incoherentmemories

After a few bowls, several painfully loud tracks and harbored indescribable emotions, it results in awkward, unintelligible excerpts by a twenty-something year-old girl named Michelle that constantly thinks about food, sex, art, music and more food.

a lost letter to paradise

Dear dad,

I never got a chance to say goodbye, just like how it happened with mom. The stages of grief come and go but I felt somehow prepared after I lost her.

I feel conflicted about how I should feel about you, but I know in the end, it should be all about love. I shouldn’t be angry anymore. The resentment I had is slowly fading away…and all the good memories flood in.

You were sick. Extremely sick. Schizophrenia took over your life and only within the last 5 years, it was properly diagnosed. I grew up in a strong love-hate relationship with you because I knew deep down, you had a good heart. You really did. You were just beyond the point of return and alcoholism had taken over your life at this point. You were extremely abusive to the point I should’ve called the cops on several occasions, but I never could. It was a vicious cycle of fear and also, in some kind of fucked up way, love. We suffered together as a family and as individuals during this time.

Despite all that, you helped me take care of mom in your own way and you truly did love her, you just didn’t know how to show it properly. She deserved to be loved in the most loving, patient, and unconditional way possible. She deserved the universe. You knew this. Everyone knew this. In small ways, when the real you would come through, you radiated love towards the both of us when you were able to find clarity through your mental illness.

You took me in when I had no where to go, you helped me as much as possible in your own way. The delusions got worse as the months went by and there was nothing we could do.

I lost the vessel of you, but your soul will still forever be my father. You weren’t my biological dad, but you were the one that raised me and was present in my life.

I hope you were able to finally find peace and be with mom ever after. I will see you both someday.

Take care. I love you.

Love always,

Michelle

n e v e r

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He will never change –

He’ll destroy everything that ever loved him in his wake

for his own gain, advantage, and power

He will lie to make himself out to be the victim or the hero but never the villain,

He’ll claim he’s changed and make you feel special, one-of-a-kind

But, I promise you, love –

That everything you’re experiencing now

All of his ex-lovers had experienced

He will eventually get to a point where he can no longer hold this grandiose facade anymore

and show his true colours:

A miserable, self-loathing, narcissistic/sociopathic empty soul feeding off of your light.

He will use and abuse everyone around him,

Skewing truths and shifting blame,

Jumping from one relationship straight into another,

The promise of marriage, a love like never before, a passionate possessiveness

With every single girl he’s preyed on

And in the end, all of them leaving him for the same reason:

He will never change.

Never.

Run while you can before it’s too late.

r u n a w a y

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My mom always told me, “Do not ever let a man hit you – if he does, please leave. Leave right away. No one deserves to be abused. No one. Run away.

“Okay, I know,” I always said to her, jokingly rolling my eyes, “I know.” I always repeated in a hushed tone when she’d touch my hand afterward to make sure that I understood what she meant.

I remember simply nodding in agreement while in passing and never thought about it again, but the look in her eyes will forever haunt me.

“That’ll never happen to me. I won’t let that ever happen to me.” I always thought to myself, basking in the pure naïveté and ignorance of my youth.

Run away.”

It echoed.

I watched my mom go through two abusive relationships which led me to grow up thinking that it was okay to be treated this way and that this is what love was supposed to be like: passionate, erratic, fiery, and intense. And I watched the light within her fade slowly throughout the years, not really understanding why. I only understood that those two fatherly-figures hurt my mom and I both in ways that left us broken beyond belief. And that this shit was fucking normal.

Run away. Run away. Run away.”

It was 5 in the morning on a cold January day filled with stifled giggles on a friend’s floor and a strong, tattooed arm was wrapped around me, pulling me into his chest and making me feel safe for the first time in my life. He didn’t try to kiss me or anything beyond. He didn’t seem to have an ulterior motive.

He made me feel something I’ve never felt before: the feeling of home.

He was so good. So, so good.

There was a moment when we were tangled in complete ecstasy and he gazed into my eyes while grabbing me by the throat and pressed his forehead against mine, “I’m falling so in love with you. I am in love with you. I want you.” he managed to whisper against my lips, “I don’t know where I end and you begin.”

And I fucking fell for it.

My father-figures turned me into such an easy target for an abusive narcissist/sociopath like him. I was left feeling so alone, useless, worthless, replaceable, and vulnerable from them. I drank up every little word, vulnerability, gesture, and gift he ever gave me because I felt so needed. I’ve never felt like that before.

I recall instances where I’d look at him and wonder how I got so lucky to be with someone like him. He was seemingly good at everything and he looked at me in a way that no one had ever looked at me before. The aura that radiated off of him was something I felt I wasn’t worthy of and I felt that being with him was the only way I’d be worthy.

“Run away.”

Being with him, I was a version of myself that I never knew even existed. I’ve never been so angry and bitter in my life. I’ve never been so fucking broken.

I still loved him when he lied through his teeth about his life and age. Even when he cheated on me several times. Even when he threatened to kill himself or hurt other people or the dogs every time I tried to leave him. Even when I had to wrestle a knife out of his hand so he wouldn’t slit his wrists or ripping several pills out of his throat when I tried kicking him out. When he started throwing things at me and breaking things because I got home late. When he gas-lighted me, manipulated me, and isolated me from my friends and family. When he drained all my money and blamed it on me. I loved him so hard because I thought this is what I deserved. I accepted the love I honestly believed I deserved.

I thought love was supposed to be hard. I thought it was supposed to hurt.

And the same words echoed in my mind,

Do not ever let a man hit you…run away.”

He never left a physical mark on me. I took my mom’s advice quite literally and it only took me three years to finally realize that I didn’t deserve this. The mark he left had instilled such fear and anxiety in men with me that it’s traumatizing.

With him, it was like a leaky faucet. Everything came in small drips.

“You can’t wear that. Change. Who are you dressing up for? You are mine.” Drip.

“Give me your phone so I can look through it and see what you’ve been doing.” Drip.

“Delete them off all of your social media and phone, NOW.” Drip.

“You don’t love me if you don’t do this for me.” Drip.

“You’re a piece of shit.” Drip.

“You’re so fucking stupid. Are you retarded?” Drip.

“You make me want to fucking punch myself over and over.” Drip. Drip

“I’ll kill myself if you leave me! I can’t live without you!” Drip. Drip.

“I will break his fucking jaw if I ever see him.” Drip. Drip.

“You are hard to love.” Drip. Drip. Drip.

“I will kill them. I will slaughter their entire fucking family.” Drip. Drip. Drip.

RUN AWAY.

And eventually, the sink flooded. It overflowed. The leaky faucet was now running at full blast as I watched him throw his phone and garbage at me, breaking objects around me, threatening me, accusing me and making up lies of what I did to hurt him and why nothing was his fault. I began to drown with an anchor at my feet, preventing me from coming back up.

There was a gaping hole in my chest that the flood couldn’t fill. I just kept getting dragged deeper into the abyss and I became lost, suicidal, and weak. I was terrified to leave for the longest time – I feared for my safety, my dogs’ safety, and my loved ones’ safety. I couldn’t bear to live with the fact that anyone else other than me got hurt during this. So, I stayed as long as I could.

Abusive relationships are like a drug. An addiction. The highs and lows are so palpable and it was so fucking euphoric when it was good. But, when it was bad, it was the hardest come down from the high. It crashed and burned.

I now understood why my mom had such a hard time leaving and why I find strength in her to leave, even after she passed away.

Even if she couldn’t do it, I know she would’ve wanted me to. She gave me the strength.

And I finally did it, mom. I did it.

For once in my life, I feel like I am actually worth something.

I am fucking resilient, I am fucking beautiful, and I am so fucking deserving of love.

Running away isn’t always a bad thing. Maybe that’s all you can do at this point and that is totally okay. The strength in doing so is enough to start finding yourself and understanding that you deserve so much more.

Her voice saying, “Run away,” no longer echoes in my head anymore. I don’t need to run away anymore.

I am where I’m supposed to be.

stay away from people who make you feel like you’re hard to love

I’m not an easy person to love – I know that for a fact.

But, damn, that doesn’t mean I’m undeserving of it.

w a n d e r

The mountains and his eyes share the same depth and captivating beauty – I get utterly lost in them, but this feeling of being lost to wander these chaotic and intriguing lands has a warm feeling of home.

I will adventure through any terrain of this place over and over again, fighting through every storm I come across until my very last breath just to see his eyes crinkle up when he laughs. To me, that is my sunrise and sunset over these mountains of his hidden behind a vast unknown forest. And his laugh – his goddamn fucking laugh – it is music to my ears. It’s the sound of the ocean hitting the shore when dawn breaks, and God, does it ever sound beautiful.

the perks of suffering from mental illness


WARNING: suicide, self-harm, death, and a hefty read.

This is real and not a fictional writing piece, just so everyone knows. This is the story of my struggle with my mental health. This is very emotional, so please bare with me and the possible writing mistakes that may happen. I’ve been terrified to post this, but I just said “fuck it” and did it anyway.

What a lot of people don’t know is that I tried committing suicide a few weeks ago.  I’ve never been someone to talk about my problems or go to people for help, even when I was in dire need. But, maybe this time, I thought I should let myself be vulnerable for once.

It was a failed attempt at slitting my wrists and being in the hospital for almost a week. It would’ve been longer if I had been honest with the nurses and doctors, but I didn’t want to be there anymore. It made me want to kill myself more because it was just constant silence and loneliness. I felt like my emotional state got worse while I was in there, alone with my thoughts and staring at four blank walls. But if I told them that, they would’ve kept me there longer and I was certain I was going to collect the blankets, tie them into a noose, and hang myself if I had to stay another day. 

I was under suicide watch for 32 hours and I wasn’t allowed to have anything with me that was remotely sharp. I wasn’t even allowed to have my tooth brush and tooth paste without being monitored. Apparently patients were really creative with harming themselves and they weren’t going to take their chances. I started looking around the room and looking for things that I could hurt myself with because I was that bored and isolated there. After those 32 gruesome hours, I had a little more freedom. 

You know what the worst part for me was? The first day and a half I couldn’t smoke at all. I had no privileges to leave the premises. My brother half-joked about breaking me out and have a chase with security and the cops, but of course, that wouldn’t end well.

Time went by ridiculously slow and my fiancé could barely sleep while I was there. I wasn’t allowed to have my phone but I snuck it in anyways and talked to him most of the night before the drugs kicked in and I couldn’t fight sleep anymore. Not only did my mental health deteriorate, but his did as well. He came every single day for the whole day when I was in there on no sleep. We would take naps together in my hospital bed in hopes for some shut-eye for him and then when we were awake, we would talk about how much we loved and missed each other when we were apart. Not once did I talk about my suicide attempt with him when he was there.

I’ve been struggling with depression and anxiety since I was a child and it progressively got worse over the years. I was just properly diagnosed when I was in university a few years ago, in which I was hospitalized for the same reason as well, but this time was different. The hospital scared me the first time I was admitted because I felt like I wasn’t as crazy as the other people in there. This time, I felt like I was one of the worst cases there. I hated being there, but I wasn’t scared. I didn’t care if another patient came in and strangled me to death or stabbed me with their utensils during meal time. I almost wished for it sometimes. ‘Code White(s)’ would be the highlight of my days there in the mental health unit.

I’ve been to many different counsellors and therapists and they usually say the same things to me. I’ve gotten so sick of hearing it all so I stopped going. It became a chore and I wasn’t getting better this time around.

I could live with my mental health, I’ve done it for years, but when my mom passed away, everything just came crashing down. I never had a break. After she died, I had a couple of days off work. I don’t get paid for bereavement, so I started work as soon as possible again and just kept going from there. Bills began piling up and I grabbed a couple of extra shifts and jobs here and there and I never gave myself time to grieve. My fiancé would tell me that it scared him that I never talked about how my mom’s death affected me and I was angry all the time and taking it out on him, but I never realized it. I am extremely emotionally unstable. My family was mad at me about money and I only remember a couple of family members ever checking on me and caring for my well-being. It ate me alive and it still does. Everyday, I thought I would be better off dead. My family didn’t care, so why would I? The only person that really cared about me the most was gone already.

As time went by, I moved from place to place, got kicked out, and ended up being crammed somewhere I desperately don’t want to be. Everything got so bad that I finally had the courage to do it. Everything hit me at once and I just wanted to see my mom once again. I’m going nowhere in life anyways, so why did it matter?

I couldn’t go back to work because walking by myself in public tempts me to jump in front of oncoming traffic and working with people where I constantly have to talk to them and be happy became too hard for me. I stopped caring about getting out of bed, I stopped brushing my hair, I have a hard time showering, and I have a hard time eating or I eat too much. I wake up crying or I can’t sleep because I’m sobbing from my anxiety attacks. I’m chain smoking constantly and I’m always fighting with myself to not self-harm. I have a hard time taking care of myself. I know it doesn’t seem like it on social media, but trust me, it takes me hours to look semi-decent for the camera and several different photos that look like I’m not dying on the inside.

I do get moments of clarity. I still get up and take care of my dog and rabbit, feed them, give them love and affection, and play with them, but it’s extremely hard. 
I do want to get better. I take my medication everyday and some days I do get out of bed, but not everyday. There are days I will go see my friends and they’ll bring me out of the city to clear my mind and help fight off the demons when they start getting too bad. There are also some days where I will try and get out to get groceries with my fiancé or try to walk my dog. I have a good support system, it’s just a matter of if I’m able to force myself to ask for help. I’m just stuck in this mindset that I’m a burden or that I’m worried that people will think I’m doing it for attention. After several years of abuse, I won’t be able to change the way I am overnight.

What people don’t realize is that you’re never fully ‘cured’ of mental illness. It’s constant work everyday; just because it’s not visible, it doesn’t mean it’s not there. You don’t just go to rehab or the hospital and all of a sudden you’re fixed when you leave. If it was that easy, no one would be suffering from mental illness.

I spent most of my life worrying about and taking care of other people that I neglected my own well-being. I put others before myself and when the person that needed me the most passed away, it felt like nothing mattered anymore. When your whole life revolves around that one person, what do you do when they’re gone?

I still avoid grieving because I can’t bear the heartache. I’m scared that if I start, I won’t stop screaming and crying. I’m not scared of much anymore, but feeling that pain again is absolutely terrifying. I do not cope well at all. 

I have a moment of clarity now and that’s how I’m able to even write all this. To be honest, I am scared. I wish I knew what it was like to not be fighting my demons every single day. This is almost like a cry for help, but also a way to get out my emotions in hopes for a better tomorrow. I’m tired of pretending I’m okay all the time.

I’m so fucking tired of everything and I don’t want to be like this anymore. I’m a strong person but strong people still have a breaking point. This is the weakest I have ever been and I hope it doesn’t get any worse than this.

Unfortunately, these are the perks of suffering with a mental illness.

P.S: Please stop romanticizing depression and anxiety (or any mental illness for that matter) because these mental illnesses are so real and not something that someone can easily “get over”. My pain is not beautiful, it’s a cesspool of anger, insecurity, hopelessness, loneliness, and fear and I’m drowning in it.

Even as an artist, I don’t find it beautiful. There is more to life than romanticzing pain. You are not your suffering. You are a human being that deserves happiness and clarity and I hope that one day, I see that for myself and that you do as well.

i just called to say ‘i love you’

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It’s been awhile since I’ve written.

I know I’ve been posting something every year that I’ve had social media for Mother’s Day, but I deleted every source of it for a few days during that time. I just couldn’t handle it or see the memories on Facebook come up. Visiting her at her grave instead of waking her up with her Mother’s Day scratch ticket and coffee was even worse. Instead, I was laying flowers on the soil she now laid beneath, muttering under my breath how much I love her and that I hope she enjoyed seeing us. Of course, I threw in a few jokes because my mom hated being serious when it comes to stuff like this and during all this, I had a cigarette with her before I left, just like when we would go for a smoke together before we went to bed.

No one really talks about it, but when you lose a parent at a young age, it’s absolute destruction and chaos to a child’s life. Especially when you’re the youngest organizing the funeral and dealing with the backlash of her involvement with bills, the government, and money. There was no time to grieve. Seeing her empty bed everyday after her death has conjured this indescribable heartache that is the most painful heartbreak I have felt and will ever feel for the rest of my life.

A lot of people know that their parents will pass before they do. But, I’m also at that age where I’m old enough to understand that I can get through this, I just don’t feel like I ever will. Chain smoking and hiding in bed for days at a time have become normal to me and that scares me more than anything. Taking care of her when she took sick became my life and losing her made me feel like my life has lost all purpose. I now feel like a zombie that works to pay bills and goes back home to go straight to bed. Rinse and repeat. I don’t know what to do with my life anymore at this point. What I once dreamt of now seems completely pointless.

I came across my diary when I was nine years old and I wrote a letter to God telling him to take me with my mom when he decided it was time for her to go.

And he did. He took my heart and soul with her.

What I found out is that you learn to live with it by distracting yourself as much as possible and pretending you’re okay until (maybe) one day you’ll actually be okay and you finally understand why it happened.

My mom was sick, but her death was still so sudden. We thought we had time, 10 years even, but I just woke up one morning and she was gone. Even when we tried to save her, we were too late.

Even though you know what’s coming, you’re never really prepared for how it actually feels.

And the worst part? Not being able to say goodbye. I’m living with regret and what I could’ve done to be a better daughter to her.

I woke up every day for awhile crying, waking up Kevin from my loud sobs and he would try to comfort me back to sleep.

But I would get up and go to her bed and let the pain settle in deeper. I remember throwing and destroying shit around the house because I didn’t understand why it had to happen or why she wasn’t home yet. I was experiencing denial and anger at the same time. Some days I still experience those feelings.

I didn’t want to make this too long, so I’ll end it at this:

Never take for granted those that you love. You never really know when they’ll be gone. I know this is the most cliche thing ever said by anyone, but I can tell you this from experience, you will regret not showing them how much you really did love them when they were alive.

I love you so fucking much, mom. I am so sorry I wasn’t the best daughter I could be to you, because I know you deserved so much better. I am so sorry I’m not the kind of daughter you could brag about with amazing grades or an amazing career, instead, you let me follow my own path and you were patient, understanding, and so loving and supportive with me, Eric, and Jeff. I couldn’t have asked for a better mother.

And I’m sorry I didn’t wish you a Happy Mother’s Day sooner.

I just wish you were here to celebrate with me.

I’ll be listening to your favourite songs and remember how it was to dance in the kitchen with you when I was a child, even with my two left feet, and see you laugh and watch me butcher a dance with admiration.

I’ll miss you and love you forever.

Always.

Yours sincerely,

Michelle

l e t g o


It’s been awhile since I wrote like this, but I took a moment to myself while having a smoke in the chilly March air on the balcony and looked up at the faint stars and realized something:

As big as problems may seem to you right now, they will be irrelevant in the future. Remember that.

These problems are minor. We take so many things for granted because we’re so caught up in useless, minuscule problems that no longer matter. Don’t let those problems weigh on your mind and soul – it’s not worth it. The past is the past. The problems in the past should also stay in the past. There’s no reason to bring these forward unless it’s affecting your life at this very moment.

As much as I want to run away from all of this, I need to remember there are people here that care about me and don’t want me to leave. Just as I would feel if it were the same situation with them.

Like I said, these problems are no longer supposed to be a part of your life.

Let go.

s o u l

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There are people out there that have pieces of your soul. Maybe your most delicate pieces too; pieces you can no longer take back. Whether taken by force or given, that part of your soul is no longer yours. You lose a part of your soul to someone in the past, hopefully to be healed and replaced with a new part of your soul. But what if that doesn’t happen? Do we live with that empty void in our chest? In our souls?

 

My soul is scattered amongst so many people. But it isn’t only scattered amongst past relationships. This is so much more than that.

I still have a part of my soul with me, my most delicate part of my soul, and no one has ever been close enough to see it, let alone touch it or have a grasp of it.

 

I’m still so young, so my soul hasn’t been rebuilt yet. I’ve been stripped down to almost nothing, but the only thing keeping me going is that part of my soul I protect so dearly. There might have been someone out there that almost got to see it, but I didn’t let them. I push people away before they get that close, or they leave right before I let them catch a glimpse of it.

 

That is one of my biggest fears: someone I love leaving with a part of my soul. I rarely ever give anyone a part of me, especially after the first person who took a piece of my soul and broke it into several fragments that I can never get back, rebuild, or piece back together.

I hope that one day I’ll be able to fill the cracks left behind from everyone who has a fragment of my soul. I’ll never be whole again, but I know one day, that someone will make me feel like a whole person again. I’m tired of feeling almost soulless. I’m tired of people peeling me a part and disappearing afterwards.

I’ll hold onto the last bit of my soul for myself and someone who can share this part of me and put together the fragments with theirs – a soul mate, a friend, a lover, a family member, and anyone else.

 

My soul is mine and I don’t know if I can let someone take another part of me again. Hopefully the last person who is holding it will keep it and cherish it without crushing it into smaller fragments to the point I can no longer handle it.

 

Maybe he’s been the missing pieces of my soul all along. I just need to finally let him in and hope that he won’t leave and shatter me again.

w a l l s

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The problem with getting close to someone – breaking down their walls and/or letting them break down yours – gives them the ability to destroy you in so many ways possible.

 

And that’s absolutely terrifying.

 

How do you know if someone is worth letting in? How do you know if you can actually trust them with the most delicate parts of your soul?

 

You will never know. And that is also terrifying.

 

That’s where risk comes in. You either jump into whatever it is with caution or completely reckless.

 

You see, that’s where I have a problem. Never have I not jumped into something recklessly because I’m more of an emotional person than logical, and that fucks me over every time. I never learn sometimes – I feel too much and I never think enough. But I over-think while I let my emotions run wild and that’s never a good thing.

 

So, where was I?

 

Oh, yeah. Letting people break down your walls and vice versa.

 

There’s never a clear answer to whether or not someone is worth giving the power to destroy you. That’s where you step in and you try to think logically on whether or not this person is capable of keeping these fragile parts of your soul in their hands without crushing it.

 

But, let me tell you something.

 

These type of things are never easy, I get that. But how are we going to learn anything if we keep ourselves shielded from letting people in? Each individual that we let in can teach us something new about the world. They can even help you learn something new about yourself that you never knew existed. Trust me on that. If they destroy you, then you can take that experience and make yourself into a better person from that. If you need to take a step back and be reckless to fix yourself, then do it. You will learn so much more by taking risks than keeping yourself safe behind your four walls.

 

Let yourself get hurt. Let that person in and give them that power to destroy you. Only then will you learn about these different types of people, how they work, who to avoid, and who to let in. It will eventually get to a point where you’ll meet someone one day that will change your mind on everything you thought you knew about protecting yourself and you’ll say,

 

“Fuck it.”

 

And your whole life will change.