#10. I accidentally lived, laughed, loved too hard
Hello, people! How have you been? So much has happened since my last newsletter: I tried my hand with cooking; climbed a couple more mountains; saw Florence & The Machine, Gordi, and Aurora live in Melbourne; went on a camping trip with my partner and unexpectedly saw the aurora australis. To add to this whirlwind, as of last year I was officially depression-free and in remission from OCD, and now that I can finally see myself living in the long term, I started seriously investing in my future—I have a pension plan, investment accounts, and my emergency fund even has its own emergency fund. All this to say, life has been so good that I’ve unintentionally abandoned writing.
As a quintessential tortured artist I’ve always drawn my inspiration from a place of darkness. Writing served as a lifeline for processing trauma, a form of “therapy” if you will—this explains why my poetry mostly revolved around themes of my mother’s abandonment, my painful coming out journey, or some variation thereof. It’s what I’ve come to call my Lore (derogatory). However, going to actual therapy and through the grueling process of Working on Myself meant that now that I’m actually Out of The Woods, my well has run dry.
I don’t want you to think I’m whining (even though I am) or ungrateful (well, maybe just a little bit). If I had to choose between Being Happy or being A Poet, fuck being a poet. I would gladly accept the trade-off. But while I have no intention of taking writing or poetry as a serious career, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not quite… finished? Call it the sunk cost fallacy, but I initially turned to this medium to express my teenage angst all those years ago, fell in love with it, and have never truly let go. That girl is longing to write again. I miss being able to evoke and connect—it’s just that it’s so much harder to do that now that I’m not Hurting So Much.
One evening, feeling bold and vulnerable, I broached this topic during a dinner conversation with the girls. Chris offered that writing doesn’t always have to be an outlet for pain (big if true!); it can also serve as a means of documentation, a way to preserve cherished memories, or even an avenue for “play.” I should listen to her: she’s been consistently churning out wonderful writing over at Slouching Towards Blok M, a newsletter for her fleeting thoughts, snippets of daily life, and interviews with friends. At the moment she’s on some sort of regimen, posting three times a week for the heck of it. I’m impressed, and yes, a little concerned (hope you’re taking breaks and staying hydrated, Chris—drink your damn water).
I don’t think I will be posting three times a week myself, but if there’s anything to learn from Christabelle’s inspiring exercise it is to abandon the idea that one has to write The Perfect Piece or none at all. One can just write a piece, and it doesn’t even have to be Sad. What a shocking revelation.
Anyways, in the spirit of sharing good memories: recently I managed to cook ayam palekko, a spicy, rich, flavorful Bugis dish that was fairly complicated for a noob like me to make. I was feeling a bit homesick, not to mention tired of my usual go-to dish, i.e., tempe goreng, so I looked up the recipe online and tried it (thank you, Mami Incess!) It was delicious and tasted like home. And to think that I used to be so intimidated by cooking! Indomie telor was about the extent of my culinary prowess. Then I started chopping some garlic to sautee with canned mackerels, and before long I was sauteeing garlic and shallots with everything just to see what happens. For my next mission I’m thinking of making kapurung—if I pull it off, consider my cooking skills truly upgraded.
The best part about no longer being weighed down by my depression and OCD is having the mental space to enjoy life’s side missions like learning to cook, decorating my home, or connecting with my people. I wouldn’t trade them for anything, not even poetry.
Til next time,
Wawa