One more week

After next week, I am done with instructing. On top of everything else that’s been happening, I feel like teaching is becoming overwhelming. It was once the one thing I looked forward to. I’ve been teaching and/or tutoring for almost a decade now and it’s a shame to see the passion shrink into nothing.

I dread going to each class. I hate interacting with the students. I want to leave as soon as I can. I feel like I’m not making a difference or helping at all, which makes me a worse instructor, which then consolidates the idea that I am not making a difference or helping at all.

I should have known this was coming. Last year towards the end of the last semester, I began burning out fast. I was having panic attacks in the lab and had to have some of my classes cancelled. I keep telling myself that there’s only ONE MORE WEEK, but the thought of that one week is daunting.

I tell myself I can make it, but there’s a growing voice in my head asking, “can you, though?”

I used to love teaching. It breaks my heart that I feel this way. I always prided myself as being someone who enjoys helping others learn and see how exciting learning can be. Now I feel like I’ve lost that. I’m not really sure what kind of person  I am anymore. I don’t know if I can make this one last week.


I always downplay my pain. I encounter stress and then adjust my baseline instead of dealing with the stress. Then it piles higher and higher and when I finally break, I’m left wondering why. Now I’m just numb and unsure of how I really feel anymore.

In my head I was fine. Then all of a sudden I have all this anxiety. I can’t fall or stay asleep. I’m completely isolated from all my friends. I talk to nobody. How did I get here? (See beginning).

April 2015

Dear you,

You told me to call you whenever I needed someone to talk to. The only person I wanted to talk to today was with you. You told me you felt unwell last night, and I tried to make you smile. At 7pm I texted you. No reply. At 10pm I texted you again. No reply. I didn’t sleep last night just in case you called. I could have been there for you. But no, you swallowed a bunch of pills and ended up in the hospital. I could have been there for you. Yes, I’m angry. But I also understand. I hope you get the help you need. I’ll always be there for you. I wish you knew that.

– N

Journal entry, 11pm.

I’m sad. Sad I couldn’t be there for you. I feel so helpless. Part of me feels guilty even though I know there’s really only so much I could have done.

I’m angry. Angry that you had so much support while I stayed silent. I hid my pain, it was my fault. But I can’t help but think that your pain is valid while I’m just a psycho.

I’m angry that my visit to the hospital was horrible. He knew I was BPD therefore I’m a faker. My pain isn’t real.

I cried for you this morning. I lashed out and screamed at my mom until my voice went hoarse. And then I cried some more. I wanted to cut so badly. I took my own advice and went for a run. I left the house as the sun began to set. I ran. I held back tears and I ran for as long as I could. Ran until my throat burned from gasping for breath and my legs trembled. I walked and stumbled upon the field while wandering through previously unexplored paths. I went into the middle of the field and sat. I just wanted to talk to you. I was so mad. I was so desensitized and apathetic and unempathetic, yet helpless. Yet my heart ached for you. I fell back and laid there for a while, as the sky went dark. I laid down and let myself cry. I’m home now and I feel like I can’t cope with the pain. I want my own pills to knock me out, just for tonight.

Sadness and anger…

Today I talked about the trauma openly with a therapist. Talking about the first incident was the hardest. It easier as I recounted the next incident. She pointed out there was something new she saw in me. Not quite anger, no longer fear.


Confidence in myself. In knowing that he was the one who was wrong. Confidence that only blooms out of 7 years of suffering and buried pain.

And behind the confidence, there stood sadness and anger, interlocked. Sadness for the naive girl who was manipulated, overpowered and lied to. Anger towards the boy who stole her innocence with his selfish ways.

I am forgiving myself. I never did anything wrong. This was not my fault.

Checking the facts

“One of the hardest battles we fight is between what we know and what we feel.”

We are always told to check the facts. But even if you know the facts, it’s hard to push our feelings and thoughts away. Especially when they’re so deeply ingrained in us. When you live half of your life believing you’re not good enough, worthless, or undeserving of love, it’s difficult to accept the facts. It’s tough to accept everything that’s proving your assumptions wrong, even if they are right in front of your face. Checking the facts is great. But it’s unhelpful if your emotions constantly get in the way.

Healing is pain; pain is healing

It seems counter intuitive, doesn’t it? Isn’t healing supposed to make things better? When in reality, the steps we take to facilitate healing can be very painful. If you’ve ever cleaned a scraped knee, you’ll remember the pain of having to touch the open wound. But in the end, this is to facilitate the healing process.

These words by @jennagalbut revealed a lot to me about my own healing process. For so long, painful memories were hidden in the shadows, where I didn’t have to look at them. The problem with this is they would jump out at me when I least expect it.

Since starting treatment for my PTSD, I’ve been even more so on edge and anxious. I thought that the treatment was making things worse. I wanted to quit. To shove all the painful thoughts back into the dark instead of facing them in the light. But I am trying to remind myself – it gets worse before it gets better.


I finally found someone who I love and who loves me back, and of course he lives thousands of kilometres away. This sucks. Long distance sucks. Why do these things always happen to me?


I finally found someone who I love and loves me back. It’s the kind of love I’ve always dreamed about, and despite the thousands of kilometres between us, we’re both willing to make it work. I found someone who will go through this pain with me because he loves me.

Music, to me

Music is extremely important to me, as it is to so many people. People love music for so many reasons, and here’s why I love it so much.

Music says the words I want to say, but in a much more beautifully elegant way. Just the fact that there is the instrumentals, harmonies, melodies, and all the little nuances there make it much more beautiful to me than if I were to say the words or write the words myself.

Not to mention, if you add in the fact that I’m an extremely sensitive soul and I can be moved to tears by a huge variety of music, music is a recipe for me becoming a puddle on the floor.

So when I make you a playlist, I am baring my soul. I know people are deterred if they don’t like a genre or an artist, but for me the music and lyrics speak beyond those small details.

I’ve always been very sensitive about my music taste. Well, I’m sensitive in general. Growing up playing music and letting it heal me has fostered a very deep connection for me. Singing songs that speak to my heart has fostered a deep connection with many songs.

I want to share my love, but I am so afraid because of how sensitive I am. Sometimes I think, how pathetic. How weak. But more often I’d rather think, how lucky. Extreme emotional sensitivity is a blessing and a curse, depending on how you look at it. How fortunate that I can be so moved by music in a way that some people simply cannot fathom. I am grateful.