My grandmother passed away while I was out in the Scottish wilderness—when I was somewhere in the green among the hundreds of sheep in the northwest.
The signal was bad and I was on vacation, and I quickly realized there was no way I could get to an airport in time for the funeral. And my dad said, “it’s okay, it’s okay, you don’t have to, it’s okay.” Continue reading
Suffering from anxiety and losing the one you love feels a lot like penance. And I can’t breathe; and Father, forgive me for I have sinned.
I used to slay my demon with my pen.
Used to exorcise him from the night, my mind, from my dreams, our bed; used to silence the hauntings that echoed in the catacombs of my brain with a touch of your hand. Continue reading
Suffering from anxiety and losing the one you love feels a lot like penance. And I can’t breathe; and please forgive me. Continue reading
The darkness came first.
It came just as the train left Chancery Lane station, stopping before it reached St. Paul’s. In the tunnel we stayed, the morning rush to reach work before 9AM at its peak. Continue reading
My only thought for the entire two months before going home for a one-week vacation was, I’m going to eat so many gyros and souvlakia, it’s not even funny. Continue reading
The first time I cried in public, I was on the 6 going uptown just pulling into the Bleecker Street stop.
It was the summer of 2012—my first New York City summer, sandwiched between my two years of grad school in Los Angeles—and I was blissfully ignoring the question that was so quick to fall off people’s lips. Continue reading
I’d like to stop writing about you now but I don’t know how to stop. My heart is getting smaller with each sunset. You’d think all the tiny pieces would allow someone else to slip in and take your place, but all it does is radiate your light, keeping everyone else away. Continue reading
The thing about the mechanics of our break up is that I’ve stopped asking why but I still don’t understand and I still see your beam as it enters my bedroom every night. And I know you’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with and that’s the only thing I’m certain of—that, and the only thing I was ever really good at was loving you.
But I also hate that I still write about you. That I still write about The Light. That you is still you and not her or him or it. I hate you know whenever I write about you because there is no other you in my life—and never will.
While I may still hold onto hope, paddling towards my lighthouse, you’ll find someone else to hold you at night.
And while I’ll still be writing about you, they’ll have The Light right next to them, guiding them to my heaven.
When I write about you, I call you ‘The Light.’
Because that’s how all of my darkness knew it had to stay away. Continue reading
The first time the lie slipped out of my mouth, I knew I had found my way out. The words simply rolled off my tongue and popped out into the world. I told everyone I left New York because I needed the change. I answered every question like it was no big deal, like, “Yeah, it was time for a change.” As if my heart started to yearn for something new — started to yearn for another adventure, one that would push me into the unknown once again.
Thoughtfully, Yours 