Hello all! Wow, time sure does fly when you are
disillusioned by the state of your country after it elects a racist, sexist, xenophobic bigot for president having fun. Over the past four months, I have taken leave from The Quiet Voice to apply to graduate school, conduct a senior honors thesis, maintain a full course load, work two part-time jobs, and volunteer. I missed blogging a lot, so I wanted to write this informal post about what I have been up to before I publish my annual bookish wrap-up later this week.
This semester, I focused a lot on self-care and cultivating a healthful work-life balance. Continue reading
I once fell in love with the perfect boy. Of course, he never texted me back. Continue reading
Two truths, one lie: Continue reading
I hate romance. I despise how society prioritizes romantic love above all else: how romance pervades almost every song on the radio, how we have a separate romantic “relationship” status on Facebook, how we glamorize marriage as the ultimate act of commitment, placing it far above friendship. A large part of my now-21-year-old self thinks romance just serves as a patriarchal ploy; another part of me feels repulsed by giving into a clear-cut social construction like romance.
But I want it. Continue reading
Last year, I submitted one of my creative nonfiction pieces to a publication contest for young LGBTQIA+ writers. I did not have high hopes for winning
just as I do not have high hopes that the men in my life will text me back. But I heard from one of the editors that they selected my piece – one of seven they chose out of almost 400 – and now it has arrived. As Patrick from SpongeBob would say, look at it (and check it out on Amazon here): Continue reading
Filed under Books, Personal
“What would you tell your own client?” my therapist asked me. “When you’re in my position, what would you say?”
I uncrossed my legs. My whole body shook, and shivers ran up and down my legs, my arms. Over the past year, my therapist and I had started to uncover the abuse I experienced at the hands of my mother. Though I had made tremendous progress, talking about the abuse still made my skin crawl, like the past lived and moved inside of me, tiny slivers of memory ready to burst into flames at any moment.
“I would tell them it’s not their fault,” I said. Continue reading