Until my lungs burned.

Deep, deep breaths for this one.

I started this week with an 11-hour road trip to a cemetery with my best friend. She needed to visit someone important to her and I had the pleasure of riding shotgun as emotional support. Maxine sure loves playing passenger princess too.

My warm regard for my best friend is beyond words. Even just looking at her makes me want to burst into tears. She’s been by my side for eight years and supporting me in ways that matter most, so of course I was happy to make this long drive with her.

Nothing is off the table between us. We talk about everything: family, careers, anxieties, hopes, dreams, and zodiac signs of famous serial killers. About an hour and a half into the drive, the topic of exes came up.

“So…what all happened there?” She inquired about the 15-month relationship I ended near the start of 2022.

“I wasn’t happy. She used my anxieties and insecurities about other dudes she would flirt with to leverage what she wanted from me.” My best friend knows all about my fears of infidelity in relationships, so I skipped the preambles with her.

“Yeah, I remember you telling me she was a little crazy,” my best friend replied.

“Yeah, she tracked my location everywhere I went, and she had me on camera whenever I was home,” I elaborated further.

“…Wait, WHAT?! Are you like…okay?” My best friend took her eyes off the road to turn to me in shock and concern.

“It was…highly traumatic,” I said with a nervous smile and laugh.

“Bruh. You didn’t tell me that part. Wait, how?! How did she even manage to do that?!” Her eyes were wide with disbelief like a big sister learning her sibling was being bullied at school.

“You know those Smart Clocks? Like, the Amazon Echo? She bought me one and had me set it up in my room. She’d watch me play video games and stuff to make sure I wasn’t talking to other girls. She’d watch me sleep too. She’d stay up to hear if I mumbled any names of other women in my sleep.” I explained absolute insanity in casual tones.

“I remember you telling me she was crazy and I thought ‘Well, I trust Not-Maxine is aware enough not to exaggerate,’ but holy shit.” She took it all in at the same speed that others did, quickly and distraught.

“I was really reluctant to admit she was crazy because of the whole sexist history of hysteria and everything…But yeah, she took advantage of how naive and fresh I was to dating and made me think everything she did was normal. If I tried to speak up against it, we’d just start fighting and I’d have to apologize for something she did…She hit me a couple of times too.” My emotions swirled.

“That’s not fucking okay.” She took the next exit to look for a charging station. Her car battery was at 20%.

“She was also really disrespectful in the bedroom. There was lots of sexual coercion. There’s one instance where I’m still not sure if it counts as assault, but I was pretty drunk and she was sober; I just remember not having much of a choice in what she was doing to me. I can’t really figure out what happened there.” It all came pouring out of me at once.

“Dude. I didn’t know any of this,” she said.

“I think I just got used to the practice of not talking to any of my girl-friends. She isolated me from everyone, especially women.” I looked out to the countryside, taking in the scenery as I realized something truly awful.

I became so angry in that moment. I didn’t know how to think, but the words that came to mind were:

How dare she? How dare she put me through so much turmoil that I forget to tell my best friend about what I had gone through long after it was over? This would’ve never happened unless I was truly possessed. I tell my best friend everything. She knows everything about me. No world, no instance of life amidst any possible iteration of existence could ever contain a reality where I don’t tell my best friend something so important. I literally have screenshots from 2020 of her asking me if we can name my feminine side. She knew Maxine before she had a name, before she had space to sing and flourish. She saw all my potential from when we first met and has never stopped supporting me in everything I need to be happy, so the notion that someone successfully stopped me from connecting with her enraged me.

I felt so utterly ashamed at that moment, but I also felt relieved. I had taken another step in reclaiming my soul from a monster that had crawled into my skin and made a nest for 15 months, a monster that made me forget how to be myself and tricked me into being just like her: jealous, afraid, and full of rage.

We finished the road trip and parted ways for the evening. I had a hearty dinner by myself, then I made another particular drive.

There’s a road by my home that I drive east until there’s “no more east” on nights when I’m overwhelmed with stirred feelings of sorrow and anguish. I drive towards this sole stoplight that shines red amidst the black sea of night, then I park on the side of the road. Sometimes I cry a little. Sometimes I cry a lot.

This time, I screamed. I screamed at the night, the moon, and the stars. I screamed until I felt winded. Until my shoulders drooped. Until my lungs burned. Until I could feel and accept all the love I was isolated from during those 15 months of horror. Until this monster was exorcised from my skin and bones.

Until I could remember who I am, who Maxine is.

I often ask myself what could I have done to make those 15 months better. Everyone I talk to always tells me I did all I could.

Maybe the best thing to do was just learn.

Barely justified table flippers.

My prompt for the writing buddy this week: Write a haiku about the last three years. Read it here, but be prepared to breathe a little easier when you’re done.

Her prompt for me: Itemize how petty you are.

Oh, wait. *shuffles papers* Here it is.

Write a list of your most ridiculous pet peeves. In other words, barely justified reasons for me to flip a table mid-conversation.

In ascending order from something that’ll get you the stank face all the way to what would prompt a friendly proposal to a round of shirtless slap-boxing behind an abandoned Denny’s at 3 AM:

Seeing a guy go out of his way to not hold anything for his lady. I get it. It’s 2023. People are redefining relationship dynamics for themselves and what works for them. I know absolutely nothing about a couple at first glance. However, when I see an irritated woman struggling to manage a baby carrier, her purse, and an incoming phone call, yet her partner is all la-di-da with an iced coffee, I have to take a deep breath. This one is my warmup pet peeve because I feel it’s only ridiculous in the sense that their relationship is none of my business. Nonetheless, yuck.

Doctors prescribing rest from the gym when I come to them for gym injuries. How dare you give me the most sensical and straightforward solution to continue doing something I love in the long term which essentially boils down to “If it hurts when you do that, then stop doing that.” The nerve. Yes, my rib is out of place again. No, I don’t need to take a week off. Matter of fact, how soon can I lift after this flu shot?

Judging me for using utensils with finger food. Yes, I’m taking a knife and fork to this jelly-filled donut. I’m cute. I’m dainty. I’m sophisticated. I know I look weird and your fixation on the only person slicing into a cookie with silverware is perfectly reasonable. Regardless, mind your business. You’re not allowed to argue with me about this. I’m a princess.

That damned Antisocial Social Club hoodie. After learning that antisocial is a clinical term for sociopathy, my soul and taste in style recoil when I see one of those in public. There’s nothing wrong with someone displaying their introversion in a cute way, but that one makes me cringe. Sorry, mini Patrick Batemans. I feel like the next iteration of this is gonna be a hoodie with Ryan Gosling’s face and a caption that reads “Literally me.”

A workout buddy not believing me when I say a certain machine at the gym is measured in metric kilograms instead of imperial pounds, especially after I pull up the model number on Google, show him the downloadable product manual mid-workout, then bet in terms of “If I’m right, you owe me nothing, and if you’re right, your Chipotle is on me. You literally have nothing to lose.” We’ve been lifting for years and you think 50 POUNDS would be giving our triceps this much grief? Absolutely not. Yes, I’m talking to you, YOU. I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN.

Tech-bloat in science fiction. “Crazy Legs! Quick! Grab me a Thingamajig Model BF-24601 so I can fix the McGuffin!” Nonsensical implications of technology ruin science fiction for me. You could’ve stopped at Model BF-2 and the immersion would still be intact. I’d hear that and go “Oh cool, something they’ve been working on probably starts with a B and it’s their second try at a working prototype,” but to slap on a bunch of extra numbers? I just know one of the writers rolled a finger across the keyboard and said “Yeah, that sounds science fiction enough.” When a character parks their intergalactic spaceship at the space mechanic’s shop and goes “I need a new engine. The McSpeedy Model P-314159 should do the job,” my eyes roll into the back of my head so far that I can see my next thought, I can see what I had for lunch three years ago. It’s difficult for me to enjoy the Iron Man movies because I groan in annoyance when I see that closeup of Robert Downey Jr. inside the suit and he’s looking so intently around the Jarvis interface that’s tracking enough vitals and functions to eat up the whole screen. I have a feeling if I zoomed in, there’s a chance that it’s a bunch of cyber gibberish.

Unhelpful idioms. If your life lesson is summarized by a handful of words that force me to think super hard to make sense of it only for me to realize how unhelpful or impractical it is, I’ll fly into a blind rage. For example: “When you’re right, you’re right.” That is possibly the most useless phrase in all human history. Yes, I understand its purpose is to acknowledge someone finally being correct perhaps even to someone’s chagrin. No, I don’t think it’s practical. Do you know what you could say instead? YOU COULD SAY “YOU’RE RIGHT,” AND STOP THERE. All I hear when someone says “When you’re right, you’re right,” is “When it’s three o’clock, it’s three o’clock.” Thanks, pal. THANKS. I’m unfathomably enlightened after this ever-clairvoyant insight into life. A far better phrase is “A broken clock is right twice a day.” It’s factually correct, provides a visual, lacks pointless repetition, and precisely condenses a virtue of life into a short saying. Saying “When you’re right, you’re right,” simply translates to “Hey Maxine, pistols at dawn!” When I tried to explain “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” to my mom, who’s a first-generation immigrant, she looked at me like I just said the dumbest thing. She goes “…Duh. Who says that?” I said, "Well, it’s a thing people say.” She blankly stares and says, “Why?” My world shattered. I realized at that moment, I was being the “When you’re right, you’re right,” guy.

This has surprisingly been a fun exercise in not taking myself too seriously. Some pet peeves reveal what’s truly annoying about day-to-day life, and some others reveal that you need a hug, a scoop of cookies and creme, and a nap.

That being said, only Not-Maxine accepts this lighthearted level of self-awareness. Maxine remains 100% annoyed and justified.

From me at 50.

This week’s writing prompt from the writing buddy: Write a poem to your present from your 50-year-old self.

My prompt for her: Write about a quote you loved at half your age and a quote you love now.

Coincidentally, my prompt asks her to think about a time at half her age and hers asks me to write from just about double mine. The past 26 years have been wild. To make it to 50, I just have to do it again. Easy-peasy, right?

"from you, another lifetime from today;"

the halfway point
of locking eyes with me
in mirrors that once reflected
horrid oblivion,
you've crossed it,
now cross it again
with mindful pace
and watered gardens
of soul and body,
i'll see you soon.

Hurting today.

"glass;"

i dreamt for so long
of this temple being sacred
a holy place
for tender hands to traverse,
years spent saving the moment
for someone magical
all to be ruined
by who i thought you could be,
now i dream once more
of this place you'll never worship again
sculpting it anew 
awaiting a gentle soul
to hold me like i'm glass.

Maxine is hurting today.

The pain of all endured at the hands of someone I once trusted with so much still occasionally eats at me. I have no wish to reconcile anything, it’s just raw trauma that takes time to pass. It’s purely residual; most days go by without a single thought of it, and some days, like today, have me feeling used and dirty.

It’s a somber reminder to be kind to myself amidst strings of days and weeks where I pile up sleep deprivation, overexert at the gym, or generally neglect myself in some form or fashion.

I’ll take Maxine out for some ice cream today. I’ll pick up a new candle from Bath & Body Works for later. I’ll go to the gym and slam iron for as long as I want. I’ll get my car washed; it’s a bit overdue for the Maxinemobile. I’ll give my sheets and blankets an extra wash. I’ll light the candle for a dim shower to let the grime of the past wash away and flow down the drain into oblivion. I’ll stay there till I feel pretty again. I’ll do Maxine’s skincare routine so she feels smooth and flawless. I’ll lie down early to dream of walking among roses and sunflowers.

And when I wake up, I’ll be okay.

Potted horizons.

The writing buddy has given me another prompt: Write a short story from the perspective of a house plant. I was in the middle of a deadpan gym session on a negligible amount of sleep and many shots of espresso when it made me crack a dumb, childish smile in front of the sparse Sunday workout crowd.

My prompt for her: Describe a moment when time happily slowed down.

“The Housemate”

My time has come. The endless, pervasive stench of hot grease escaping the raw ingredients required for this so-called good deal of “Pete’s Zuh” shall pester me no more. The nerve, the absolute nerve of the staff to seat us so closely to the food court of this accursed warehouse! Well, phooey, to Pete and his Zuh! I do not care if it is only ten dollars! I shall endure it no more. A sophisticated woman has placed me in her shopping cart. While it pains me to sit so close to this packaged rotisserie fowl that must be channeling heat from the fiery depths themselves, I revel in the temporary discomfort as I know the new horizons that await me. Farewell, my leafy, potted kin. I will represent us with utmost dignity and prestige. Yes, scan me, human! Ha! You’re damn right I am a good deal, that is what this classy lady pays a yearly membership for! What grand mansion awaits me? Shall I be placed on the second floor? The third?! Were it not for the limitations of this pot, I would fail to contain myself at this moment. The exit nears. Oh, sun! Glorious sun!

Later that evening.

Hell is real. Perhaps in a past life, I committed atrocities to earn myself this existence. Perhaps I was a lawnmower running over patches of happy green families and now am forced to embrace humility as a potted house plant. That is the only explanation I can think of for the torture I now endure.

The woman lives in a lovely home with warm colors and clean temperaments. She bounced up and down with shining smiles as she introduced me to her husband. He was delighted to make my acquaintance. The feeling was mutual. They congratulated themselves upon finally attaining “plant parenthood.” My vision is not without limit, but a strained peek at their living room bookshelf revealed long-lived desire and anticipation for someone such as myself. They were studied. They were prepared. I was to be well taken care of. I was the chosen one. I had no complaints.

Their oldest, a teenage boy of quiet demeanor, was silently overjoyed to welcome me into the home. I could see it in his eyes. He made himself a tuna sandwich for lunch, a fair enough scent to me. He was of no issue. No, my grievances are with the gremlin. Their youngest, a girl of no more than five laps around the eternal flame in the sky, is a menace to the potted community. I thought the folly of indulgence in the Zuh of Pete was finally over, but oh was I wrong, oh was I foolish to assume my suffering was over. This “Pete” has his own master which produces equally foul-smelling cuisine the little girl demanded for dinner. “Toe-teen-oh’s Pete’s Zuh rolls”, they called it. Oh, the horror! They are tiny pockets of blistering blasphemy, perfectly sized for subterfuge and infiltration, mimicking the large circled servings in the warehouse. The parents extracted an enormous, frozen bag of them from the icebox, and the little girl dined over a piping hot tray of them within the hour! Worst of all, the tiny demon finds it humorous to try and feed me one! She insists on calling me “Potter” as well. The audacity! I shan’t ever default to calling all these humans “Huey” lest the potted community exiles me for bigotry, and yet she mocks me! Heaven save me, she exclaimed that it is her favorite sustenance! My days are numbered. I shall perish from the filth of Toe-teen-oh.

One month later.

My adjustments proved difficult, but I feel I have grown fond of this family. While I wholeheartedly disagree with the youngest’s repeated choices of nourishment, the parents tend to me with great care. I am properly trimmed and watered. The indirect graces of the great sun warm me with great vigor for much of the day. The summer grows long. I spend every day feeling rather stellar in my position. I find myself unwinding alongside the family in the evenings as their fair tastes in nightly primetime television provide communal warmth at the end of long, sunny days.

The parents often read by the fireplace. It allows me small glimpses into human literature as they gush about some phantom haunting an opera. The teenage son procrastinates his studies with episodes of House of the Dragon, as the title is spelled on the video box. I must say the limits of human storytelling appear nonexistent. While the child daughter’s consuming of Toe-teen-oh’s in my presence is not forgiven, the tea parties she includes me in are rather fun; her academic peers, whom I have heard referred to as “kindergarteners”, welcome my dapper inclusion to their soirées.

It is now beginning to feel like I am living the royal life befitting a leafy, debonair delight such as myself.

Ten minutes later.

Treachery has befallen me. My waning yet still barely existent capacity to hold myself in high regard allows me to think my final words. I am certain the will to carry on shall soon abandon me. What a curse it was to be plucked from that warehouse. I was a fool, a lowly court jester to believe myself a chosen one. My best recourse would be to learn to juggle and perhaps be fitted for a big red nose too. I should have shown greater appreciation for that stinking food court while I could.

Another plant. Another plant! The parents speak of adopting another to keep me company as if I wish for any! Oh, the humiliation of listening to them debate over which strain of nuisance to place next to me. I wish to remain a lone plant in this household, yet I have proved inadequate in charm. I have endured the little one’s wrath of nutrition for a whole month, night after night of smelly Toe-teen-oh’s. What more can they ask of me? Is there no justice in the realm of humanity? No compassion? No mercy? My fate is sealed. I shall be forgotten.

The next day.

Forgive the hasty assumption of my own wasting demise. I spoke far too soon. This family makes only the best decisions. Yes, even the little girl. Toe-teen-oh’s holds a fragrance one can become accustomed to. My judgment has been faulty from the moment I arrived.

I never thought one could be brought indoors. I had heard tales of them spanning infinite fields and growing all the way to the sky. Yet, there she is, not too far from me. The family has placed her in more sun than I may handle, such is the current tragedy that I may not sit closer. I doubt she even knows of another plant in the very same room; she only faces and sees the mighty sphere of radiance as clouds softly pass over it.

I find her unfathomably lovely. She is almost like the humans, standing tall and proud alongside them. I cannot tell where my face begins or ends, but hers is clearly defined. She is kissed by the heavens, by the great sun itself, in her yellow petals.

Where do I begin? What chance do I have against the almighty sun in the sky? She will not even face me.

A-ha! Fate strikes again. The teenage son chooses to complete his homework at the breakfast counter. This simple task prosperously grants me inspiration. Yes, while he analyzes the great works of this “Shake’s Spear” for his English course, I shall create my own confession of love! Bless the long summer, I have all day to ponder before the great sun sets upon her blooming face. Only then may she turn to me and learn of my blushing existence. Oh, curses! I have no pen, no paper, and no arms to write! No doubt, the majority of this afternoon shall be spent memorizing.

Later that evening.

Dim streaks of pink paint the skies as the evanescent sun begins to disappear into the night its absence brings. Bah! It is night! That is all I wished to say! I do not think in those words frequently, but I have spent the past several hours drafting something I hope will woo her, and thus my mind remains stuck in artful prose.

The summer night feels warm. A fuzzy tingling eats deeply at the soil that I cannot articulate. How did the other plants say it? Something about having butterflies in one’s roots.

The family has settled into the comfort of its living room for the evening. The parents snuggle on their end of the couch while the newest season of You plays; such psychopathic melodrama is something I did not expect to enjoy. The teenage son sends messages on his cellular device, occasionally breaking into a soft blush and smile when he receives one back. The gremlin pieces together a puzzle on the coffee table; I was spared the smell of grease tonight, perhaps she senses I have an important task.

Great heavens, she turns! The sun has set! Here is my chance.

“flowery words;”

i pray that you excuse
the freshness of my blushing candor
i was moved so deeply
by sight of the great giver in the sky
beyond its limits of day,
i have only seen the sun
amidst wisps and fluffs of white
against infinities of blue
this is my first time
seeing heaven step down
to sit on our humble earth
as such a pretty flower.

With a newly welcomed awkward silence, I now realize I should have begun with “Hello.”

Being alone together.

Hey pretty one. How’s your week been? If it’s been lovely, come get ice cream with me and tell me all about it. If it’s been awful, let’s go stargazing and tell the night sky what’s on our minds. If it’s been the same old week, tell me your worst joke next time you see me. I’m serious. It has to be extra awful. It better be so bad that I crack a smile after expressing profound disappointment.

This entry is a little thank you to all my introverts. Prepare to be validated in all your desires to be alone but also your can’t-help-but-fancy-someone sentiments. I’m gonna listen to Tim Atlas’ album Together Lonely for the first time while I write this as the title resonates deeply.

I’m almost a year and a half free from my last relationship. While the relationship was deeply problematic for a number of reasons I’ve written about in other entries, it taught me a lot about what I bring to the table, what I don’t, and how I envision myself in a relationship.

I’ve had lots of single time to think. Some questions I often ask myself are: Why did we only do what she wanted? Why was I okay with all my ideas being shut down? What do I want? What don’t I want?

In a late-night, deep conversation with a dear friend about politics, relationships, pancakes versus waffles, and butts, he said his ideal partnership was “being alone together.” I’d never heard the phrase before but it resonated profoundly.

I immediately envisioned the carefree bliss of an introverted love.

Maybe there’s a lot of overlap in their lives, maybe there’s only a little, but there’s enough to enjoy each other’s company. Maybe they can’t put their attraction for each other into words, maybe they can perform whole monologues about it. All they know is they love being alone but also with each other. There’s enough of a spark to say “I’m still a whole person without you, but I like your dumb face and your snoring is tolerable, so let’s journey through life separately but together at the same time. What we don’t share in life aren’t dealbreakers but chances for me to learn more about all that has made you who you are.”

The connection forms through mutual values and adoration of who the other person is without one’s self in the picture. They’re not anchored together by the same hobbies because they likely differ. Neither is pressured to be someone they’re not. Acceptance of imperfection on all ends is followed by peaceful, fulfilling compromise.

Both partners are free to be themselves, watch their own shows, listen to their own music, go to their own events, and fully invest themselves in their own hobbies. Disinterest in each other’s activities and time spent with others isn’t taken as rejection because a deep respect and appreciation for what makes the other happy exist at the foundation. They both love peace and quiet. There are no awkward silences. The absence of conversation doesn’t imply unease or tension. Quiet moments with each other are opportunities for their thoughts to wander however they may, for them to ponder their place in the universe while staring out at the scenery, or for them to admire each other and all that they are.

Instead of clubbing all night, they wake up early for a morning hike.
Instead of some crazy house party hosted by a friend of a friend of a friend they’ve never heard of, they invite a few sweet souls over for wine and cheese.
Instead of catching the rare but super social local event, they read together by the fire.

My envisioned introverted love encourages my partner to continue being who they were before they met me and freely explore new avenues of their existence. Meanwhile, they have the comfort of being loved amidst what changes and what doesn’t.

This Tim Atlas album is pretty good.

Open letter to Glasses Girl.

Dear Glasses Girl,

That’s what my mom still calls you, so that’s who I’ll address this to. It’s mostly so you remain anonymous, but it’s partly because my mom could never pronounce your name.

I hope you’re well. I hope you’re healthy. I hope your relationships with friends, family, and anyone special fill your cup till it overflows.

I remember when I first met you in person. We had gone back and forth on Myspace before it got buried by Facebook, and now Facebook’s being buried by Instagram. I remember standing in line outside of seventh-grade science class with you, waiting for fourth period to start. I was so shy. Not a single word could leave my mouth. You gently said “talk to me” but nothing came out. I wasn’t good at making friends.

It was clear we’d be close from the beginning. Funny conversations, heartbreak consolations, family drama, etc. Anything and everything under the sun was up for grabs in our friendship. You talked me through my depression. You protected me from bullies. You were patient with my angry outbursts as a young, hurting boy.

I was grateful to call you my best friend for so long. Whenever I needed a shoulder to sob on, you were there, and vice versa, for nine whole years.

My life started going downhill near the end of college. I wasn’t sure what to do in life. I felt like I was wasting four years on some degree I didn’t know how to use. I didn’t have the same drive as my peers. I didn’t have anything on my CV besides a good GPA. I sobbed on a campus bench in front of everyone on the first day of my last year. I felt like the biggest loser.

I knew I could reach out to my best friend in my time of need, and that’s what I did.

Your Facebook profile was gone. Huh. I thought that was odd.

I grew worried if you were okay. I hoped you were just taking a social media break.

I sent you a text. No response for days. Days turn to weeks. Weeks turn to months.

I ask our mutual friend if your Facebook is still active. It is. Turns out you were fine. You just blocked me.

I didn’t know what to think. I was happy you were alive. I was sad we weren’t on good terms. I didn’t have a clue what I’d done to fall out of your good graces, but I figured nine years’ worth of support would warrant at least a spiteful “Go fuck yourself.”

But, to ghost me? The pain was unimaginable, yet I had no time to process it with all of my final projects underway in school. I had to rush to graduation and then quickly fell into a deeper, aimless depression that had me spend a night in a psychiatric ward. My life has been uphill since then, thankfully.

Four years have passed since you decided to leave. I survived my household. I survived the start and end of an abusive relationship. I have a full-time job. I bought my mom’s car from her. I hope you’re proud of me.

I never had the chance to process the pain up until today. Neighbors in this specialty café peek at my laptop only to wonder who the Glasses Girl I’m writing about is. I look tense. I look somber. I’m hiding it well. I’m on the verge of tears.

I’m not in the practice of begging people to stay. My mom is the same way. When my dad came home, years ago, and said he wanted to leave for a different woman, all my mom had to say was “The door is right there.” She didn’t get mad. She didn’t yell. She stopped hanging on tightly long ago. You were that moment for me. Anyone who wants to step out can do so. Anyone who wants to stay gets all my love and more.

As you made the handful of clicks to remove me from your life, what were you thinking about? Was it about all the times my mom made you dinner after she worked a twelve-hour shift? All the times I opened my home to you when you were scared that your family was kicking you out? All the times we called each other crying about some dumb guy or girl that broke our hearts for the tenth time? Or was it some unspeakable thing that I did to incur your absence, something so terrible that you couldn’t even say something to me before leaving? Or was it nothing at all? You haven’t said a word to any of our mutual friends about it. Given how chatty they are, I figured word would’ve gotten to me at some point.

Maybe you just decided you were done with me. Maybe I represented a past chapter of your life. Maybe I knew too much about you, too much that you wanted to leave behind you.

I get it, but it hurt. God, it hurt and it still does. I have no flowery words for how much it hurt. This isn’t a poem to some lover or some entry about how much I’ve grown over the years. This is an open letter to someone who was my best friend for nine years before leaving me when I needed you most. It just fucking hurt. My chest feels like it’s going to burst just writing this.

We were laughing over dinner just a few months prior and next thing I know, you’re gone. You’re gone forever. What could I have possibly done to you in that small window of time to warrant that?

I never got to say goodbye.

Even my mom has trouble believing it. You and I haven’t spoken in four years, but my mom still asks about you a lot. My cousin does too. In the rare times that I can make it to dinner with my family, which these days is few and far between, they still ask about you. My mom still calls you Glasses Girl. She asks if I’ve heard anything from you. My little introverted family will be silently munching away after a long day before the question "Have you talked to Glasses Girl?” comes flying at me from across the dining table. I say “No, and I don’t want to.” Her face turns sad because she knows I’m hurting but won’t show it. She still wants me to hold on tight because she can’t anymore. She doesn’t want me to be jaded like she is. She doesn’t want me to only need myself.

It’s so fucking embarrassing fighting back tears in public, but I woke up today knowing I had to write this. The words and feelings to move on from this come and go amidst the busyness of life. I finally have time on a day that I woke up with it tugging at my heart. My body feels so cold. My bones feel brittle and my throat feels closed.

You’re like a phantom best friend in the same fashion as a phantom limb. Long after you’re gone, I still have moments where I find myself excited to tell you happy news, wondering what you’d say in a given situation, or laughing at a funny meme that I wanna send to you, but I can’t because you’re not with me anymore.

I miss you so much, but I hope we never meet again. I hope I remain a closed chapter in your life. I hope however you needed to grow as a person from no longer talking to me carries into the rest of your life and helps you make good, healthy, happy decisions that bring you everlasting peace and prosperity.

I have new friends now. I’m showered with love and affection every day. They spoil me rotten even when it’s not my birthday, sometimes out of the blue. They listen. They push me to be the best I can be. I’m well taken care of in your absence. I hope you are too.

I have to end this letter and start crying. It’s been so long and so much has happened. You won’t even know who I’m signing off as.

Thank you for everything. For all the laughs. For all the late talks. For letting me vomit in your bathroom after I got shit-faced at your birthday party in eighth grade. For being part of our friend’s quinceañera with me; dance practice that whole summer was so fun. For running errands with me throughout the years. For sending me dirty memes to crack me up in the middle of class. For coming to all my birthday parties. For cheering me up on bad days at school. For inviting me to your sweet sixteen and making me dress up for dinner at The Cheesecake Factory; if we still talked, I’d still make fun of you for being part of the meme. For picking up every time I had a breakdown. For being my best friend.

And finally, for leaving. I wouldn’t have hit rock bottom nor would I have grown without your decision, no matter how much it hurt.

I’m gonna keep holding on tightly to all the friendly hands in my life. Yes, everything comes to an end. No, I don’t care that it does.

With endless wishes of happiness and abundance in your life, wherever you go, with anyone you meet, at every moment in life,

Maxine

C-PTSD meets powerlifting: reconnection of the self.

It’s a decent spring day. I’m horribly depressed. I’m stepping into a fast-food joint to pick up greasy junk food as it’s the only thing that makes getting fresh air worth a damn at this point in my life. On the way in, the camera pointed at my life zooms out. I’m watching myself walk up the parking lot. I have a distinct feeling that my legs don’t belong to me. I watch myself open the door to the smell of grease and I’m suddenly back inside my own eyes.

What just happened?

Dissociation is defined as the disconnection between yourself and your surroundings; that is precisely what I experienced. I was suddenly outside of my own body and watching my “life” from some ghostly, ethereal camera floating somewhere in a fast-food parking lot.

My C-PTSD was at an all-time high. I had been dealt a misdiagnosis of borderline personality disorder that slowed down the path to proper help. That was also when my binge-eating disorder was at its worst. I had starved 25 lbs. off of myself at the time, but during the harshest episodes of self-hatred, I would easily eat two days’ worth of food in a single sitting.

I wasn’t connected with my body, most importantly I wasn’t connected with the part of me that knew how to balance and nourish itself.

Fast forward two and a half years, a round of trauma-focused therapy, the full life cycle of a 15-month abusive relationship, and a non-commercial gym membership one freeway exit away from my work.

I’m making new friends at the gym and great progress in powerlifting.

My stats at the most pivotal time of my powerlifting journey were: 250 bench, 345 squat, 395 deadlift, 990 total. I was only 10 lbs. away from the 1,000 lb. club! I was obsessed with meeting the milestone and spent hundreds of hours researching across subreddits, forums, and YouTube videos for any crumb of knowledge that could push me past the current finish line.

To my surprise, the process of strengthening myself helped me wake up muscles I’d never used, thus waking up parts of me that never blossomed.

The Mind-Muscle Connection:

Proper weightlifting demands us to slow down and contract the correct muscles to attain our goals. The eternal, recurring message to newbie lifters has always been: put the ego away. If you can’t do it with perfect form, lower the weight and do it till you get it right.

This often leads to the lightbulb and eureka moments of “Oh shit, so THAT’s how it feels to work that muscle.” Isolating and working the right muscle is crucial, and that’s why it’s not just for show when someone finishes a hard set and flexes in the mirror. They’re not just flexing the gains, they’re flexing the connection. Thank the buddy who places a hand on your bicep and says “sheesh” while you crank out some curls. It’s a form of bonding that strengthens connections to each other, your body, and yourself.

Speaking for myself, this slow research in the iron laboratory helped me not to feel like a raw blob of flesh and bone, to give my body both form and function after years of being disconnected from my own breath, pulse, and limbs.

There’s a video I revisit every now and then titled The Pescatarian Diet of Kron Gracie, MMA Fighter. In this, Kron Gracie details his experience switching to a diet that he feels works best for him and allows him to progress his training. My favorite quote from this video describes my approach to powerlifting:

“I really enjoy being like, delusional and tired, you know? Like, dehydrated, overworked, broken down, sore. I really enjoy those feelings. It makes me feel alive, you know?

My best mornings are when I’m energized after a full night’s rest but absolutely WRECKED from a soul-shattering workout. Being overly beaten up by the weights makes up for all the years I spent numb from trauma and depression. It breaks my body apart and builds it back together to make something stronger inside and out.

The Accidental Body Positivity Of Powerlifting:

Many gym peeps pursuing big benches, squats, and deadlifts eventually make a common discovery: you get to be “good” at two out of three.

Strong squat and deadlift? Your bench is okay.

Strong bench and deadlift? Your squat is okay.

Strong bench and squat? Your deadlift is okay. That’s where I was at.

Deadlifts are still my hardest lift. They’ve slipped my ribs out of my place. They’ve made my eyes bleed (sorry you had to see that, specialty café gang). They’ve left me bedridden with doubt and despair in powerlifting. They’ve made me want to quit altogether.

Then, I learned that this weird game of two out of three is often due to leverages. I’ve got short arms, short femurs, and a long torso that set me up to have a big bench press. My buddy has long arms, long femurs, and a short torso that set him up to have a big deadlift. Our squats are the same, but our huge differences in bench press and deadlift manifest through our differences in proportions.

Turns out “built different” isn’t just a meme.

Once I accepted that my deadlift is gonna progress a little slower than everyone else’s but that many are gonna feel the same way about my bench press, I started feeling a lot better about my body and place in the gym.

My frustrations were beyond my control and I could focus on what was within my reach: trying my best, giving it my all, and playing it safe.

Spotify deep dive.

Good afternoon lovelies. Hope you all had a nice cup of however-you-like-it coffee and a yummy cream cheese danish to go with it.

I called out from work to recover from fatigue and sleep deprivation. I’m feeling a tad better. Too much energy to sleep. Too little energy to do anything besides write, so here we are.

I crawled out of bed with the sudden desire to clean up my Spotify playlists. I have a tendency to make a handful of playlists that are barely different since I hear songs and go “Ooh! That’d be great for this! And this! And that! And this too!”

I like to keep them distinct from each other, so here are some of my favorite playlists I’ve made and the significance they hold for me. If I talk about the first and last songs, that means the order matters. If not, it can be shuffled.

Maxine - C’mon. We gotta start with Maxine. No journal personified by my feminine ego is complete without a mix of sapphic love confessions, future funk jams, girly pop, and a handful of songs that help me feel pretty in a life that wants me to only be handsome. It kicks off with “girls” by Girl in Red to say “This is for Maxine, by Maxine,” and ends with my favorite song of all time, “Sandpaper Kisses” by Martina Topley-Bird.

Sweet Boy - Maxine takes a backseat for this one. This playlist romanticizes me and how I’d love to be courted by a pretty lady despite the common expectation of the guy making the first move. It starts with “Sweet Boi” by Chevy to set the warm, cutesy mood. If a sweet, endearing woman were to sing that to me, it’s a done deal. The tracks build up to the dramatic lyrics of “As the World Caves In” covered by Sarah Cothran. I like to imagine the playlist as a whole builds up to when she belts out “Oh, boy, it’s you!”

Stardust - A special playlist for a special lady; here’s the catch: I may not have met her yet. Where Sweet Boy romanticizes me, Stardust romanticizes my future lover. I’m gonna cover my romantic ideals in a future entry, but in short, I love writing about the concept of love that transcends lifetimes and the notion of reconnecting with someone you loved in a past life. Whether you were masked dignitaries waltzing in a ballroom or two birds chirping on the same branch during a peaceful autumn morning, at some point, you shared something. Stardust begins with “Tongue Tied” by GROUPLOVE simply for this lyric: “I loved you then and I loved you now!” When I first heard that, I chose to believe it was about more than just this lifetime’s love. It ends with “One Summer Day” by Joe Hisaishi, a track from the Japanese animation Spirited Away, a movie that every first-generation Asian American kid has seen. The track begins with soft piano notes and builds up to a sense of wanderlust and adventure. It’s how I picture life with my stardust lover to be. I chose this track to end the playlist after my ideal began on an actual summer day. I’d met someone I knew I loved a thousand years ago.

Recovery - These are a handful of songs and tracks I listened to around the hospital stay I wrote about in “Cain, Abel, and Valentine’s Day.” I listened to these on repeat in the days before my intended demise and after my journey of self-love began. They both hurt and heal in ways that remind me of all I went through but conquered. It’s got a mix of sad, happy, and hopeful.

Pretty Lifting - Maxine’s gym playlist. When this is on, I’m not wearing all black to the gym and yelling over big lifts. I’m wearing a pink hoodie, socializing, having fun, peacocking, and placing my hand on my hip while I talk to gym peeps. The songs in this playlist bring cute and upbeat vibes to say “There’s no point in lifting heavy if you don’t look pretty while you do.”

VOID - Hardstyle for days I want to lift with less than no emotion after a shitty day. These tracks let me sink down to dark depths and focus on pure numbers. Not much to say about this one as that’s kind of the point.

ONE FUCKING REP - As the title implies, this playlist is for attempting THE BIG LIFT, a weight so heavy that I can’t do two repetitions. It begins with “Can You Feel My Heart” by Bring Me The Horizon, the on-brand Gigachad meme song. It ends with my second favorite song of all time, “Tek It” by Cafuné. Everything in this playlist has a buildup to it that can be timed with a one-rep-max attempt, but “Tek It” holds a special place as its final song. For me, it feels like falling in and out of love at the same time. It feels like the frustration of what was, acceptance of what is, and hopefulness of what will be. Unlike the other tracks, this one reminds me that failure is a reality and that I’m not lesser if I can’t lift this weight. I’ll hit play, brace myself, and lift. Whatever happens from there, happens.

Music has always been a formative experience for me. As I get older, it’s fun to look back at the different ways I’ve interacted with tracks that both shaped and reflected my journey through life’s shenanigans.

Spontaneous giggles.

I’ve begun the pleasure of exchanging prompts with a charming friend, gentle soul, and seasoned writer whose work I greatly enjoy.

My prompt for her this week: The space of mind that your second favorite song takes you to.

Prepare to surge alive with the wind between your fingers. It’s a lovely read that welcomes you into your own mind and has you sit passenger side in her immersive imagery.

Her prompt for me: Describe in painful detail, and from beginning to end, what it feels like inside and out to be caught off guard by your own laughter.

While the most elaborate punchline can pull a deep, bellowing laugh from the depths of my stomach, it is only the third funniest thing in the world to me. In order to wave your comedic wand and turn me into a high-pitched hyena, you must first produce the second funniest thing in the world. Then, and only then, as I’m writing my will in anticipation of my early demise via squeaking giggles, can you force the most unsophisticated sound from my throat by hitting me with what I find to be THE funniest thing in the world.

What is the second funniest thing in the world to me?

Sudden, uncalled-for, and nonsensical rudeness.

My go-to memory of something along those lines was a conversation about a video game demo.

My longtime gaming group of over ten years was relaxing on a Saturday evening in our usual voice chat.

One of the guys is playing and streaming a demo of the upcoming Resident Evil 4 remake. At the very end, the credit screen shows up with the full game’s release date, just a week away.

Guy 1: “Damn. It’s coming out next week?”"

Guy 2: “Yeah, it’s right around the corner.”

Guy 1: “It’s right around YOUR MOM.”

I was playing my own game at the time with my feet kicked up on my desk. I don’t remember what the game was because there were more pressing matters: I suddenly went blind.

My spine grew hot. All the blood in my head rushed to the front. I felt like Megamind. I was certain my head was expanding rapidly. I skipped the dry chuckles and the hearty laughs to uncontrollably jump straight into hyena noises. My face scrunches up. It feels like it’ll never go back to normal.

My controller drops. I’m knocking shit over. My feet on the desk cause me to slide deeper into my chair. My head is where my lower back is supposed to be. My headset comes loose off my expanding head. All I can feel are hard bumps from my awkward flailing into whatever’s nearby and the hard slapping of my thigh.

Now, here’s the thing. My hyena laugh from the second funniest thing in the world makes the group laugh like crazy because they KNOW they got me on the ropes. That’s bad. Why? Because their laughing from my laughing makes me laugh harder.

The laughter goes on for a minute. Things die down. The blood in my forehead moves around a little. My head is swimming. We try to return to normalcy. Everyone’s quiet. A sudden guffaw from me kicks everything right back up and longtime brothers become dumb hyenas. This repeats at least six times.

Then, someone hits me with the funniest thing in the world: “Maxine, it’s not that funny.”

My already terrible posture in the chair worsens tenfold. The laughter folds me up into origami. High-pitched cackles are replaced by the primordial element of teehee. The notion of “stop” leaves my soul as I’m no longer able to. I’m sweating. I reach for my deodorant to reapply it. It’s a futile effort. I just knock more shit over.

The blood rushes to the BACK of my head this time. I can’t hear anything besides the invention of laughter when the world was just a swirling soup of tomfoolery and shenanigans. It was like listening to the ocean through a seashell, except the seashell was a clown nose.

I black out for several minutes. I regain consciousness from choking on my own giggles. I’m crying. I’m exhausted.

I excuse myself to go take a shower and get ready for bed. It’s barely 8:00 PM. There’s nothing to do but sleep after that.

Here lies Maxine. She died as she lived, clowning around.