We beg for our cries to be heard We cry for the unsettling storm inside us We adjure for the storm to leave, unharmed For our beat to not be disrupted The human conflict we call pain To be prevented in all scenarios But then again, it narrates a story People in pain are people who write With the pain subsiding, We lose a bulk of stories Is that a world we sought for? This might be the fifth poem I wrote today. The five poems have no relevance to each other. The first is about the moon, the second is about sunset, the third is a satire based on one of Shakespeare's sonnets, the fourth on vision, and the fifth is about pain. What I find ridiculing is the number of poems I wrote since the pandemic as I gave up on writing. And the cherry on top? I was repulsed by the idea of taking on literature. You ask why? Simple, it just felt too monotonous and gloomy. I found it hard to sympathize with it. Once I read The Picture Of Dorian Gray, I straight up went like, "no way this is real." With the extensive poetry and implied erotica, I barely understood half of it. But the writing style had me captivated. I still opined with the fact that writers need a big hug and be a bit optimistic. Now coming from a fellow pessimist, I get why they aren't on the bright side of life. Being locked in a dark room feels suffocating and frightening. Even if the atmosphere is vast, it still feels like the oxygen supply is cut off and soon you would be left with nothing. That is how the pandemic felt. It was around my transition age and everything felt so frustrating, so dull. At a certain point, I wanted to give up and it felt as if nothing is worth living for. Life became like a spiral abyss with no escape gate. Just like the chapters of a book, the plot keeps getting better and better right? But once the protagonist starts pitying himself, life becomes an endless nightmare where everything comes to a pause. Reflecting on past mistakes and never moving from them made me adopt a façade that is not me. My present life is a like a house of cards- a house that might break with the slightest gush of wind blowing over it. It feels like I'm there even though I'm not. Even the slightest of things hurt me and I'm left numb. Sometimes I pretend to not care and just go with the flow. I once told one of my friends, ‘you know it wouldn't hurt me if any of you leave me.' Was I lying? No. As someone who everyone left, I expect the worse and nothing more. It is better to assume the worse than to have your expectations shattered. Ever since I was young, I struggled with feelings. I never had a potential lover neither did I feel anything. Yet I pretended to blend with them. Little did I know it would affect me so much. Almost everyone gave up on me including my parents, after all, I'm the embodiment of disappointment. An additional point, I keep making a fool out of myself all the time. I feel empty most of the time, a feeling I cannot explain. Yet I keep fighting but for what? Why am I trying so hard when everyone has turned their backs on me? Why am I trying when I have no reason to do so? I cannot quite remember the last time I was happy. That is where writing comes into play. It is not much of a hassle, just take a pen and paper and let your hands move. The art of writing is not understood by many but once you let the pen flow, a stream of words appears and your mind becomes active as ever. It's like an adrenaline rush for me- writing until your fingers are numb, the pain in your fingertips feels like you have accomplished something. Tragedy prevails in everyone's life. No matter how much we hide from the demons, staying in the light of the day, we are bound to face them once the night dawns upon us. When we practically vent out to someone, they listen and nod. But when one writes, the secrets are stored. One may look at it after a while and realize the progress they have made over time being and that it something to be proud of. Reading No Longer Human, I realized that Yozo, the protagonist tells us about his life filled with shame. He tried his best to be a human and did everything to act what we call ‘normal'. But his life was short-lived as he met the same fate as the author of the book- Osamu Dazai. Writing is not only for scribbling or writing stories but also portraying yourself in a subtle manner, something that Oscar did to Dorian, drawing his sinful life that led to his demise like Dorian. For a story to be successful, tragedy should be written in its utmost element. A lot of us have many stories to share. Especially after the pandemic that morphed everyone's life into someone they aren't. Someone they never wanted to be. Writing is not any form of rocket science. It is art, words combined to form emotions, something everyone can try. Exploring one's different side won't kill, will it?

The last year has taken so much from us. I am almost certain that I do not only speak for myself when I say the pandemic made me experience life as an hourglass that somehow both increased and decreased in speed. To put it bluntly - we've been robbed of life. Whether this has affected our relationships, opportunities or even time with loved ones, we have all been forced to make adjustments. I distinctly remember the day my country's government announced the groundbreaking news that students in highschool and university would shift to online education. My classmates cheered happily and couldn't wait to get an extra hour of sleep in the morning. However, days quickly turned into months and months quickly turned into a blur of tired eyes and a rapidly growing pile of work. Life has been difficult. However, the pandemic has also given a lot of us perspective. Perspective. What does that imply? Of course the definition of the word in this particular scenario can not be defined. To me, nonetheless, perspective meant that I noticed something I was too busy, too active and too unavailable to notice before. I noticed how much I have improved as a person. Let me explain. When I was a young child I used to write in a diary. However, not the sparkly, fluffy notebook with a heart lock on it. Surely I had one of those too, but this one was completely different. It was handed to me by my psychologist whom I visited every week. I don't remember much of this time in my life as I was only around nine years old. In addition to that, it's a part of my life that I sometimes actively choose to push away. It was not a pleasant time. Almost every night I had panic attacks and more often than not I used to ask myself if this was the time that I would die. During dinner I would go to the bathroom only to calm myself down from the anxiety that was running around my brain like a dog chasing a tennis ball on an open field. When I think of this time I quickly realize how messed up my mind was for a nine year old. Of course I feel sorry for my younger self. But I also try to let it slip from memory. That's why the experience of finding this diary was so important to me. Lockdown made my mental state so much worse than before. I have felt lonely, sad and tired. But what has made it the most unbearable are the spiraling thoughts in my head that never seem to take a break. I understand that the journey and relationship between a person and their mental health is not always a linear one. I understand that certain situations can make it harder to create a positive mindspace. But what I have a hard time understanding is why I can't just get a ticket that tells me when this suffering will be over. When the train of anxiety will leave. When I can wave it goodbye. Sometimes it's not even the anxiety itself that keeps me up all night. Sometimes it's simply the awareness of the fact that it exists, and that deep down I feel it knows me better than I do myself. When I opened the pages to that diary I was taken on a journey through my mind. It was weird. Imagine going on a vivid tour through the most personal and bottomless part of your past. I swiftly remembered writing those words. Those sentences. One part of the book was a chart where you could rate the level of fear a certain trigger made you feel. As I read through that segment I suddenly felt what I believe is the true meaning of perspective. While not a perfect line, I could still observe the progression that only a few moments earlier had been fully invisible. My baby steps were actually the size of a dinosaur's. Not one thing on the list I had made when I was nine even remotely scared me anymore. If I were to fill out the chart once more all the tens out of tens would be zeros. I felt proud of myself. It made me rethink those times that I've doubted the fact that I will ever feel better. That I will ever see that ticket in my hand. I am not cured. Not even close. But it doesn't matter because this story is not the story of how I finally became anxiety-free. Instead, it's the story of how I found the strength to keep working towards that goal. Maybe someday I will be writing essays concerning my full mental health battle, but not today. And that is perfectly okay. I have put that journal back in my closet and I don't intend to look at it for a long time. But it will always be a reminder that even the tiniest improvements are still steps in the right direction. If you've made it to this sentence, thank you. Thank you for taking a little time out of your day and dedicating it to reading about my life. I can confidently say that this little story means a lot to me, and sharing it makes it even greater. While I know nothing about your story or about your journey, I know that whatever you're struggling with will be solved someday. And who knows. Maybe you need to do what I did. Maybe the solution is right there. Maybe you need to see things from another perspective.

Who am I. What right do I have to feel this way. Millions have died, some struggling to live, while others going through the most ineffable sufferings. Precious and dear lives have been snatched away by a very well-known adversary, death. Yet still, here I am, with the mere audacity to feel what I consider as - sadness? Here I am, with the absurdity of my emotions and the insanity of my thoughts. I have been in this deep, dark pit too before: shutting out any form of light and reveling in my own emptiness. It was that way until someone was brave enough to venture into the pit and save me. Well, it's different now. Social interactions are now perilous in such a way that it must be avoided at all times. Our natural desire for consolation and comfort in tough times was shifted to simply video calling and messaging. As convenient as it may seem, months with almost zero human contact turned out exasperating and troublesome. I, for one, deeply sunk into my own personal bubble where it seemed like there was no one else but me – no one to save me this time. All these humanitarian disasters, social crises, and global conflicts are unraveling in front of my very eyes. In all honesty, my so-called “problems” are trivial and insignificant in comparison to the chaos of this world. Stressing over the lack of food while others long for at least a biscuit to munch on. Complaining about my pathetic life when others are mourning over the loss of their loved one and fighting for their lives. Although I hate to admit, it is extremely tempting to just overlook all these and focus on my situation – to cancel out the noise in my surroundings. Indeed, these inherent instincts of mine start to kick in. Several news on social media do not seem to bother me as much as I believe it should. It became a personal struggle for me to remain alert on all the contemporary issues while handling my very own issues. After all this, I have come to a realization. I am not to let my pride and selfishness get in the way and cloud my judgement. I should not neglect the important things in these world just because of my needs. However, on the other side of the spectrum, any emotion or feeling that we may experience must not be disregarded and just pushed to the side. We are human beings with natural tendencies to feel sadness, anger, and confusion. Our very existence validates it. Although setting these aside may appear like the simplest and most apparent thing to do, we are unknowingly causing ourselves more harm than good. The first step we must take is to fully accept all these negative things as part of ourselves. Personally, I was caught up distracting myself from all the sadness until it consumed me, bit by bit. I forced myself to become happy, believing that being sad was not and should not be an option for me. I detested the feeling of extreme loneliness and somehow wished I'd never felt that way, which eventually led to hatred towards myself. “I don't deserve to be sad because of some stupid and petty reasons.” “I need to be happy, so others around me can be happy.” I tried, but no matter how much effort I put in, it would never truly work. Sadness, depression, anxiety, among many others, does not just simply disappear. Acknowledging my emotions played a huge role in this battle, realizing that it is okay to not be okay. Small steps toward the goal may not be a lot, but together they contribute to being completely “okay”. Even if it is as simple as taking care of yourself or doing something you love, do it. If it's listening to music or reading that book you've always wanted to read, do it. It is all about how we deal with what we feel that matters. When I chose to put it aside, it was still there and I never overcame it. Recognize it, face it, and let go of it – that makes all the difference. My worth is not defined by what I feel, I know that now. The reality is this – we are all human beings with our own varying problems and circumstances. Some are at the very peak, enjoying the best times of their life, while others their lowest and darkest times. Everyone has their own timelines; we must never compare our failures to others' successes. Who am I? Well, I am me – a daughter of the King of Kings and that is enough. What right do I have to feel this way? I have every right. My emotions are valid, and yours are too.

I am all about productivity. I stress when I don't do enough 'beneficial' things throughout my day. It is especially an issue on my days off from work. I put so much pressure on this day to be good because it is my day off, then I stress that I'm not doing enough work. I frustrate myself, my boyfriend or anyone else with me. But sometimes I need to realize...it is okay if all I did today, was breath.