whales cry through the thick of glow.
the ocean’s horizon tastes of sweet brimming icicles
which stretch and pierce the yonder of my cheeks.
it meets my tongue like that of furious Listerine.
the sea stands like eloquent silly putty.
like a liquid omnipresence.
a guardian filled with bubbling pockets
of fluid little soldiers,
marching beyond knowing.
they watch. they leave.
they care – but they don’t care.
they’re just there.
like a horde of orcs
but much prettier and more ethereal.
the glistening liquid encircles me like a sloshing skirt
squeezing me inwards like an oceanic cobra;
smashing my intestines and organs together like creamed fish,
plunging me in as a mermaid would.
scales flake together like little stardusts
shattering papercuts into thin air.
wounds pour open-
periwinkle blood flows.
Let's talk about mental health.
It’s Mental Health Awareness Week in the UK and I feel encouraged to start conversation on a topic I’ve so long avoided. Someone very close in my life suffers from schizophrenia. To protect their identity let’s call them Y. I have known Y for a very long time and the sad conditions in which they succumb to nowadays have not always been the case. Or have they? As an observer, the pivotal point came when their circumstances changed, triggering something I believe had been lingering for a while (and/or existed genetically). They suffer from a paranoid fear of identity snatchers, invasive outside voices, and have become increasingly less able to engage with a reality that “most” of us know. They believe their fight is irrelevant to medical help, and does not seek it (therefore help cannot legally be forced on them).
Both of us have come from Chinese culture and what I’ve witnessed in my young adulthood is a cultural refusal to acknowledge mental illness. Or, when it is acknowledged, it is often one of shame. There is resistance from family, friends, onlookers; and of course, myself. It is seen as an embarrassment, a disgrace - something you don’t want to be around or be responsible for. I know this stigma exists globally, and I also know there are plenty who act otherwise. But how can we make this a discussion of the norm?
During quarantine I’ve joined an online course about writing/performing solo work: The Body Series with Giovanni Ortega, facilitated by East West Players in L.A. And while I’ve found a plethora of topics I’m interested in exploring, I’ve especially felt that it’s time I face Y. Yes, I have held the very same stigmas about mental illness as much of society does, and my efforts otherwise have felt futile. I wanted to help when Y’s struggle became apparent, but I never knew what to do about it. And everyone around seemed to feel the same. It’s then easier to say “it’s not my responsibility” and abandon, than it is to muster the courage to keep investigating.
As I cautiously enter this creative endeavour, it has asked me to deeply wonder why. What are the specific moments in Y’s life that have carved the reality they live in now? Who were they from birth? Their parents? Their upbringing? A sheltered childhood? What about the sibling that took their life at a young age? Or about displacement and moving to a new country at mid-age?
And then - why do I consider their experiences to be less “real” than mine? Why should I assume that I’m sane and they’re not? What makes me think that I’m better than them?
There’s a lot I don’t know and it is not possible to fully understand anyone. But this project feels like a valuable step towards finding greater empathy, and maybe even empowerment to start change.
In the meantime, I hope to encourage everyone to consider the strangers’ story.
Let’s stop deeming people with labels just because they don’t portray normality. Everyone deserves the chance.
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If you have any thoughts, suggestions, shared experiences; anything, please reach out. I would love to hear from you.