For the last ten weeks, I made a goal to write and illustrate ten blogs. I’m proud to say that I actually stuck it out! Now that this goal is complete, I won’t be keeping up with a regular schedule for my writing but will still be posting when the urge calls. Thank you to whoever reads these and stay tuned! : )

I recently downloaded Tinder and Hinge for the first time to see what was out there. I have no intention of talking to anyone anytime soon as I’m terrified of getting murdered, let alone talking to a stranger online who lives nearby (just having my picture up for others to see is scary enough). Besides, even with my eight-year desire to go on a date, I know I’m probably not ready for a relationship with my struggle to set boundaries and communicate. Despite all of this, however, I’ve been checking the apps compulsively to see if anyone responded to my profiles. It’s awful to admit, but it gives me my fix of male validation.

From fifteen onward, I’ve had about four major crushes: a guitar-playing high school senior, a friend I was “one of the guys” to, a Japanese clubmate who liked to hold my hand, and a friend I was “one of the guys” to: the sequel. All of these lasted at least a year with multiple episodes of me stalking them on social media in my adulthood. Despite being literally in love with these people, I had no desire for them physically, but rather an urge to be in their vicinity as much as possible (bonus points if I liked them looks-wise). Ruminating to a friend two years ago, I wrote, “was I attracted to them romantically/sexually or did they just have cool facial features?’”

Despite all of these major crushes being male, I would go down a spiral of questioning my sexuality as it was being questioned and assumed by family and friends alike. It took until I was 22 to realize that I was so obsessed with questioning if I liked women that I never considered to question if I even liked men.

A couple of months after I graduated college, I learned that I was asexual. I initially assumed that the way I crushed on people was a common matter of preference rather than sexuality. I was aware that a percentage of people see a pretty person and want to get into their pants, but I knew that another percentage would want to ask them out on a date and have sex later on. I placed myself in the latter category as I assumed that the desire for sex would just naturally happen.

I’ve wanted a relationship for years, and I assumed that the generic elements would just happen: romantic dates, cuddling, passionate kisses, sex, and a unique connection with another human being that’s only reserved for you (if it’s monogamous). However, when the thought of actually acting on these feelings came up, I couldn’t picture myself consenting to it, crush or not. What scares me is that now, I can no longer guarantee what my future relationship will look like, despite yearning for a picture-perfect rom-com situation for years.

If I don’t actually want a “normal” relationship deep down, then why am I still searching for one on dating apps?

As a recovering pick-me, it’s obvious. As I approached middle school, I fell into the phase that many little girls go into where you try to present as “not like other girls.” At this point, I was a master at pushing femininity away as inferior and bragging about how I was like “one of the guys:” watching gory anime, rejecting wearing cakes of makeup or wearing slutty clothing (I was eleven), and definitely didn’t obsess over boys (yet).

While I always had girl best friends from middle school onward, I found friendships with boys as this rarer, grander experience. I think it was this strange heteronormative belief I had that if I had a male friend, it meant that there was a chance of a relationship blooming (as if lesbians don’t exist). I took it as a point of pride in my younger years to be friends with boys since girls were “too much drama,” and I still catch myself falling back into that mindset. Mix that in with daddy/brother issues and a fear of men that many women understand, and it’s a toxic mindset to be in.

Now, despite realizing that I have no use for male validation, I still seek it out anyway.

When I started my part-time job in March, I realized that I hadn’t had a crush in a while. Immediately, I wondered if my male coworker I closed with or any of the male gymgoers our age could be a future husband in the making. It’s been six months and I’ve felt nothing, much to my embarrassment. It really sunk in that I have a problem.

My era of internalized misogyny has tampered down in recent years. I do my best to not shame my girl friends for liking feminine things as I would back in middle and high school, and I even allow myself to watch and read romances now. Though I still have a soft spot for my favorite violent media, I can’t stomach it as much as I used to; my theory is that I can’t handle it after years of pretending I could handle anything. Following more women on social media who aren’t afraid of showing their “girly” interests has also shown me that it’s not anything to be ashamed of and that indulging in those things doesn’t take away any of their strength or likeability as a person.

Regardless, I know I still have heaps of work to do. A recent idea I had was to really dive into the things I refused to approach when I was younger as some sort of reverse pick-me boot camp. Maybe I’ll start with listening to One Direction.

When I landed in Michigan that morning, I was assigned one of the guestrooms in the family house. The sofa in this room had sheets that my aunt neatly tucked in, and I was pleasantly surprised to see a clean towel and washcloths folded on the lounge to its left. I hadn’t been a guest anywhere in a long time, so I assumed that I brought my own.

I plugged my charger into the easiest outlet and lay on my temporary bed, careful as to not disrespect my aunt’s sheets nor to obscure any of the clutter that was strewn about this spare room’s floor.

My uncle, who was also crashing in the house in the next room, greeted me with a wide smile and joked about how I’ll be needing therapy after hanging out with these “crazy people” (my dad, his six living siblings, and their descendants) for the next four days. After about an hour, I finally fell asleep, surprised that I felt at home.

I hadn’t visited Michigan since 2018, but I was surprised by the amount of hospitality and love I felt from my dad’s side: hugs and kisses on the cheek, offering me clothes to take home, including me in conversations and even jokes, asking if I ate enough…

I didn’t know I needed this.

My mom’s side of the family, who I’ve been raised by, is small and withdrawn. Our holiday get-togethers consisted of eight people, mostly due to distance (my uncle and cousin, the furthest family members, being thirty minutes away), and over the years, less and less effort was put into our gatherings until they became practically nonexistent. It was too much work for my mother and grandmother to prepare food, and why organize an event for a holiday we’re all too old for now or no longer celebrate? Couldn’t we go to a restaurant? Or do nothing? Do we even like each other enough to put forth that much effort?

My cousin and I were the last generation in our family to be a part of these gatherings. Our last get-together was during the pandemic where we met in a plaza parking lot and made socially distant small talk.

My mother’s mantra is the opposite of my father’s “family is everything” and far more bleak: “blood can cross you quicker than a stranger.” Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, the latter was often proven for me. Addictions, years of emotional abuse, suicide, estrangements, abandonments, and betrayals broke down the already fraying ties of immediate and extended family. My mother has been the only one I could 100 percent trust while the rest of my family, time and time again, disappointed.

Now, I was in a completely different state to spend time with the family I see once every few years and see the joy, tight sibling dynamics, and overall bonding that I have not seen back home for years.

That Saturday of my trip was the family reunion. My father, who was hosting, had been grilling meat in the hot sun for hours over a two-day period. Three of my aunts prepared the sides and double-checked the tableware to attendees ratio.

Now an adult, this is the most involved I’ve ever been on my dad’s side. I helped load everything into the rental van, and we drove to the community center. With a large multipurpose space and commercial kitchen, this building has been rented out by my family for years for various events, including my high school graduation party. We unloaded the food and other supplies into the kitchen, reheated the barbeque Dad prepared the day before in the oven, and set the tables and chairs.

When the flood of family, friends, and family friends entered the building, I volunteered to help serve the food alongside my aunts. I was in charge of seeing who raised their hand first during trivia. I held two babies whom I did not know nor was I sure that I was even related to. I made small talk with random relatives(?).

Who was I?

In contrast to my mom’s side, I didn’t understand my dad’s side and their commitments to family reunions and family group chats and family trips and family meetings. I chalked it up to it being that his family was perfect in every way and had no issues. Along with this, being around Black people who weren’t the seven people back in the Pacific Northwest (granted, a diverse part of the PNW) also didn’t help me feel like I belonged. My dad and his siblings are accustomed to the midwestern side of Black culture and are a lot more social than I am on my best day. They all seemed to just get it and each other.

Ruminating on if I was Black enough or if I was family-oriented enough every time I came here, I didn’t notice that I always had a seat at the table until this trip.

Before the rush of people came in for the reunion, I sat with my more introverted aunt and bonded over not liking large crowds in the quieter section of the community center. It was nice to know it wasn’t just me.

When six o’clock rolled around, everyone pitched in to clean up and stack the chairs and tables. With the help, it took only twenty minutes.

I was only in Michigan for four days, but it felt like home. I hadn’t seen this much Black joy in a long time, which I simultaneously loved and envied.

However, as an adult, I’ve now been able to be around “grown folks’ business.” During my graduation party five years ago, I got a peek of dysfunction when one of my aunts handed my gift box full of cash back to me after leaving it by its lonesome for a few minutes. That wouldn't slide at home, but I assumed Dad’s side could be trusted.

“Don’t do that!” she said. “We got people who’d wait for you to leave it alone like that.”

Since then, my knowledge of family drama and dysfunction on my dad’s side has gradually grown over the years.

I just know now that they choose love instead.

With free movie tickets that I received from an old friend in 2016, I would take myself out to see Barbie (2023). I had always wanted to go on a solo date (or even a real date; I had two) to the movies using these tickets, but the time to use them, the movie I wanted to see, and other imaginary terms and conditions just never felt “right.” Since the beginning of the year and watching Tam Kaur on YouTube, I had sworn to take myself to the movies.

However, I couldn’t just go to the movies; that would be ridiculous. I had to do as much with my day as possible or else I was just wasting gas to go somewhere nonessential. Going to the movies wasn’t a good enough reason to leave the house if something bad were to happen. With my route planned to go to the gym and run errands before heading to the theater by 12:30, along with some pep talk, I was out the door.

After making my first stop at the local Les Schwab to fill my tires, I continued my route to the gym where I both work and work out at. I joined the one-way traffic gracefully and made my way to the plaza it resided in. This road is horrifically busy during the day, and even with the change in the speed limit, I always catch myself anxiously going 5 under.

As the right-turn lane to enter the plaza was within my line of sight, a van directly left of me began trying to merge into my lane.

I beeped my horn a few times to catch the driver’s attention.

Phew, that was close, I thought. That could’ve been bad- wait why are they not stopping?

With a few more panicked beeps to no avail, the van bumped my driver’s side.

I followed the van into the plaza, taking photos of the license plate with shaky hands. When we parked, neither of us got out of our cars. I didn’t see who was driving the car. What if they were crazy and trying to pick a fight using their vehicle? That would explain why they ignored my car horn. Besides, you shouldn’t admit or accuse fault anyway so it’s best that we don’t interact. I decided to stay inside while I attempted to (incorrectly) file an insurance claim.

Once I was able to use my brain, I walked over to the van to get their insurance information. I looked through the windows and wondered if there were self-driving vans out yet because no one was inside.

Backing away, I decided to look at the damage the van caused. The paint was scuffed off in two places on the rear door, the longest scratch being about six inches. Not bad. I took photos for my insurance anyway and got back in the car.

I continued filling out my claim before I saw an eighty-something-year-old woman walk out of one of the stores in the plaza and toward the van.

Surely that’s not the driver, I thought. I looked back at my phone and from the corner of my eye saw the van’s reverse lights shine.

I hopped back out of my car and waved down the perpetrator whose van was now braked in the middle of the parking lot. The old woman hesitated before rolling down her window.

“It’s okay!” she said. “Don’t worry, it’s okay! It’s okay!”

“Are you okay?” I stammered giving an inquisitive thumbs up.

“Yes, I’m okay! It’s okay!”

“Alright…” I waved as she rolled her window up and drove off.

I moved to a parking spot closer to the gym’s door. I sat in my car for two hours, finally finding the correct form to file my claim, calling the police department after my father’s advice, and being told what I should have done by both of them.

“You should’ve called the police immediately after the accident, no matter how minor. You should’ve gotten her information, too. The most you can do now is file a police report online.”

After a quick crying session, I finally made it into the gym with some time to only run on the treadmill for a bit.

This is what happens when I try to go out for myself.

I always assumed that if I got in a car accident, I wouldn’t ever want to drive again. Granted, I hate driving and have always fantasized about living somewhere where I only have to depend on a bus or a train, but after my post-workout clarity, I reminded myself that the minor fender bender wasn’t my fault and that thankfully no one was hurt. I felt comfortable enough to continue my day.

I was still going to see Barbie.

I was running late for the afternoon showing, and while running “late” to the movies usually means that you missed some of the previews, I haven’t gone to the theater enough to verify this. The last movie I watched in theaters before I met my current group of friends was Moana (2017), then was followed by Dune (2021). Besides, what if there was a movie trailer I would be interested in seeing (spoiler alert: there wasn’t, really)?

I remembered that there was a theater at the mall near my house, and after a quick search, they were also playing Barbie in another hour. Though I hoped to drive to the further theater to challenge myself a bit more, this felt like the better option.

I just got in an accident, I’d let myself have this.

I was happy to find out that my seven-year-old tickets still worked and I chose an aisle seat just in case we needed to evacuate the theater from the list of possible emergencies that could happen. After an hour of shopping at the mall’s Target, I went back to the theater, ordered a $10 room-temperature popcorn, and made my way to Auditorium 6.

This movie theater in my hometown’s mall has been around since I was a little girl. With how rundown the entrance was, I was surprised to learn that it was still in business. When I used to go to the movies with my family, we would go here, and while I don’t remember the look of the theater or the feel of the seats or the bathroom’s early 2000s interior design, it still scratched my nostalgic itch as it was apparent that nothing was updated.

Being about ten minutes early, I was the first one inside the dead silent auditorium which still had all the lights on. I sat down and was happy to see that if anything were to happen, I could make a beeline toward the exit door next to the screen.

I immediately got out of my seat as I worried that I was in the wrong auditorium. There were two doors when I walked up to the auditorium. Do auditoriums usually have two doors? The sign said Auditorium 6. What if this is, like… 6B?

I passed two teenagers entering the auditorium on my way out and entered through the opposite door. I was met by the same two teens on the right side of the same auditorium.

“Oh, it’s the same… one,” I stammered. They said nothing. I quietly walked back to my seat.

When the lights finally dimmed down and the previews began, there were about seven people scattered around the auditorium. I ate the majority of my popcorn during this time, but only during the louder or more cringe-worthy parts of the previews in case my chewing could be heard across the entire building. When the lights gave their cue that the movie was starting and dimmed even more, I settled into my seat.

I’m finally doing it.

I missed the bus I hoped to catch. My mother, still recovering from her shoulder surgery and insisting that she drive with her one functioning hand, anxiously drove through rush hour traffic to the bus station in the next town. Thankfully, with my crippling fear of being late, I wanted to get to the airport at least three hours early. I had plenty of time.

For the last five minutes before the next bus arrived, my mother stood outside with me. We embraced as it pulled up and I hauled my thick backpack and tote bag onto the shuttle.

This was my first time traveling to Michigan in five years, and my first time navigating an airport alone. With no plans this summer and a strange desire to go out of town to interact with relatives that I barely talk to, I really had no excuse to not attend this year’s family reunion.

The bus isn’t crowded in the slightest, giving me ample breathing room. Thankfully, I’m wearing a mask to block some of the stale smell of body odor and cigarettes.

I insisted I take the bus the rest of the way as being in a small car for over half an hour on the interstate already felt stressful. I thought about how complex and winding airport parking lots are and how rushed I’d feel grabbing my stuff and making a beeline inside the building. Plus, my mother would have to drive all the way back alone. Being an avid bus rider for years before I had my first car (and even then, I still rode the bus to university), the bus is more familiar and feels like the driver has more authority over the road with this tank of a vehicle. Besides, if anything were to happen accident-wise, I’m at least not the one responsible. I’d crash in a car, but I’d get there safely on a bus, my brain likes to say.

As we entered the highway, my anxiety melted away. How strange, I thought. After I agreed to go and my father bought my ticket, I was sweating about this trip. What if the plane crashes? What if I get lost and I get snatched away by some rando? What if the flight gets canceled and I have to stay in the airport until morning? Even as Mom and I waited in the parking lot, I joked about how I’d feel confident about the trip then immediately slip on the bus steps and crack my head open.

But that didn’t happen, and I do feel okay.

During the last five minutes of the bus ride, I checked my phone’s map obsessively to make sure I was getting off at the last stop. I would zoom in and out on the route to quadruple-check that the last stop was indeed the last stop. Granted, if it wasn’t, it was probably a couple of steps away from where I needed to be. However, what if the wrong stop was barren of witnesses if I get suffocated with a chloroform-soaked rag?

I got off at the last stop, and I followed the map that I had studied for the last two weeks. I would go straight ahead down the arrivals side for about six minutes, cross at the crosswalk, and enter the departure side. Easy enough.

Down about two of the six minutes, my path was blocked by a construction zone. Thankfully, a sky bridge connected the two sides of the airport, and I entered the arrivals building and hopped on an escalator. At the sky bridge’s entrance were a man and a woman on each side, both of which had a bookstand of gospel tracts, one in English and the other in Spanish.

I passed by the two and crossed the sky bridge to see that it led to the parking garage. An elevator down to the first floor probably would have led me to the departure side, but I didn’t want to get too lost if I was wrong and turned back. Then, I crossed again… Then I turned back, ignoring the evangelists staring at me with lifted brows. For an ex-Christian who was lost and frantically going back and forth across the sky bridge, seeing these two at the entrance like two knights guarding the gates of Heaven was slightly intimidating.

Eventually, I accepted that I probably needed help. I found the first employee who did not look like they were in a hurry to somewhere else and asked her how to get to where I needed to go. She led me up two floors on the arrivals side and directed me toward my airline section. I would not have figured that out on my own.

After hesitating to ask another employee if I just got in any TSA line if I checked in early, I joined the queue, thankfully, at a good time; once I was halfway down, the wait time on the screen increased from twenty to forty-five minutes.

TSA is a strange liminal space where it’s common knowledge that the agents aren’t the nicest people. Kind, maybe, but when it’s 8 pm and there’s a consistent horde of people, it’s pretty understandable that the agent won’t be super patient with you. I threw my bag, backpack, and iPad in one bin, completely bypassing the agent’s instructions to not stack my belongings and to put large electronics in a separate bin. It’s not that I wasn’t listening; I was just so frazzled that I thought that he’d much rather me be wrong than be slow.

“Let me fix this,” he sighed. I chuckled nervously.

I was prepared to have to pay $30 for something as small as a mini bagel, but I at least hoped the food spots in the airport would be open 24 hours. Two hours before my flight (which was now delayed), I slowly perused the food options on my floor. Once I made my decision that I really wanted a sandwich, they were closing. I went to my second choice, and they were closing.

I finally settled on a bar and grill.

“We’ll have you be our last one before we close,” the waitress smiled. “You can sit at the bar if you’d like.”

I’ve never sat at a bar before. I decided that I wasn’t going to be that person that has them make me a full meal before they close, so I settled on ordering a $13 clam chowder. It was too warm for it, but I was happy with anything at this point. This bar was innovative with QR codes on the table you scanned to order. I scanned the QR code in front of me and ordered before I realized that the codes were separate tabs for each seat. A signed receipt sat in front of me, and I, thinking the staff just didn’t get around to picking it up, added a random clam chowder to their tab. In a panic, I waved down a different waitress and let her know my mistake so the previous person at my seat wouldn’t be charged.

“Well, we just closed the kitchen, so…” she said flatly before walking away. I could only muster up an “Oh, okay” before sitting for a few more minutes in awkward silence and then leaving. That $2 cookie I bought at the mini convenience store would have to do until I got on the plane.

There was no turning back now as I put my backpack in the overhead bin and sat in my aisle seat. I grabbed a piece of gum for takeoff and offered random people in my vicinity a piece, which they all refused. I was grateful that I dressed as comfortably as possible for the plane, wearing my favorite sandals, my favorite pair of linen gaucho pants, and my favorite graphic tee. Additionally, I had my oversized “Your Anxiety is Lying to You” hoodie around my neck in case the air got nippy.

I decided that since I knew that I would not be able to sleep on the flight (I can only sleep laying down), I would finish up volume eight of Blue Period.

Instead, as the plane sped down the runway, I put the manga down and gripped the armrests until we were steadily in the air. I’ve never been super afraid of planes but after not being on one for so long, the takeoff process made me a bit nervous.

For the duration of the five-hour flight, my tolerance for sitting still, my fatigue I could not satisfy, and my intensifying stomach pain from the air pressure became much more unbearable. Once 3am hit, I was on the verge of overstimulated and sleepy tears. I only read about five pages.

I went on a plane for the first time in years! Since I was heading home on my upload day, I thought I’d post an edited excerpt from an essay I did in college. This is from my creative writing class that I took in my last quarter with the prompt, “Why I Write.” I may repurpose this for another project in the future if I feel it being useful.

In my own time, I do not write as much as I draw, but I feel that the reasons I do either are one and the same. I honestly had no idea why I wrote. Saying that I do it as an escape is true, but not essentially the whole truth.

It wasn’t until my classmate, Athena, mentioned using writing to gain a sense of autonomy without people‘s commentary that I realized that these were my primary reasons as well.

Being the youngest and only girl in my family, my gender and age became the primary source of attention as most praise centered around my looks and good behavior. To my family, this was something to be protected, so I was barred from consuming content that I was “too pretty” for or deemed “demonic” like Harry Potter.

When I entered school, my academics became another source of external validation. I was an overachiever without really having to try, and with the stress put on my mother surrounding my brothers’ mental health issues, drug addiction, and/or abusive behavior, I was her saving grace. In her words, I was what made her “feel like she did something right.” The persona I had created for myself at a young age was a mature, beautiful, and intelligent damsel who never burdened anyone.

Behind this image, however, I wrote and drew. An active reader in the mid-2000s, I would read the Rainbow Magic books and would write and illustrate self-insert fanfiction of me and my friends growing fairy wings and going on adventures.

Creation was my me time where I could do whatever and be whoever I wanted to be. I made the Imaginary World, a place that was an open-world version of the indoor playground where I had my eighth birthday. After I had a dream where I went down a miles-long sliding pole to this magical place, I developed it for a number of years to be my personal safe space. I had a cool twin sister I could spend time with. I could turn into a dragon (I really liked dragons). I stood up against bullies and could save my mom from my brother with my cool martial arts skills (I could not do martial arts). I could be brave.

However, this all stayed hidden in my diaries and notebooks.

As I got older, the image I created in the real world began to feel uncomfortable. Not necessarily because I felt I wasn’t smart or pretty, but because it felt stale. I cared about my grades and I’ve always kept them pretty high, but it never fulfilled me in my sixteen years of academics. I think I’m decent-looking, but I don’t care that much about how I look most of the time.

In high school, I started dressing in men’s clothes, I cut my hair, I strayed from my conspiracy theory Christian-based upbringing, and my friend group consisted of outcasts discovering their sexualities and gender identities. My stories by that time consisted of characters who were more free and unapologetic than I was, and with my friends, I could be open about my creations without judgment (and anonymously thanks to the Internet).

Anime got me into creating my own original characters and stories to this very day. It started innocent, with Fruits Basket when I was seven, then evolved into Akira when I was fourteen.

CW: mental health, intrusive thoughts revolved around harm and S*A*

There was no need to turn on GPS. I pointed out old landmarks to myself: the student housing down the road, the Chinese restaurant I won a free lunch at, the bright green fields and trail I’d see residents take their morning jog… Despite one wrong turn after doubting my memory, the drive to my old community college went smoothly.

I recently got hired as a part-time writing tutor at my alma mater. My orientation was at the campus I attended. This is absolutely no exaggeration, but when I walked through those doors back in 2018, I was unaware that my two years as a student there would be the best years of my life.

Now that I’m back, I long for a time that was much simpler. Returning to this campus filled me with bittersweet envy of myself before. I strutted up the same walkway back when I got off the cramped bus with the hoard of students. I visited familiar bits of hallways toward old classrooms and hangout spots. Using the same bathroom stall with the missing coat hook even made me happy.

The building across from the main one was closed off due to construction, which was a bummer since my favorite memories took place there: quarterly art galleries with catering, playing taiko drums with friends, leadership workshops, buying turtle mochas at the coffee stand, and taking a sociology class on death were some highlights.

With a crowded and rocky environment at home, going to this school was freeing. I felt safe there, and that I was doing something with my life. I had no idea what to major in, so I was free to do anything from classes to clubs at no cost. In fact, I was getting paid for it every quarter (thank you, low-income financial aid checks).

During my time there, I found my passion for pursuing art as a career again and gained an interest in anthropology and intercultural communication. I played taiko for over two years, even after I transferred. I had my first regular part-time job working in the student life office. I joined a tenure committee, went on a retreat and a conference, volunteered to help international students practice their English, sang karaoke in front of an audience, went to the gym regularly… This time was the most experimental I had ever been.

When the pandemic hit, it felt as though I could physically feel myself slowly regressing back into my old ways before I started college. I stayed tied to my room, coming out comfortably when only my mother was home. I stopped exercising after attempting calisthenics and injuring my knees. I barely tended to my hair which grew and grew under the bonnet I wore 24/7 (I wasn’t going anywhere).

I transferred to Zoom University in 2020. I enjoyed my classes and my peers, but it just felt soulless in comparison to life before. I just couldn’t wait for quarantine to be over so I could get back to being my adventurous, confident, much cooler self again.

Though the outdoors was relatively safe to venture out in for walks during quarantine, I always felt stepping out of my home would lead to some divine punishment.

After George Floyd’s murder, and the 2021 presidential election, and the increased crime rate, and the January 6 attempted coup, my anxiety about leaving the house was especially strong. When I got my first car during this time, I barely drove anywhere other than to the store and back. The city, what I now called the Forbidden City, was no longer safe so I shouldn’t go anymore, going for walks by myself was unsafe, I could fall in the water and freeze to death if I went kayaking with friends, swimming in the lake could give me a flesh-eating amoeba if I had even the smallest scratch…

Everything felt like a potential threat, so I found stale, stagnant comfort in my bedroom. If I wanted to go out and, say, buy a new pair of pants at the mall, my internal monologue usually was along the lines of:

“How badly do you need new pants?

Could you use that money for something more important?

Is this a good enough reason to leave the house?

How much gas would you be wasting?

Is it safe enough to do this?

What if something bad happened?

What if you don’t find a pair you like and have to do this questionnaire all over again?”

Oftentimes, I would just stay home.

Senior year was my only year physically at my university, but the damage left on my brain during lockdown had already been done.

I was paranoid about everything.

I traded the crop tops and skinny jeans I wore in community college for a black coat or hoodie, a mask, and a hat. This was my armor on the bus. If I didn’t do this, a man would notice my frame and assault me in a back alley. I kept the photo on my bus card facing downward when I scanned it in case this imaginary man could see what I look like under my mask and track me down.

Last May, I ate sushi for lunch before I went to my creative writing class. About fifteen minutes into the lecture, I rushed to the bathroom and kneeled in front of the toilet seat, waiting for the food poisoning to come. It never did.

I cried when I would deny going out with friends past a certain radius of the map, but I had no choice. If I was over ten miles from home, I would die some horrible death or be traumatized beyond repair. When I would push myself to go to our group hangouts, I gripped my steering wheel bracing myself for a car accident, sat out so I wouldn’t trip and crack my head open rollerskating, or silently waited to die of alcohol poisoning from a sip of beer.

The adventurous, confident self I worked so hard to build in community college never returned.

I never considered OCD as being a possibility for how my brain operated until I watched Nicole Rafiee talk about her experience. My last therapist never formerly diagnosed me or gave me a referral, but he suspected it as well.

I’ve actually been like this for as long as I can remember, but it lay dormant in my mind. My thoughts were easier to shake in my childhood and adolescence, and going to community college distracted me enough to live life like a normal person. I guess that’s why I loved going so much. Only during quarantine did my intrusive thoughts erupt and infect my brain with full-blown agoraphobia.

I was terrified of being caught in a situation I could not escape from or control. Every thought focused on how I would be harmed or traumatized in a specific scenario, especially when I considered sticking my toe out of my comfort zone. I don’t believe in God anymore, per se, but I believe that my own desires are sinful, and a terrible fate will be my punishment for having them.

Going to the Forbidden City will get me murdered because I want to go. The car will spiral out of control because I want to go on a road trip with friends. I’ll be raped in the bushes because I want to walk on a trail.

Horrible things will happen, and I’ll deserve it every time.

Therapy allowed me to wear colors and tank tops again. Though I haven’t gone to the Forbidden City since 2019, I did go on a few more trips with friends and went to my first bar for New Year’s (my virgin drinks were not roofied as I feared). I’m going on a plane for the first time in five years despite my fear that it will crash or that I’ll go into cardiac arrest in the TSA line. I’m working in customer service on the side, a field I never thought I could handle. I feel relatively safer than I did last year.

The old version of myself may never come back, but she’s a reminder of what I’m capable of, though I may have forgotten. I’m trying to remind myself that I can rebuild and ascend even higher than I ever thought.

I just miss being able to go outside comfortably again.

I buried her deep
Under a thick layer of
Apathy
And shame

I’ve been chipping away at the
Hardened layers for
The last
Few years

Unearthing enough to reach
Her misty eyes

And I let her cry

Her tears melted away
The clay over her lips
And I gave her water
For her dry throat

And finally
She could whisper
What she needed
And what she wanted

This essay was written for a class titled Music In Crisis back in college. Our final paper had little limitation as to what we could write about as long as it discussed how music was used in response to a crisis. My professor was interested to see how I would write my paper on a fictional disaster while referencing a song corresponding to a real disaster. With a few recent edits, this is what I came up with.

Music has been a common response to crisis, utilizing sound to depict the initial emotions and atmosphere that comes with experiencing a traumatic event. Messy, disorganized sounds can display feelings of disorientation and anxiety, while silence can display numbness after experiencing such trauma. Music can force the listener into a state of empathy, allowing them to experience a fraction of what the subject, or subjects, of a song felt in the midst of a crisis.

Krzysztof Penderecki’s 1960 piece, “Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima” recreates the destruction and the desolation that the atomic bomb caused to Japan, leaving a scar on the lives of millions to this day.

These methods of using music to display emotions extend into the fictional realm as well in film, immersing the viewer into the setting in which the story takes place. Musical group Geinoh Yamashirogumi utilizes a collection of various musical instruments and methods to bring the action and chaos of Katsuhiro Ōtomo’s sci-fi action film, Akira, to life. This paper will describe the ways in which desolation, fear, and destruction are illustrated in Akira’s soundtrack by using Penderecki’s “Threnody” as a point of reference. Three songs from the soundtrack will be analyzed: “Winds Over Neo-Tokyo,” “Mutation,” and “Requiem.”

Background Information

Polish classical musician, Krzysztof Penderecki, was skilled in his ability to create feelings of terror through his pieces, perhaps most notably in his piece, “Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima.” Formerly called 8’37”, referring to its estimated running time, the overwhelming response to this song inspired Penderecki to change the name to Tren (Threnody, or lament), then later extended it to its current title (Keller). Despite the context of the piece not intending to be political or about a specific event, Penderecki embraced the new context of “Threnody,” even going so far as to perform it in Hiroshima in 1964. In a letter to the city’s mayor, he writes that the atomic bomb was a “‘tragedy of mankind’” (Keller).

The piece consists of 52 string instruments, “with each musician playing an individual line” (Keller). This creates an element of chaos and messiness in the song, reflecting the elements of a tragedy like an atomic bomb. “Threnody” was one of the catalysts of a style of music known as sonorism. Topolski defines sonorism as “a compositional style typified by the focus it [places] on tone and sound, and achieved through unconventional articulations, a variety of textures and colours, and a progressive, kaleidoscopic structural form.” Popular among avant-garde Polish musicians in the 1960s, timbral and textural elements are valued over the pitch (“Sonoristics…”). The use of “Threnody” in horror and thriller films such as The Shining, Children of Men, and The Exorcist, therefore, is not surprising, as the use of high-pitched sounds creates a sense of fear and dread (“Threnody”). The strong emotions evoked in this song, plus the context of human-caused disaster that this piece refers to makes it an ideal piece to compare to the soundtrack of Akira.

Akira (1988) is a sci-fi action animated film, based on the 1982 manga series by Katsuhiro Ōtomo. Set in 2019, it tells the story of teenage biker gang leader, Kaneda, on a mission to save his friend, Tetsuo, after a motorcycle accident awakens within him quickly evolving telekinetic abilities, getting him tangled up in a government project. These powers “eventually [threaten] an entire military complex amid chaos and rebellion in the sprawling futuristic metropolis of Neo-Tokyo” (“Akira”). A cult classic inspiring later science fiction films such as The Matrix, Akira is heavy on its themes, including government corruption, destruction and rebirth, and fate versus free will. With imagery of a blast reducing the city to rubble to open and close the film, there is a visible reference to the atomic bombs dropped on Japan in 1945. Known for its intense and graphic scenes, an equally intense soundtrack enhances the immersive experience for the viewer.

With the success of their 1986 album, Ecophony Rinne, catching the attention of Ōtomo, the Japanese musical collective, Geinoh Yamashirogumi, was commissioned to create the soundtrack for Akira (“Geinoh”). Founded by Tsutomu Ōhashi, the collective consists of hundreds of members from various professions, from doctors to engineers to students. The group is known for recreating folk songs, as well as fusing traditional musical styles with modern instrumentation and synthesizers. Using a mixture of digital synthesizers, Indonesian bamboo percussion, traditional Japanese theatrical and spiritual music, European classical, and progressive rock, the Akira soundtrack, arguably, became Geinoh Yamashirogumi’s magnum opus.

Desolation

“Threnody” is chaotic for most of the piece, creating a sense of anxiety and fear among its listeners, but that does not mean that its quieter parts bring a sense of ease. There is almost never a point of complete silence in the song, excluding the very end, as there is the faint sound of a cello playing a lower note. This likely is meant to reflect the result of the atomic bomb: a pile of rubble that stretches for miles. Despite the silent aftereffect, the faint string instrument echoes the desolate atmosphere that the blast created.

“Winds Over Neo-Tokyo” is used in Akira to set the stage for the state of the city’s outskirts. A prime example of this song being used is when Tetsuo breaks out of the hospital, immediately seeking refuge in his girlfriend, Kaori. They sit outside, looking out into the night as they consider running away. “Winds Over Neo-Tokyo” is a quieter and shorter song on the soundtrack, with only a three-minute duration, mainly consisting of a repetitive siren-like melody. The echo effect on top of it makes the melody sound ghost-like and as if it is traveling across a barren landscape.

Despite the technological development that followed the initial blast in Akira, a ghost of that destruction is still present throughout Neo-Tokyo, though there are attempts to conceal it. This is concealed in literal and figurative ways in the story, from the restricted areas of the city still under repair from the initial explosion to preparations for the 2020 Olympics to distract from government corruption. In this scene, in particular, this is especially reflected in Tetsuo escaping the hospital. Before this scene, the film shows a nurse walking into his hospital room, only to run out screaming that something is wrong. This suggests that something is dangerous about Tetsuo leaving, a foreshadowing of his exponentially growing power. This is shown in the song at around the 1:50 mark through an introduction to low drumming and brass instruments, giving this otherwise calm piece a slight intensity (Geinoh Yamashirogumi, “Winds…”). Though he and Kaori are alone on the outskirts of the city, a more peaceful moment, this peace will not last for very long.

Fear

The intense nature of “Threnody” brings a sense of fear to the listener, sharing a glimpse of the level of terror felt by the thousands of citizens that survived the atomic bomb. In order to achieve an even higher pitch, the string players played below the bridge of their instruments, creating an eerie, grating sound meant to disturb the listener. To make matters even more haunting, the notes are played in a messy blend of noise layered on top of each other. This makes the music disorganized and jarring, meant to mirror the disorienting feeling of Hiroshima survivors after such a shaking experience.

“Mutation” is a song that has two parts with differing moods. With this dichotomy and only spanning about five minutes in length, it is utilized in two separate scenes. Starting with the earlier scene that uses the second half of the song, the colonel and company are silently witnessing fragments of their Satellite Orbital Laser, or SOL, fall from space. In their last attempt to kill Tetsuo, they fire the government weapon in his direction, blasting off his arm. In response, he flies up into the atmosphere and destroys it with his telekinetic powers, sending it hurtling down back to Earth in pieces. As the colonel looks on in defeat, Tetsuo uses his abilities to build a prosthetic arm out of scrap metal.

In contrast to the amount of destruction preceding this moment, this part of the film is serene with not much dialogue. This is reflected in the remainder of “Mutation,” as an angelic choir vocalizes. This section is absent of any instruments, flooding the viewer with the ethereal chorus alone. In relation to the hauntingly quieter moments of “Threnody,” this section of “Mutation” reflects the feeling of pure desolation and a loss of hope as a result of a major disaster.

Compared to the second section, the first section of “Mutation” has an entirely different feel. Played during arguably one of the most gruesome scenes in animation, it is a perfect fit. Unable to contain or control his powers in his current form, Tetsuo’s body expands, tearing through skin and flesh and engulfing anything within range. “Mutation” begins abruptly, with slow, guttural chanting and the sound of large drums reflecting the monstrous form his body takes, crumbling platforms and crushing bodies. This creates the same visceral reaction of fear and anxiety as “Threnody” does but with a completely opposite pitch. These low, deep notes add another layer of doom as the issue in this part of the film has, literally, become too big to handle due to pure negligence. The detailed animation of swelling and bursting flesh accompanying this song adds another layer of stomach-churning disgust.

About one minute in, a mixed voice is added to the music accompanying the quick background percussion (Geinoh Yamashirogumi, “Mutation”). The music is later joined by a chorus of voices groaning and screaming, reflecting the agony and terror Tetsuo both brought upon himself and those around him in this scene. His insecure ego, shown through his constant drive to prove his ability to hold his own, arguably crumbles here as his body takes the form of a fetus-like mass, only able to cry for help. For both Tetsuo and the government scientists who experimented on him, this scene is an embodiment of the consequences of their actions.

Destruction

Loud noises symbolize the chaos the atomic bomb caused to Japan in “Threnody.” When it comes to destruction, it utilizes a mashup of the string instruments, all playing different parts without much of a sense of rhythm at about the one-minute mark (Penderecki). This creates a disorderly, chaotic feeling, a moment that conjures up gritty images of the immediate aftereffects of the bombs. During portions of the song, at 2:50 for example, the strings play a grating note that sounds similar to a siren (Penderecki). Despite this theme being represented throughout the entire piece, there is a sense of impending doom present here, as it is later met with the sudden terrifying notes played at 3:45 (Penderecki).

Something that many of the tracks for Akira have that “Threnody” does not that is worth mentioning is a small glimmer of hope. Hope for a better future than the one previously lived is a recurrent theme reflected through images of rebirth. With a fourteen-minute runtime, “Requiem” has multiple emotions portrayed through its music, with portions of it being played throughout Akira. The film begins with an explosion that mirrors the one caused by the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima. No sound plays until the crater the blast leaves is revealed. The first few notes of “Requiem” are a deep, foreboding “doom,” which, ironically, foreshadows the impending “doom” that is to come in the film. This sound is also played when Akira’s chamber is first revealed, connecting it to the first few shots of the movie and implying that this was the cause of Tokyo’s destruction that led to the creation of Neo-Tokyo. To prevent this disaster from happening again, scientists have contained this power by cryogenically freezing it. However, the desire to play God has made this event repeating itself much more likely.

When the film opens, showing the motorcycle gang of young boys riding around the city and getting into a battle with a rival gang, shots of Neo-Tokyo are shown. It is a cyberpunk-esque future with holographic advertisements, similar to stills from Blade Runner. The city has risen from the ashes of a major disaster and has become an even more technologically advanced society than it was before, similar to the development of Japan post-WWII.

However, there are darker elements of Neo-Tokyo that are hidden behind its shiny exterior: crowds rioting against a corrupt government, religious cults praying for the return of an “Akira” who may or may not exist, and acts of domestic terrorism, police brutality, and gang activity on a regular basis.

At about the 5:20 mark of “Requiem,” an organ-like melody plays (Geinoh Yamashirogumi, “Requiem”). The sound is mechanical and toes the line between being overwhelming and breathtaking. This portion of “Requiem” plays when Neo-Tokyo is, once again, destroyed at the end of the movie by Akira, revealed to be a child that was part of a government experiment and caused the blast at the beginning of the film. It has come full circle. However, as the beginning implies, there is the hope that the city can be rebuilt even better than before. With Tetsuo and the Espers, three children with the same psychic abilities, now “dead” (or, at least, taken to a new dimension), Kaneda and his friends ride into the desolate city, closing the film. As the credits roll, a section of “Requiem” plays that is a reprise of Kaneda’s theme. “Kaneda” is one of the few songs on the soundtrack that is purely meant to be positive, representing youth, fearlessness, and confidence. Similar to the manga series, the theme of a youthful drive is suggested to have allowed Kaneda and the other young characters to survive and be active agents in the fight to stop Tetsuo. This is especially seen at the end as the Espers team up to both summon Akira as well as save Kaneda from the blast at the end of the film. The closing shots and the use of “Kaneda” in the credits suggest faith in the next generation.

Conclusion

The ability of music to portray emotions and themes transcends realism, as seen in the ability to enhance both the ambiance and message of a film. This allows the viewer to immerse themselves into the material, aid in empathizing with the characters, and feel the emotions of various moments in the story even more strongly. This is a reason why the feelings evoked in “Threnody” were apt to be included in numerous horror and thriller films. Its high-pitched sounds and mashup of strings bring a sense of anxiety and impending chaos. In comparison to Akira, the film soundtrack evokes the multiple emotions brought about through disaster and its long-term effects, while also providing a sense of hope for a better future. It is a soundtrack like this one that has aided in bringing this film to life, making it one of the most successful classics of Japanese animation, and inspiring many other incredible films after it.

Works Cited

“Akira.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 10 Mar. 2022, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Akira_(1988_film)

Geinoh Yamashirogumi. “Mutation.” YouTube, uploaded by Milan Records USA, 15 Sep. 2017, https://youtu.be/fshgWIpcPeE

— . “Requiem.” YouTube, uploaded by Milan Records USA, 15 Sep. 2017, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YKvtbH8qUWU.

— . “Winds Over Neo-Tokyo.” YouTube, uploaded by Milan Records USA, 15 Sep. 2017, https://youtu.be/-q4w2QHL8oA

“Geinoh Yamashirogumi.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 31 Dec. 2021, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geinoh_Yamashirogumi

Keller, James M. “Penderecki, Krzysztof: Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima.”SF Symphony, Sep. 2017, https://www.sfsymphony.org/Data/Event-Data/Program-Notes/P/Penderecki-Threnody-for-the-Victims-of-Hiroshima.

Penderecki, Krzysztof. “Penderecki: Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima — Urbański, FRSO.” YouTube, uploaded by koenigmoo, 18 Mar. 2015, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pu371CDZ0ws

“Sonoristics or Sonoristic Technique / Sonorism.” Music in Movement, http://musicinmovement.eu/glossary/sonoristics-sonorism.

“Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima.” Wikipedia, Wikimedia Foundation, 11 March 2022, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Threnody_to_the_Victims_of_Hiroshima.

Topolski, Jan. “Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima — Krzysztof Penderecki.” Culture.Pl, December 2010, https://culture.pl/en/work/threnody-to-the-victims-of-hiroshima-krzysztof-penderecki.

In the summer of 2010, my family moved away from the city back to our hometown. I was put in a new school, much to my disappointment as we had faith that I would be placed back in my old school with the familiar faces I dearly missed.

On the second day of fifth grade, the students were put into groups of three and I was placed with two much chattier girls. You know the type of students: talked while the teacher was talking, then would roll their eyes or even talk back if the teacher called them out, likely ending up in a yelling match if they and/or the teacher were slightly unhinged. If the teacher called out the talking, I could potentially get in trouble too if he didn’t see exactly who it was in the group.

My anxiety skyrocketed at this nightmare scenario I braced for: the raised voices, chairs and desks thrown, having to cover and flex my ears to block the noise… None of this happened, yet I broke down into a puddle of tears anyway.

As my group members tried to comfort me, grabbing tissues while looking at each other with raised eyebrows, my teacher, a fifty-something tough love-type, was passing our table during his walk around.

He glanced at my snotty face and kept walking.

At first, I was slightly offended. How could he just ignore me when I was obviously having a crisis? However, at that moment, I felt a shift within me that made me grateful for that gesture for years. I felt that he had cracked the code for this supposed curse I had since I was four.

— — -

I was put into a few different therapies from four to thirteen. The goal that was set for me every time was to “learn to speak up for myself.” However, I don’t think my many years of therapy growing up did what it was intended. If it did work, I think I’d be a lot more assertive than I am now.

The issue I had, I believe now, was less of an assertiveness issue and more of a self-regulation issue. When faced with a challenge, whether that be trying to throw a basketball into a hoop or being picked on, instead of trying until I made a point or telling the peer to stop, I would have a messy mental breakdown.

I like to believe that crying is one of the clearest forms of expressing your feelings. Babies do it all the time; I just did it for much… much longer. The slightest inconvenience would send me into waterworks all throughout pre-K and elementary school, and the various therapies I’ve been in didn’t seem to be doing much since it was still happening.

I got my GAD diagnosis when I was eight years old after my mother witnessed my friend yelling in my face, and rather than yell back or sock her like a normal child, I sat quietly and avoided eye contact.

Looking back, therapy only seemed to make me confused as to what was appropriate to speak up about since practically anything would send me spiraling. Occupational therapy told me that I needed to toughen up (and that I couldn’t walk right, but that’s beside the point). CBT told me that I needed to express my needs. “Let people know when something is bothering you… no, that shouldn’t bother you.”

— — -

Finally, thanks to my fifth-grade teacher, I understood that I was the problem. And from then on, I stopped crying at everything.

In fact, I barely cried at all after that. And I was proud that I was finally cured. All I needed was to be ignored.

I learned that no one was going to coddle me when I got older. If something did make me cry, it was probably because I was too sensitive. Ten was way too old to act like a whiny brat and I was only embarrassing myself on a daily basis by being emotional. Middle school was only a year away; it was time to suck it up and grow up already.

So long were the days of being overwhelmed to tears and ruining everyone else’s fun. So long were the days of being scolded for being unable to regulate my emotions. So long were constant guilt and shame and embarrassment over this thing that had sent me through years of therapy. So long was weakness. Look out, sixth grade, here I come.

— — -

By high school, I had dry eyes most of the time (minus me crumbling when I did presentations). I was proud that I had become so strong by suppressing my emotions. Assertiveness still hadn’t come naturally to me, but I was able to stand up for myself in little ways more than I ever was able to as a child.

However, the biggest challenge proved to be in my close relationships. I stayed in a toxic friend group for way too long instead of establishing boundaries or ending the relationship sooner. Rather, I endured the disrespect believing it was my own flaws that made me so upset about it. If I just pushed past the discomfort, then I’d be stronger.

“I can’t control what they say or do. Sure, it doesn’t feel great, but most things don’t feel great in my head. It’s my responsibility to make sure their words or actions don’t get to me.

I shouldn’t try to express how their words or actions make me feel. I shouldn’t set boundaries. That’s proving that I’m too weak to endure it.”

My junior year was the most depressed I had ever been.

I finally ended it, albeit immaturely. I ghosted them until they texted me to ask what was going on. Only through text did I feel okay admitting what I was feeling (granted, I had a feeling they’d gang up on me if I did it directly). They respected my wishes but not without some cold shoulder first before we were on okay terms.

I did feel much lighter, though.

— — -

I’m crying much more again. It’s more tears of joy now: after watching a good movie, on my 23rd birthday lunch, listening to nostalgic songs, watching a theater actor kill it on stage, and every time I watch this. Being vulnerable with other people more often is the next step.

My boundaries are a lot better. I tell my boss what days I won’t be at work rather than asking. I won’t elaborate as much as I used to when I have to tell someone no. I watch Drew Afualo on TikTok. I’ve made a lot of progress.

Despite the self-development, I still don’t know when it’s appropriate to practice assertiveness. I pick my battles with what I feel is worth using that much energy, and by pick my battles I mean I avoid confrontation.

Instead, I just do my best to be around people who don’t do anything that I have to confront them about. It takes a while for someone to make it into my close friend circle, so it’s not much of a loss if I need to distance myself. It’s not a perfect strategy, but it’s helped me dodge some unnecessary bullets.

Only when I started taking myself to therapy in my adulthood did I start to see improvement. I think now it’s because I get to call the shots on why I’m there.

In May 2023, I decided that this session with my therapist would be my last. Apparently, he felt that it was also time for me to go.

“So!” He’d say with a breath, shifting his weight to face his computer. “When do you wanna meet up again? You feel like you need to come back?”

“I don’t think I do… I feel pretty good.”

And that was the truth. Returning to him in December after facing the first major death in my life, I had gone from talking about the messy process of my grief to filling him in on my drama about my car that was recently broken into (a Kia, of course). We had gone from meeting every week, to every two weeks, to every month.

One last time, he assessed my anxiety and depression levels, something he did monthly. I returned to therapy with a 16 for depression, but for the last three months remained in the 10 to 14 stage, minor depression.

“Maybe that’s your baseline,” he said. “But that’s okay!”

He sounded optimistic when he said this, which didn’t sit right with me. All I heard was, “Hey, maybe you’ll feel like this forever!”

On Finch, a self-care app I’ve stuck with for over a year, you can record how you’re feeling on a scale of “super sad face” to “super happy face.” I almost always press the middle face with the dead eyes and straight line for a mouth.

It’s not ideal; I wouldn’t want to feel just “meh” most of the time. I would want to at least feel a bit more joy on a daily basis than “not great but not terrible” or, how I say at work when a customer asks me how I am: “Not too bad!”

Despite having my depression measured every month, I never really considered myself as being depressed. Rather, I would feel numb during the darker, colder months, then I would bounce back the minute the temperature exceeded sixty degrees Fahrenheit.

This year, though, my mood hasn’t gone up as much as in previous years. The only difference, and my theory as to why, is that I’m not in school anymore. The sun coming back meant that the school year was ending, and I didn’t have to grind constantly until late September. It meant a break. Now, I don’t have a break but, rather, a constant and repetitive life.

I work three days a week, sit at home the days I’m off, and do chores whenever duty calls. I have time for art but often not enough energy to will myself to do anything outside of what needs to be done.

On the upside, however, my life now is much simpler than it was a year ago. My job and savings cover my portion of the bills, and my responsibilities are mostly predictable. I don’t hate living with my mother, and I’m not being pressured to move out anytime soon. I am now safe. I am now comfortable.

Why change anything if I’m not miserable? Why fix it if it ain’t broke?

Maybe because while I’m not necessarily unhappy, I know that I can do so much more, and I want to do much more.

When I got hired at my current job, I knew that it would be a temporary position until I found something better. My biggest fear for the last four months has been settling, getting too comfortable. While I enjoy my job for the most part, I knew that it would drain me physically and mentally if I stayed too long, and it has been. Instead, I would want to be doing something that makes me more excited to wake up in the morning (and relevant to what i studied for).

However, I wonder how much of my restlessness is due to being unfamiliar with this much ease.

A lack of impending doom doesn’t feel right. I’m comfortable, and that’s bad, my subconscious says.

The moments of peace and safety I felt in the past were often short-lived, and when things were quiet, I would be anticipating when it would be disrupted. Now, the major disruption that brought me back to therapy in the first place is gone; I don’t have to wait for disaster or prepare for escape anymore.

For now, I am doing my best to steer in the general direction towards my goals and take my time going along for the ride. Things are peaceful, and while my situation isn’t where I want to be forever, I don’t hate where I am right now. I guess that’s something to be grateful for.