I’m glad I had a tough year.

I thought 2021 was the worst year. It turns out 2022 had its pitchforks hidden away from my view.

TW: suicidal thoughts

Starting the year with heartbreak is not the best way to go about a fresh beginning. “Ah, yes, just one glass” I vividly remember how the clock ticked when my hand was reaching for my nth glass of tasteless wine. Clearly, I was not doing well.

On top of all that, I was having a difficult time finding a proper source of income. In a few months, poof, there goes my health. Additionally, as if Death was following me around, I was way behind my writing gig and my client almost thought I ran off to live in the woods.

Do you know what makes things worse? As my gastritis decided it was the perfect timing to appear in my life uninvited, I was advised by the doctor to not drink alcohol and avoid spicy foods. What? Excuse me? My two favorite things in the world? Just like that?

I can laugh at it now.

But, at the time, during the first five months of 2022, I was suffering immensely. My mental health was at an all-time low. I spent days in bed longer than I should’ve. I avoided talking to anyone. My mom. My dad. My sister. My friends. I desperately wanted to disappear. I just kept drinking. I wanted that one last drop of liquid guilt to somehow make everything go away. Including myself.

Scrolling on Instagram was absolute torture.

Man, why can’t I be happy like that?

If only, I was as pretty.

If only, I was as successful.

If only, I was as sociable.

When I did manage to finish the book project and submit it, I didn’t get paid. To say that I was about to go insane and register my own death certificate would be an understatement. It’s been three months and not a word has been said.

Is this person waiting for Christmas? I’m all in for festive activities but this? There was a point (a consistent one, I must say) this year when a series of unfortunate events came rolling in.

Let’s make a checklist, shall we?

• Mental health is in shambles ✅️
• Unemployed ✅️
• Romance is dead ✅️
• My cats are starting to hate me ✅️
• I don’t feel confident in my own skin ✅️

Living in the same house with the person I’m not on the best terms with was definitely the cherry on top. My sister moved to the UK last year to work and somehow, the atmosphere at home felt quieter than usual. I was adjusting.

My parents are there but it was not the same as having someone you’re semi-comfortable with to rant half of the frustrations in your head. It was just not the same.

The person I wrestled with since I was twelve is my eldest sister. I was already having a hard time and during my most vulnerable time, she was crossing the line. To a certain extent, seeing siblings fighting is normal. Playful fights are fine. Arguments about this and that are fine too. That, I understand, is normal.

However, in my case, I had my personal issues as to why to this day I can’t stand being in the same place as her. I sort of developed a phobia of my things missing or being placed elsewhere without my knowledge. I would have meltdowns and scream; something that would be unexpected from my seemingly ‘calm’ and ‘quiet’ impressions from others.

I ended up seeing a doctor. My parents went inside with me and the moment I sat on the chair, I knew I wasn’t going to last long. The doctor would ask me questions and before I even started to speak, the waterworks got crazy.

It dawned on me how difficult it was to open up about how I feel. For so long, I’ve been bottling up every single piece of emotion, afraid to be seen. But, that day, when I was the most vulnerable, I felt as though a fishbone was removed from my throat. I could breathe a little bit better.

As someone who’s been living with pent-up emotions for 98% of her life, it took me years to realise that I’m not in danger. I remember my twelve-year-old self walking funny, my blur vision making my breathing faster than usual, while thinking everyone was laughing at me. In 2017, I had my first ever full-blown panic attack. Since then, it would get worse by the minute.

That whole time, I wanted to blame something or someone for how I’m feeling. The very kind of toxicity I tried to avoid was swallowing me whole and the person I used to be was smudged with red hues all over. It was when my meltdowns became an everyday thing was when I realised that I was no longer myself. What triggered it more was how I badly wanted to bury myself underground before someone saw my situation. I needed help but I was afraid to ask.

I thought the more I held on by myself, I could live with it.

Being in that room, I felt stripped of my clothes. Yet, it felt liberating. It was scary but cathartic. There is more to life than drunken nights and relapses. I’m not the prettiest lass out there but I know my worth. There is more to life than boys with alluring smile or girls with hazel brown eyes.

Your life doesn’t end simply because a person no longer looks at you.

Your life is not over when your career hasn’t even blossomed yet.

Your life is yours to live.

Despite the twists and turns this year, I returned to my past lover. Who? Who else might it be but writing? I love spilling words on my notes app and experimenting with sentences. My therapist gave a great advice that venting my thoughts through journaling could help me a bunch. In a way, I was excited because I LOVE WRITING.

I love stories. I love poems. I love the in-between.

This year may have tried to kick my ass but I’m a bad bitch. I’m not surrendering any time soon. 😏