One Precious View

These days, I don’t know if I can still call myself a poet. The truth is, I don’t live life as I encourage others to live. I wrote about being kind to oneself, to the world, yet this is the biggest challenge I have had in my entire life.

Some romanticize their pain and call it poetry. Some wonder and ponder around the ideas, only to chase the feeling of being loved. Some grind days and nights to reach “success.”

We were all told to study hard, work hard, go to school, get a job, and everything will be “fine.”

But what if the “fine” is not what I want?

I can’t help but ask myself.

There’s something within me that I bury with daily tasks, meaningless interactions, while noises get louder in the background.

“Focus on what you can control and right in front of you,” they said.

Well, that’s too bad. You can’t tell someone to “feel better” or “be happier” when the society we live in constantly asks you to move and to “go, go, go.”

So, I broke.

Knowing this day was bound to come, I still was not mentally prepared for it. See, I went through ten plus years of therapy work just to be aware of my own behavior, that something needs to change.

“How does that make you feel?” my therapist asked.

I looked at her as if she were asking me what 821690 times 172670 is, and I don’t have an answer top of mind. She took out a graph of illustrated faces, each labeled with an emotion. I would then point out which one is the closest.

Right, every time I see a new therapist for an initial consultation, I’d have to answer why I’m here and what happened to me.

Life, maybe? I believe everyone deserves therapy and has unresolved issues.

But when I try to summarize my past four years in one minute, it often sounds like this: after battling with CPTSD for ten years, three people died within two years, one of my best friends, my closest family member, and another friend I was supposed to meet, on top of low paying, demanding job that gives me 0 bereavement leave, while me throwing all my salary into paying for law school that shows me cases far different from what’s on the news these days.

By the time I finish, I always see their eyes widen while taking notes.

“Wow, that’s a lot.” Is the response I get the most?

“Yeah, I know.”

Every conversation, every word is exhausting. It is to the point if a therapist I try to contact is out of office, I would have no energy to schedule and to follow up, to be put on a list or to be contacted later. I simply have no mental space to keep track anymore.

“Oh, Amy, where did it go wrong?” I can’t help but to ask myself again, and again. Nothing is “wrong,” I know. Everything was choices, followed by consequences, that I carefully picked and chose. I gave myself grace, but living with myself, on top of complex trauma and layers of grief, simply makes life unbearable.

Last year in my 20s. We are told that “you’re running out of time,” yet at the same time, “you’re still young, you've got a whole life ahead of you.”

Oh, that sounds tiring. If I keep going on like this, I’m not sure if this will be a healthy whole life, or simply just suffering on top of a weakening body.

Right, but I can’t die either. I exist and try to find something that sparks the shininess in my eyes, and go on, live the responsibilities, and do it all over again the next day.

Really? Is this what life is all about?

One thing is for sure: money and power don’t buy you happiness. Time and sickness are equally fair to the rich and the poor. You can’t make someone love you either.

My loved ones did not think about work or the “accomplishments” on their deathbeds. Not a thought about the long hours people brag about working, and it’s become clear as day that no amount of following or social media likes could get you to “feel better” when you’re literally dying.

Is this why people say stuff like marriage, giving birth, and grieving after one’s death really changes you? But I think being upset after someone’s death is one thing; seeing the essence of life and death is another.

Did I come across frequent tragedies at a relatively young age? If so, doesn’t that make me qualify for one of those writers? You know what I’m talking about.

I always come back to writing.

After studying literature, business, design, marketing, psychology, and law. I have things I want to share with the world, stories that can only be told through writing, and I want to do that before I die, no matter if anyone is reading or watching.

“Believe in the power of words.” I shall tattoo that onto my heart.

I find healing, pain, and tragedy all in the texts growing up. Years down the road, I will only remember those life-changing phrases I read.

Thinking back, it was never the “I got into my dream school” day that made me the happiest. It was the “oh this is kinda nice” moment – when I came out of a random Safeway in the outskirts of Washington, and in its parking lot, saw one of the most beautiful sunsets of my life.

How funny, to chase beautiful views that are instagrammable all over the world, yet almost miss what’s right in front of me. Another precious view: a lovely husband who cooks the best comfort food for me, and a big brown dog wagging her tail every time I look at her.

That’s the view I want to remember, always.

I’ve got it, I’ve always had it.

ig@ahcpoetry