the other day, & I saw that my neighbors had hand drawn a game of Hopscotch on the sidewalk with chalk for their small daughter. One of the times I was walking home, I happened to pass them as they were playing with her, and they encouraged me to play, so I did. I joyfully jumped along, following the directions they had drawn, and heard the resounding laughter that filled the air. They were so nice and she seemed to really be enjoying herself.



All I could do was think back to how nothing like that was ever done for me. I don't remember my egg donor ever playing with me. I can only remember playing by myself, reading, writing, or watching TV, alone.

It's the smallest things that can trigger me. And they're a persistent reminder of the years I've lost. Years that I'll never get back. And as much as I've worked through it, that still hurts.

Grief is not only for the deceased. Grief can be for anything that's lost, including things you've never had. And I'm still grieving the childhood that I never had. The one I was cheated out of.

A recent scene from the CW show Jane the Virgin resonated with me, (& don't worry, no spoilers here!) when the main character tells her best friend that it's okay to feel sad for yourself & sad that you didn't have it better growing up. And that's something a lot of us have to learn. It's okay to be sad. It's okay to grieve. And it's okay for me to wish I could have had it better.

But I'm doing everything in my power now, as an adult, to right the wrongs of my past, & give myself everything I never had. I practice so much self-love and self-care. I have to, because back then, there was no one to give it to me, at least not until I got placed into foster care & formed strong, lasting bonds with my foster mother, teachers, mentors, & relatives that my egg donor prevented me from seeing.

I live my life to the fullest, I treat myself to what I want when I can afford to. I'm pursuing all of my dreams & achieving my goals. And I work hard so that I can play hard & spend as much time with my friends & family as possible to make up for what I've lost.

I'm in such a good place right now. I feel incredibly happy every day, and I have so much gratitude to God for how far I've come, for all that I have, & to know that I survived through the struggles & they've made me stronger.

I find myself fulfilled in what I do, in those who I surround myself with, & in the many communities I'm proud to be a part of.

However, it's still necessary to never forget where I came from. I accept the fact that I'm still grieving all of the years I've lost, & I acknowledge that there may always be a hole in my heart.

But I'm trying my best to fill it.

Thanks for reading. <3 

Monday, May 13, 2019

Do it Yourself


"If you want something done right, do it yourself." 

Recently, I have had a couple of friends compliment me on self-publishing my book. They said they were quite impressed I've been making things happen, all by myself. (Namely, Carly & Jennie; thank you loves.💕)

Well.  .  . I am. And I'm very appreciative of them noticing. But let me tell you why I've been doing things solo.

In highschool, many of my teachers praised my poetry & creativity. I entered into several contests & won a few, but was rejected from a majority of scholarships/grant opportunities I applied to.

While I studied at UCLA, I started off as an English Major. My aim was to enter into the Creative Writing program. I applied for the Poetry class, a very competitive slot, only 15 spots available each semester. I submitted 5 of my poems, the pieces I was most proud of, each time. I was rejected all 5 times.

After being treated poorly by the faculty & staff, I left the English Department and declared my major with the Gender Studies Department. There, I felt welcomed, supported, respected, & valued. I studied Feminist theory, Sociology, Psychology, Ethnic Studies, and Sexuality Studies, all social justice oriented subjects that now informed my writing & gave me the terms necessary to articulate my lived experiences as well as the struggles I observed, in myself, others, & society as a whole.

This influenced my decision to go onto graduate school & pursue therapy. Though writing was still & always will be a passion for me. I continued to write & finished my poetry collection. I decided to submit it to various publishers. Button Poetry & Andrew McMeel both rejected my work. Several other publishers wanted to charge me exorbitant rates of $1,500-$4,000 to publish, print, & market my manuscript. I turned down all of their ridiculous offers as I am still a starving student saving for rent each month.

But then I was connected to resources in my community that made me aware I could self-publish, by myself, for free.

This is why I do all of the work myself. I have visions in my mind & I know exactly how I want them to be executed.  I trust myself & I trust the process. But that's not my main point.

The message here that I'm trying to pass on: Never give up on your Dreams or Visions. Several doors will get slammed in your face. You will be rejected several times. But if you're patient & dedicated, eventually, the right doors will open for you, or you will make your own damn doors! 🚪

And go with your gut feeling. I knew that my poetry was well received by my teachers, friends, family, colleagues, & broader community. So I didn't let it get me down when departments, professors, & publishers didn't see my potential. I saw it for myself. 

For those of you who have purchased my book already, I want to thank you for your undying support, & kindly ask that you leave a review. Reviews help independent authors flourish. 🌱⚘

And for those of you who would like to grab a copy, follow this link: A Root that Sews

Thanks for reading. ❤

Tuesday, May 7, 2019

A Root that Sews - Now Available!



My first book, A Root that Sews; A Collection of Poetry, is now available for purchase as a Kindle eBook ($7.99, or free for Kindle Unlimited members) & Paperback ($12.99) on Amazon.com! 





Follow this link to order it here: A Root that Sews on Amazon.com

Thursday, March 7, 2019

It's the Small Things. . .

Last night, I cried tears of joy over fruit snacks and animal crackers.

Okay.  .  . , let me explain myself and give you some background on why this happened to me:

I grew up pretty poor, but it wasn't just the lack of money that led to my deprivation. My mother was incredibly strict and stingy with what foods she would purchase for the household. She would not allow me to have any sugary snacks or cereals. Her reasoning was that she wanted us to be "healthy" & she considered herself a "health nut," but it was contradictory in that she would buy a box of Twinkies or a bag of gummy bears for herself, and not let me have any!

It was super unfair, and if I asked her to share some with me, she would become irritated and say, "Go buy some with your own money!"

My allowance was only a measly $5-10 every month or every 2 weeks if I was lucky. And I couldn't spend it lavishly as I desperately needed it for bare necessities, such as body wash, shampoo, deodorant, pads/tampons, clothing, etc. since she usually did not buy these things for me and expected I do it myself.

And please, don't think that's all she could afford to give me. She was busy donating $15-$25 or more a month to charities like St. Jude's Hospital, Union Rescue Mission, Feed America, etc. when she literally had a hungry child at home! (Oh, the irony!)

I will say, when you have abusive/neglectful parents, you take what's good and leave the rest behind. I definitely learned how to budget my money well as a preteen and spend only on priorities. If I had any left over, I'd save it to buy something I really wanted, like a GameBoy Color game. (Ah, #Throwback)

But my mother was very selfish and would buy some of my favorite snacks and refuse to share with me. It was heartbreaking and devastating.

Because of it, I started to develop unhealthy binge eating behaviors. Once, I was allowed to visit a neighbor's house, and her mom had a gigantic bucket full of fruit snacks. I had to have eaten 20 packets in one sitting! Her mother became somewhat upset with me, but she understood that I really didn't have access to that type of luxury in my household, so she brushed it off.

I tended to do this whenever I went to a friend's, relative's, or neighbor's house. I would eat all of the candy, sweets, and junk food they had in sight because I knew I wouldn't get any at home. I'd stock up while I had the chance. Thank goodness I didn't end up having an eating disorder, and luckily I managed to grow out of this bad habit. (So a small lesson to learn here for current or future parents, DON'T deprive your child of small snacks they love! Just let them have it in moderation or from time to time so they don't end up doing what I did!)

However, in the midst of all this, one of the small things I do remember enjoying as a young child was my grandmother or uncle always surprising me with Barnum's Animal Crackers. They were cheap, probably only 79 cents or $1, but I loved the cute box & the fun shapes.


This box looks exactly how I remember them. <3

When I went into foster care, my foster mother always had a huge cookie jar full of animal crackers, and it was a nice snack to munch on in between meals, as well as brought back some of the very few fond memories I had of such a chaotic, tormenting and horrific childhood.

Another thing I remember were these cheap, single serve pies called "Mrs. Redd's" that you could buy at Food 4 Less or any other discount supermarket for 4 for a dollar. Occasionally, on a trip to the grocery store, my mother would allow me to pick one, I'd always get the chocolate pudding pie, and it was my little dessert that I was allotted maybe once or twice a month, or less frequently. But it always made me smile. :)

I happened to recently find them again while I visited my childhood Food 4 Less, now they're 2 for a dollar (go figure, inflation I guess, LOL). But I'm excited to eat them when I get a craving from my sweet tooth.

The new version of Mrs. Redd's pies. The packaging has been updated, but they still taste the same!

So, this is the reason I cry tears of joy over some fruit snacks and animal crackers. I went on a trip to Costco, saw them, and immediately picked them up & hugged them. After I brought them home, and placed them in my cupboard, it made me sooo happy to know that I can buy this type of food for myself, just to have as something to snack on at home, or bring to class for a quick bite when I get hungry in between breaks. They were something I wasn't allowed to have, and now that I have the freedom and ability to buy them for myself, I don't take it for granted.

Not to mention, they also serve as a reminder that I managed to escape that emotional abuse & neglect, and I now live in an apartment I love, a home I created, and I can provide for myself.

Welch's Fruit Snacks (my favorite brand) and Costco brand (Kirkland) Organic Animal Crackers

It really is the small things in life that matter the most and make us happy.

Thanks for reading. <3

Monday, February 18, 2019

Profound Moment


A random act of kindness; one of life's mysterious, beautiful, & meaningful moments. 

I had an interesting, strange, & profound moment at Union Station the other day. As I was waiting to board the Red Line train in Downtown LA, I thought very briefly about launching myself off of the edge of the platform & being killed by the impact of the train. I wasn't feeling sad at all. I had just finished class & was relieved to have gotten through the week. But the thought came to me in a split second. A daydream about ending it all. The thought scared me. It scared me to feel that way. To want to off myself even though seemingly nothing was wrong. I shook my head & pondered, "It's probably just because I'm very tired." I've felt tired of life often. 


I caught the train to Union Station, & as I arrived, a man kindly approached me. His skin was of a bronze complexion, he may have been Latino or Asian, I'm not quite sure. He was dressed in a black coat and looked a bit disoriented. He came up to me & asked "Excuse me, you speak English, right?" I nodded & verbalized "Yes." He proceeded, "Can you help me?" I obliged. He held a discharge sheet in his hand & explained to me how he had just been released from a mental hospital. He had since taken his psychotropic medication on an empty stomach & was starting to feel the side effects kick in. He appeared uneasy. I offered to buy him a small snack. Happily, he said he would like that. I walked him over to the small convenience store, letting him know that I could only spare a few dollars. He said that would be fine. I watched as he hurriedly grabbed 2 small bags of Famous Amos cookies & a Vitamin Water, trying very considerately to not take up much of my time, & politely apologizing for the inconvenience. I told him not to worry. We waited in line for the cashier, & I paid for the items on my credit card. $5 and a few cents. We walked out together and he thanked me & told me how much he appreciated my help. I told him that he asked the right person. I shared with him that I, too, have been in a mental hospital. He asserted, "Ah, then you know how it is." I told him "Yes" & shared with him my diagnosis. I told him that I then went on to work in a psychiatric ward for a year, & am now pursuing my doctorate. He thanked me again & told me to have "a blessed evening." I told him to do the same, & we said our goodbyes.

I cried immediately after the exchange, and for several minutes during my ride on the Gold Line train home. I thought about how good it felt to help him, to have the capability and privilege to spare a few dollars for a small snack that could reduce some of his discomfort. I thought about how good it felt to be able to help someone, but I also thought. . . If I had killed myself just minutes earlier, I wouldn't have been there to help him. And again, this thought scared me.

This interaction caused me to re-evaluate my existence for a moment. I truly do believe my purpose on this earth is to help others in the ways I've learned to help myself. I truly believe that is why God created me. And it's my reason for being.

It gave me the opportunity to look at how far I've come. I've been through so much. Only a few years ago, I was in that man's shoes. Feeling uneasy, alone, disoriented and in need. And now, I'm accomplishing great feats.

But when taking a step back from this experience, I now see.  .  . I don't think I helped that man as much as he helped me. 


 Thank you for reading. <3