After a few spliffs, shots of hard liquor, several painfully loud tracks and harbored indescribable emotions, it results in awkward, unintelligible excerpts by a twenty-something year-old girl that constantly thinks about food, sex, art, music and more food. Oh, and (occasionally) you.

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’


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.


Yours sincerely,


d o n ‘ t


Let me be real honest with you guys right now.

I don’t usually do this…but I need to clear my head before it explodes.

It’s finally reading week and I’ve been trying to take this time to catch up on late assignments, only to be halted with so many of the difficulties life has decided to throw at me while juggling university, taking care of my sick mom, a new puppy (don’t say that this isn’t hard, because it’s just like taking care of a baby with the amount of responsibility and care it takes), dealing without a job or money, getting over the flu, and mental illness. The lack of sleep and proper nutrients these past few weeks have been quite scary.

I’ve lost my baby boy – my cat – that I’ve grown up with since I was 9 last week and it still hasn’t hit me yet. He was one of my best friends and God, it was so hard taking his body to be cremated. People underestimate the bond that humans and pets have; the bond we create with them is just like family and we take their loyalty and unconditional love for granted a lot of the time, even when we don’t mean to.

I’ve had about four breakdowns the past couple of weeks and I didn’t even bother to deal with others because when depression and anxiety hit me, it hit me like a train wreck. I do sincerely apologize to a lot of people for being distant. Please remember that I still love you all, I just don’t know how to deal with myself and life at the moment. The only thing I really know how to do is chain smoke. It’s gone to a point where I truly believed that if I died, it wouldn’t make a difference in the world. Almost as if I never mattered to begin with and that things are easier without me here. I just stopped caring.

I had another breakdown brewing yesterday because of my own insecurities and anxiety, causing me to become cold and distant, starting fights, and being a version of myself that I hate so much, and honestly…I don’t usually hate anything. I’m a carefree, gentle, free-spirited, and chill person.

You will rarely ever see me not wearing make up, especially on social media, but I do want a lot of people to know:

I am a very below average/average looking girl. I look about 12 years-old without it. I suffer from bad acne and terrible insomnia, so my skin and my appearance have been so dishevelled and chaotic lately. I am full of lumps, bumps, scars, rolls and terrible skin. I am the farthest thing from perfect. I am extremely insecure about myself and my body. I know people say confidence is key, but I can’t muster up any amount of confidence to even love myself right now.

So, me wearing no make-up and posting it on social media with no filter tells you that I really don’t give a fuck anymore because I can’t be bothered to make myself look good at all. I look like hell. And if I’m going to hell, then I bet I look pretty damn perfect to be sent there.

I can’t stress enough the importance and awareness of mental health. Please seek help and confide in loved ones. There is always someone there to help. I am here to help. If you’re ever feeling overwhelmed, just remember that your feelings should never feel invalidated, that you are not alone and that we are here for you. It doesn’t matter what the problem is and remember, pain is relative. Just because you feel like someone has it worse doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel and express the way you feel. That’s something you can’t control. Every time I tried to reach out to others, I chickened out and lessened myself and my problems because I didn’t feel like the problems were pressing enough. Please do not think that way.

Remember, you are so loved and cared for. Don’t ever, ever forget that.

you and me


It was early June, late at night with a quiet hum of crickets and cars passing by. He and I were laying in our old little apartment on our tiny mattress on the floor after sharing a cigarette in the cool midnight air, distracted by one another and aimlessly talking about how much we love each other and the adventures we would embark on together while keeping some kind of skin contact between us; we were holding hands, even on complete opposite sides of the bed, our feet at each other’s heads.

There was a comfortable silence that fell over us and he got up, scribbling something on the little sticky notes we wrote on to leave cute love letters to one another around the house. I took a minute to look on my phone and he stuck the note on my forehead with the most sheepish grin I’ve ever seen. I rolled my eyes at him and pulled it off and gaped at it – it was a saying in a completely other language.

“It’s in Gaelic.”

“What does it mean?”

“I can’t tell you. Find out.”

A few moments later, I searched it up on my phone and I let the smallest smile break through while containing the wild excitement in my chest. We’ve talked about marriage before we broke up, but it felt like an empty promise – this is when things were completely different. But, things are different now that we’re back together. The timid, embarrassed look on his face made me giggle. He was usually loud, confident, and so sure of himself.

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“What does it say exactly?”

“Please marry me, my lovely princess.” He started scrambling around the room for something and he ran around to my side of the bed and pulled me onto my feet as he kneeled in front of me with a Ring Pop we bought earlier as a snack,

“Michelle Anne Lui, will you please marry me? I want to spend the rest of my life with you-”

He slid the Ring Pop onto my ring finger and he wrapped his arms around my waist, snuggling his head into my stomach,

“I want to have babies with you, to start a family, to get my shit together with you, and I love you so fucking much. I am in love with you.”

I stared down at him in absolute adoration and awe and took a moment to enjoy our embrace.

“…yes. Yes, I will marry you, you idiot.”

I accepted, containing the burst of happiness that exploded inside of my body. It felt like an entire galaxy was created in my soul and he was the first planet to be discovered, sharing its life with my stars, comets, dark matter, and otherworldliness in me.

I hugged him back so tightly that I never wanted to let go and he stood up, picking me up in the process and threw me back on the bed. He attacked me with kisses and we laid down beside each other, snuggling into each other’s arms and we stared into each other’s eyes,

“Fiancé.” I murmured to him.

“Fiancée.” He said in a low hum.

“I like calling you that. My fiancé.”

We were silent for a heartbeat before he planted a kiss on my forehead.

“You’re mine.” he pulled me in closer into his chest before continuing, “My fiancée. My wife.”

I never knew the feeling I was experiencing even existed. It was indescribable.

“I know, bear. I know.”

b l o o m

Is it possible to fall more and more in love with someone everyday?

I’ve never believed that until I met him. I’ve never felt this way about someone before in my life.

I remember we were in our bed, sitting across from each other in the evening light, our disco lamp cascading rainbows all over the lavender walls in my room and my messy blue hair everywhere from laying lazily in bed all day with him. He was still looking at me as if I was the most beautiful thing that he’s ever seen, despite the hair I was sporting and his shirt that I crumpled up around my body in my sleep.

I leaned forward into him and I remember being in total awe just staring at him. My heart felt like exploding with all the love I have for him. I grinned like a total idiot and I wrapped my arms around his waist,

“This is the first time I’ve felt truly happy in years…I’ve never been this happy in my entire life. I am so fucking happy with you.”

I don’t think I’ve ever said or felt I was truly happy in my entire twenty-two years in this world. That has to mean something.

Everyday, we learn new things about each other and we learn new things together, growing together as a couple. Of course, there will be the really bad days where we can’t stand each other, but nothing good ever comes easy. That would be utter bullshit. But, you have to remember, a relationship shouldn’t always be bad. There has to be a balance and it may be hard to achieve, however, you will find it one day. Trust me. Him and I haven’t experienced the easiest of beginnings, but we definitely fought hard enough to make this work and make each other fall in love with one another even more, if that was even humanly possible between us. And now love with him feels so effortless, unconditional, freeing, raw, and unwavering.

It’s good if love is sometimes complicated, daunting, intense, and challenging because that’s how you learn to find the good in everything and to grow together. It shows that you have to try and work hard at something and not give up just because you already have it in your grasps. You have to learn how to put down your pride, apologize, and realize that you really do love each other and that you have differences, and that it’s okay.

Him and I are complete opposites but our souls resonate so well with one another, almost as if our paths were made to intertwine together in this universe. Him and his endearing soul make me so, so damn happy. I love what we have because what we have is something different, something so debilitating that I can’t help but smile when I think of this idiot.

Every night, I find myself snuggled into his chest and fighting away sleep just to ramble about my stupid train of thoughts with him, but eventually, I would fall asleep to the soothing rhythm of his heart beating like a pendulum, swinging back and forth to the beautiful ballad that he only played for me, and dream of the rest of our lives together.

I’ve never been so in love with anyone in my life. I am so fucking lucky and so fucking happy to have him.

And I am so damn lucky to be his fiancée.

d e a r f r i e n d


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Dear Friend,

It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? I apologize.

I haven’t really had the inspiration to write. Granted, my mind and inspiration have been elsewhere. The past few things I’ve written haven’t been the most happiest or uplifting pieces either, so you might’ve been worried. Rest assured, I am in a much better place now. I know I worry a lot of people, especially with how much of a recluse I can be, but please know that I am okay, he is okay, we are okay – all is well.

I honestly don’t know where to begin. Despite the insomnia, terrible diet, weight gain, chain smoking, university, wisdom teeth coming in, my boyfriend’s flatulence, mine and my cat’s love-hate relationship, and me being a lazy fuck, I’ve mustered up some kind of urge to write.

You guys are probably really sick of me talking about myself, love, relationships, souls, assholes, girls making out, and blah blah blah, all that bullshit, but unfortunately, that’s what I like to write. I’d like to think that some of you enjoy reading what goes on in this little, chaotic (and extremely messy) purple head of hair of mine, but I don’t write for others. I write for myself.

I generally write when I’m in emotional turmoil, as you could tell from before, but I also need to start writing when I’m inspired so I don’t seem like a depressed little Tumblr girl all the time. I am, unfortunately, a grown-ass woman (as much as I hate to admit that I’m no longer 18 and that everything cannot be excused because I’m a teenager and I look 12 half the time, which I blame the asian genes for) and that I need to showcase what I’m actually capable of creating…which isn’t much. Oh well.

Let’s just say that life will throw a million lemons at you and people will tell you to make lemonade out of it, but what about lemon meringue pie? Lemon chicken? The lemon you squeeze over calamari? The lemon wedge on a glass of some kind of mixed alcoholic beverage or a chaser for a tequila shot that will make you temporarily forget all those problems actually exist??

I’ve tried all those methods and let me tell you something – I’ve learned to cut the lemon into slices and to eat it just like that. Sour and extremely terrible for the enamel on your teeth, but hey, eventually you get used to it and when life decides to throw more lemons your way, you know you can suck on it and swallow with no problems now. Pun intended.

Enough of my quirky babbling, let’s get back to writing.

I’ll see you again soon, Friend.

Yours sincerely,


a l i v e

Ghosts are real.

They’re the people that left a burning hole in your heart; mind; soul

They’re the people who still haunt you, even in their absence

They’re real because they still haunt your soul

But they’re still wandering this earth,

Alive, breathing and real.

s m o t h e r

I woke up today already feeling sick.


No, not the type where I feel like I’m under the weather. It’s the type of sick where I’m having such crippling and severe anxiety and depression that I always feel like I’m going to fucking throw up. The worst part about all of this, is that I’m so used to hiding it that no one notices and this is after years of people telling me my problems are irrelevant, invalid and minuscule. But, it’s actually getting to the point where it’s starting to show through in my actions and my facial expressions. You know it’s bad when your boss notices; the person who you’re the farthest away from being emotionally conntected to.


The walls I built so high are crumbling down, but not for anyone. It’s crumbling down because everything hidden behind it is destroying those barriers since there is no more room to hide in my mind anymore. It wants more room; it wants to occupy a bigger space and it has decided to take over my whole body. It’s starting to physically affect me, as opposed to only making my thoughts run wild. My walls are being destroyed from the inside – from my own thoughts, from my own self.


I thought my self-destructive days were over.


God, why do I find it so fucking hard to talk to people about it? Why is it so hard to open up to people? Why is it so hard to ask for help? I’m honestly so fucking sick and tired of wanting to kill myself all the time because of how bad my anxiety and depression is getting. It’s beginning to be normal to feel this way. My anxiety and depression are smothering me. I can barely breathe half the time, and no, it’s not from smoking. I quit that awhile ago.


I literally choke when I mention my mental illnesses to someone. It’s like my body isn’t allowing me to tell others so they can help me. My depression is holding me captive and I can’t even scream for help because of my anxiety. This is not normal. This should not be happening. This is how shit gets horribly bad.


I’m screaming so loud internally just so I don’t have to listen to my thoughts trying to take over. It’s like I’m being shot at constantly in the chest and my thoughts are barricading my mind from thinking of something positive and it’s suffocating me. I don’t need to hear that I’m not good enough or that I’m worthless or that I’m helpless. I don’t need to hear that shit.


This is going to get to a point where I become dead inside and I will no longer be able to feel for a long time. I’ll be numb. People say it’s better to feel something than nothing at all but honestly, I would rather be numb.


On a sort of lighter note: I’m trying to force myself to eat breakfast and it’s a really hard task, but I’m doing it. I’m probably going to throw this all up in about 10-15 minutes like I did yesterday. It sucks because I really do love food.


Fuck, I need a cigarette.

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.