Someone asks you what you want for Christmas and you say, "I want a Walkman."
So they get you a hi-fi stereo.
And thatʻs so generous, right? You say thank you and enjoy your new stereo, but you canʻt listen to it on the bus like you wanted.
Then they ask what you want for your birthday and you say, "I want a Walkman."
Then they get you a portable radio. You know, like what some folks call a boom box.
And thatʻs so generous, right? You say thank you and enjoy your new radio, but you canʻt listen to it on the bus like you wanted.
Christmas rolls around again and they ask you want you want. You say, "I want a Walkman.
And they get you a gift certificate for Tower Records. Itʻs enough for a couple of cassette tapes, but not enough for a Walkman. And you still canʻt listen to those tapes on the bus like you wanted because you donʻt fucking have a Walkman.
Iʻve struggled with this my whole life. I want a thing, I ask for it, and get something else thatʻs thoughtful and generous, but not what I asked for. What the fuck do you do besides say thank you?
Because it isnʻt really about the stereo, radio, or gift certificate. Itʻs about the fucking Walkman. Itʻs about what I fucking asked for. And itʻs not even about the thing I asked for, itʻs about being heard.
Itʻs so hard, you know. Because I know youʻre being generous and kind, but I donʻt feel heard or seen or validated. And saying that to you after youʻve been generous and kind seems really selfish and ungrateful, and itʻs not so much that Iʻm afraid of being viewed as selfish and ungrateful, I donʻt want to hurt your feelings. I donʻt want to reject your gift, the effort you made, your thoughtfulness. That shitʻs valuable. That shitʻs precious and special.
Perhaps thatʻs my problem? In an episode of New Girl, Schmidt is aghast to learn that Jess actually CARES about other peopleʻs feelings. "How do you get anything done?" he asks. He then gives her a pep talk-- one that I can relate to even though Iʻm clearly Jess in this scenario-- about how sheʻs the last piece of pie.
I recognize that caring about peopleʻs feelings is an integral part of my being. I donʻt want to give that up. However, I canʻt value your feelings over mine, not as often as I do. Yeah, sure, sometimes itʻs truly the right thing to do, especially if weʻre friends, but not always. Also, me telling you this? Itʻs not about feeling ungrateful; itʻs about feeling unheard and unseen.
And Iʻm learning to use my voice, I truly am. Part of that growth, though, is wondering how I can tell you exactly what I want (a Walkman) and you continue to give me only what youʻre willing to give (stereo, radio, CDs)? Iʻm a big, strong girl, and I can deal with this weird situation in a healthy-ish way. But you gotta realize that youʻre communicating something important, something that I process as Iʻm not really a priority.
I can deal with that-- I have for years-- but letʻs just be clear about it, okay? Because Iʻve been wondering for a couple of weeks already how many years I been waiting for a Walkman and getting everything else BUT that. You have your reasons, I know, except maybe you donʻt realize how it makes me feel.
This blog is gonna ruffle some feathers, and you know me-- Iʻm not at all comfortable with that. Yet Iʻm going to publish this anyway. Got to. It feels like the truest thing, the most authentic thing Iʻve tried to write in two months
1. Iʻm a decent writer. 2. Iʻve written tons of love letters in my lifetime. 3. Iʻve already thought good things about myself. 4. Iʻve even started to love and accept myself. 5. This will be tough, but shouldnʻt be too bad.
Ugh.
The letter started strong. Youʻve seen it here. "you are a treasure." Yes, I am.
And then it kind of falls apart.
Itʻs like when you write for NaNoWriMo and youʻre not only trying to make todayʻs word count, youʻre also trying to make up for the collection of days you fell short and you know lots of words but not real sure how theyʻre fitting together but you donʻt care because, hello, word count!
My love letter is just a collection of words I know that arenʻt conveying any meaning. At least, Iʻm not connecting with the words.
This surprised me because refer to numbers 1-5 up there. Even though you also know that Iʻve been avoiding this exercise, I didnʻt expect this much push back.
Then Mahana, of course, asked me, "How many love letters have you written to yourself?"
I both love and hate when she asks me these obvious questions. Yeah, okay, fine! Never. Iʻve never written a love letter to myself. Happy now?
"I think Iʻm with your friend, Kanani. Maybe pull back a bit," she suggested when I told her about Merfʻs half-joke(?) that I instead begin with those grade-school notes: "I like you. Do you like me, too? Mark here for yes or here for no."
Mahana asked, "What would you say to yourself if you wrote just a letter (notice no "love" in the front)?" That was too easy.
Iʻd tell myself to be patient with and kind to myself. Iʻd say youʻre making progress. Iʻd say baby steps matter. Iʻd remind myself that you donʻt have to be perfect at something to do it. Iʻd say that if someone else had written that love letter to you, youʻd be so stoked, not disappointed.
Why am I never good enough for me?
Anyway, guess what my homework is this week? Yep. Write a letter to myself. Start wherever I can. Discover where Iʻm able to connect to myself and thatʻs my starting point. See what happens.
As a side note, therapy can be super rewarding and uplifting, but itʻs often the result of a lot of hard fucking work. It can be relentless. I feel like Iʻve been fighting and trying and failing and crying and feeling super fucking uncomfortable for way longer than I thought I could handle. And so I cry, I fail, I fight, I try, and then I cry some more. But I keep working and I keep doing the things because I want to be happy. I want to be happy. I want to be happy. I deserve to be happy. I deserve happiness.
At the end of Wednesdayʻs session, Mahana reminded me that I get to decide what contributes to my happiness. I donʻt know why I need her to tell me that shit over and over again, but I guess until it sticks, until that becomes my new normal, thatʻs what sheʻll continue to do.
PS: If any of you would like to do my homework for me, I wouldnʻt be mad. Youʻd be modeling for me! Super useful teaching tool.
Itʻs so shame to share this with you, but this is me modeling how you donʻt have to be great at something to do it
It hit me like ten falling, out-of-tune pianos: what if I invested even half the time in myself that Iʻve invested in other people?
The thought is ridiculous, that Iʻve spent more time pouring into other people than into myself.
My therapistʻs consistent and patient reminders that I have all I need within me aside, I cannot imagine spending all that time on myself. It can take me DAYS to, say, write a love letter. Days. To someone else. Thatʻs how much I invest in the one endeavor alone.
Yet Iʻve been avoiding writing that love letter to myself.
Itʻs like I canʻt spare one single moment on myself. What do I think will happen? What will I lose?
Nothing.
Those of you who relate to this, you understand, I think, that what Iʻm afraid of is what I will gain. Iʻm afraid of choosing something different, something better, because it will mean starting over from scratch. Thereʻs no more autopilot or shoulds, no more always or never. There is only now. Every time, only now.
Because if I write this letter to myself-- even if all Iʻm doing is putting down in words what I already think in my head-- Iʻm taking a step into the unknown. Iʻve never done this before and I donʻt know where itʻll take me and I donʻt know where Iʻll land up. Iʻm asking me to trust in me. Iʻm asking me to believe in me. Iʻm asking for so much from myself. One. More. Time.
I believe in every One More Time, though. I do. So far, each One More Time has led me to beautiful places I never thought Iʻd be, prompted me to do things I swore Iʻd never or couldnʻt do, surprising myself (and others) in the process.
People I see daily, that I have known for years and years, literally tell me they donʻt recognize me. Yes, my body looks very different than it did last August, but I like to think that itʻs also because Iʻm happier, healthier, and closer to feeling whole than ever before. I am the same me Iʻve always been and also not the same at all.
Knowing me well enough, Mahana reminds me that this letter? Itʻs not the end all, be all. "You donʻt just write ONE love letter to your special person, do you?" she asks. Well, of course not. Duh. I can write many letters to myself. "You are at the beginning of your relationship with self, Kanani. Write to where you are today."
Writing love letters is second nature, but composing takes a while sometimes because words matter to me. I choose my words for their nuances of meaning. For example, I might say "singular" instead of "unique" because though theyʻre common synonyms for each other meaning "only one of its kind," singular also connotes a sense of something exceptional, something ineffable. This distinction matters to someone who loves words and uses them to express what sometimes cannot be expressed.
Right now, before Iʻve even begun, spending that much time on myself seems impossible. The idea makes me very uncomfortable. But so did going to the park every day. So did sitting at my desk to draw or write. So did taking a selfie. Or buying myself cute underwear (who sees that shit anyway?).
So, just get out of your stupid head, Kanani. Stop stalling. You I can do this! All I need to do is trust in me. Believe in me. Invest in me. One. More. Goddamned. Time.
How do you make space for yourself inside your head?
Because Iʻm getting better at making social space for myself, but I donʻt always do the same in my head. Is that confusing? It is to me, and my brain spins just thinking about it. Let me break it down.
Iʻm way better these days at speaking up, expressing what I need or want, and taking care of my own needs before (or instead of) looking after othersʻ. Having needs doesnʻt make me "needy." Asking for help doesnʻt make me "clingy." Self care doesnʻt make me "selfish." I have come to accept and embrace this even if itʻs sometimes difficult to practice.
Whatʻs proving more challenging is allowing myself to linger in those in-between spaces that allow my heart, brain, and guts to process external and internal input. I am impatient and a person of action: if thereʻs a challenge, I like to meet it swiftly and decisively. Do it! Nownownow! Gogogo! I have very little practice at being the flower, being passive and receptive. My mental constitution is better built for a busy bee, ever collecting, disseminating, moving.
John Keats to John Hamilton Reynolds
In the film, World War Z, Brad Pittʻs character advises, "Movimiento es vida." Movement is life. I subscribe to this mantra even though my daily routine doesnʻt usually involve fleeing from zombies hopped up on amphetamines. Movement helps me breathe through my anxiety, stress, and depressive episodes. It brings order to my brain when everythingʻs all jumbled the fuck up. Thereʻs something super consoling about physical activity.
So, shockingly, Iʻve a tendency toward the impulsive. I used to describe this as acting with more heart than brain, which is kind of true, although now I think of it as just habitual action. This is what I always do in these situations. This is how I always respond. This is how I always take care of others and myself. This is what I say. I never do this. I never say this. On and on. These are shortcuts that have served me well (but not really) in the past.
What I must remember from moment to moment is to slow down. When youʻre a mind reader, you get really good at doing things on the fly. People are fickle creatures so youʻve got to be adaptable, flexible, and creative. Most of all, you have to be READY. At any and every moment, ready. Ready to go! You appear solid under pressure. And you are! You have to be! The problem for me is that I believed thatʻs who I had to be all the goddamned time. You get good at predicting the future and then reacting to it, but not so much at listening to yourself and honoring whatʻs inside you.
Like everything else Iʻve been working on these last several months, patience is progressing. It isnʻt always easy, sitting with discomfort and confusion, which is why I ask you how you make space for yourself in your head. How do you sit with your ugly? How do you stay curious and open even when itʻs super hard, even when you donʻt want to? Plus, I donʻt know if any you know this, but Iʻm kinda lazy. I just want things to happen because I wish for them, lickety split, so if any of you has a magic pill or genie or something, hook a tita up!
Last week, my friend told me that when he starts feeling junk about whatever heʻs got to do, he reminds himself, "I GET to do this." A simple sentiment that we talked about at length.
Because, as you all know, I get hard time sometimes. Last week was shit. Thinking about going back to work this week was giving me stress and anxieties. I was scared. Doing this for years, and still this was scarier than going back to work in 2020.
Part II: Be Here Now
All I know for sure is this moment. Weʻre not guaranteed anything, let alone tomorrow, next week, two months from now. I canʻt take any of this shit for granted.
This moment, though, is fickle and fleeting. Blissful or despairing, this moment doesnʻt last forever, and the switch will flip without hesitation or notice. All I can do is live in this moment, right now. Root myself in it, be open to it, be moved by it. I am flexible and strong and capable. This moment? I can handle. I donʻt know about tomorrow, next week, or two months from now, but right now? Iʻm doing it.
Imagine you are in a fishbowl and you look up at the sky, which is really just the meniscus of the water. But to you, in your world, this is the sky. Someone on the outside of the bowl pierces your sky with their fingertips, which you see as five distinct and separate objects. You donʻt see that those objects are connected by a hand, which is then connected to the whole body. All you see are these five separate entities, but they are nevertheless connected-- part of a whole-- whether or not you see that.
"You have to have faith in the connection," was my friendʻs takeaway, and hearing that fricken soothed my soul. In that moment, my heart was soothed.
Having that sentiment reflected back at me-- something I believe whole-heartedly but often doubt-- calmed my nerves. I can let go when I need to, it reminded me, because I can trust in those connections. What connects me to you, me to the world, me to myself, will hold. Even if I donʻt see it, even if I doubt it, even if itʻs been a while. Trust.
Part IV: Translation
Iʻm sometimes a selfish brat, and I have really fucked up days when I hate who I am and am incredibly aware of my limitations and perceived failings. I feel overwhelmed and ill-equipped and my chest feels like itʻs too small for my heart and lungs. Like my organs, I feel trapped, squeezed, near to bursting.
And yet, Iʻm still here, which means Iʻm doing it. No matter what "it" is, I get to do it. Am doing it. Doing it over and over, day after day, moment after moment. When things get overwhelming, I have to course-correct and bring myself back to this moment, back to myself. That often takes a huge amount of patience and effort, requires multiple micro-corrections over a period of time, and is usually ugly as fuck.
But Iʻm doing it. As difficult as existing in that fucked up moment can be, it doesnʻt last forever. Neither do those idyllic moments, like a beautiful Friday afternoon, that I want to linger in.
I woke up on Friday morning with a smile. Iʻd slept in, I felt refreshed, I was content. And then that smile, without preamble or ado, turned into crying. At the time, I couldnʻt have told you why, though it eventually became clear that, for whatever reason, I lacked emotional and mental defenses that day. I was raw and empty and every little challenge rubbed my heart and brain the wrong way.
Until I reached out and then my whole day changed. It wasnʻt even noticeable to me at first that Iʻd stopped crying and stopped feeling like something big and sweaty and disgusting was sitting on my chest. Not until hours later did it occur to me that Iʻd actually had a pretty fucking decent day. Iʻd had a great day! It was a surprisingly beautiful day.
Because Iʻd had the courage to reach out.
Found this in the trunk 2 weeks ago. The universe has spoken.
This was significant. Not a first, but certainly noteworthy. Certainly encouraging. Definitely meaningful. Of course I journaled.
While writing, I marveled at how amazing my friends are. How warm and reliable. At the beginning of the summer I thought I needed to make new friends who would adventure with me because this would be a season of surfing, creating, and playing. Then, as I began to reconnect with some of you and strengthen bonds with others of you, I realized Iʻd already had what I needed: friends who surf, create, and play; people who love me and whom I love.
The missing ingredient was trust. I didnʻt trust myself, which made (makes) trusting others even harder.
So, Iʻm journaling, right? Iʻm writing about the incredible closeness I feel to the souls around me. The ones who allow me to rest when Iʻm weary. Who remind me, not so much with words but with companionship, that Iʻm capable and resilient. Who remind me Iʻm not alone. I wrote, "maybe the increased feeling of closeness is birthed from feeling/owning my authenticity. b/c i can interact more authentically, the connection i feel in turn also feels more authentic?"
And as Iʻm journaling-- more a freewrite than anything else-- it hits me like the fucking shore break at Sandys: is this what trusting myself feels like? Is this what confidence feels like? Self-love? "holy shit," I wrote, "thatʻs a new thought, new feeling, new concept!"
This summer was supposed to be about surfing, creating, and playing. And it was. I surfed and created and played. I also discovered so much about myself and rediscovered what it was to have friends again. Really have friends. And the more I opened up to them, the more I trusted them, I was surprised to learn that my friends? They support and love me, they donʻt judge me, and often were harboring similar feelings and experiences that they hadnʻt shared, either. We connected.
And the more that happened, I somehow started learning to trust myself. I was proving my own resiliency to myself. By trusting others, I demonstrate my strength and confidence, even if I donʻt always feel it in those moments. Itʻs a feedback loop that looks nothing like I expected.
My vulnerabilities may seem like weakness to you-- it felt that way to me for most (all?) of my life, and it sometimes (often?) still does. But every time I reach out to you, every time I confide in you, whether or not you give me the support or encouragement I seek, itʻs a win. Because each time you catch me, each time you listen, each time you sit in this space with me, you become more intricately woven into the tapestry of this journey, my life. You show me how good it feels to trust. And each time Iʻm dismissed, laughed at, or ignored, I still see how strong and resilient I am because, though it always feels good to feel seen, I donʻt need your permission or approval to feel what I feel. My vulnerabilities make me human, which means Iʻm sometimes really uncomfortable, but Iʻm okay with that. Dealing with my challenges as an imperfect human is something I can be proud of.
This summer was a success. I didnʻt quite accomplish everything I wanted to, but I learned a lot about myself, expanded my village, and deepened connections. I cried less, laughed more. I looked into your eyes. We sang to each other, walked together, shared pain and joy. I danced and wrote a bunch. We shared intimate moments that I never before thought possible. And I am eternally grateful for you. I am where I am today because I am flawed and amazing. Iʻm also here because of you and our friendship.
Materials: Small, half-deflated football (the potato); larger less-deflated football (foot); frisbee (bee) = Hot Potato Footbee Objective: Catch everything. Drop nothing. Say "fuck" a lot. Directions: Get some friends, put space between you, toss the shit to each other. Not literal shit-- the materials (see above). Add a gazillion tiny, spiky pine cones to the ground before you start. Great for traction. Or pain.
Was I the only one barefoot? Itʻs possible I was the only one dedicated enough to eschew kalipa.
It might have been the best fun I had all weekend, playing with those girls. It doesnʻt have to be girls, though itʻs required that my playmates be committed to the game. I hate when people half-ass it. You no have to dive for the ball, right, but make a fucking effort. Run. Jump. Hustle.
I love hearing "Kanani!" "Aunty Kanani!" "ʻAnakē Kanani!" I love hearing laughter and cheering and encouraging words. I even like smack talk if it isnʻt asshole-ish (but sometimes a little asshole-ish can be fun, too).
I love the physicality. The running, jumping, hustling, diving (ever seen me dive AND fucking catch the ball? I DO. I HAVE. Itʻs beautiful.), and keeping track of multiple objects and people at the same time. So. Much. Fun. I love the aching muscles, the rapid breathing, the feeling of a well-thrown ball thumping against my chest. Itʻs fucking exhilarating! A rush! So many good feels.
I love the camaraderie. These girls. These strong, funny girls who would rather be throwing a ball or body surfing than sitting in a chair, staring at a phone.
I love the immediacy. Only right now exists when you hear your name being yelled by two people and a football and frisbee come flying at you from two different directions. All there is is this moment. and we are connected in that moment. There is a relationship between thrower and catcher, and it happens over and over again each time an object is thrown (see camaraderie above).
I love the skill involved. It was windy and to get an object to Poli or Hiʻi or Noe, I had to throw against the wind. How hard to throw the ball? How should I toss the frisbee? In which direction? Should I just chuck the potato underhanded? Where will I intersect with the frisbee? How high do I need to jump to catch the ball? Holy shit, the ballʻs gonna hit that stranger in the back! Knock it down, no even bother trying to catch it!
How could I have forgotten just how much I love to move?
I love to read and write. I love doing crossword puzzles.
But Iʻve also been walking for transportation, exercise, and fun for all my life. Iʻve loved dancing since I can remember (I donʻt know how many times Iʻve heard Kafrinʻs embarrassing retelling of how I would bossily choreograph songs in our carport). I grew up throwing, catching, whacking and bouncing balls. I broke my wrist in the fifth grade roller skating. I taught myself how to ride a two-wheel bike. I took swimming lessons for most of my childhood.
Yes, I was never much of an athlete. I didnʻt do organized sportsing like my siblings. I was mediocre at best at a lot of shit. Itʻs horrible what shame can do.
How could I have ever forgotten that I love being active? Dirty feet tell me Iʻve been playing well, and right now, my feet are all buss from walking, from my fins, from the pole. My skin is super dry and itchy from being out in the sun, despite all the sunscreen and lotions. I have new old problems, like how to keep my hair out of my face when Iʻm catching waves, and new old-lady problems like how to protect my eyeballs from the sun while Iʻm catching waves.
No get me wrong. I love being lazy. I love loafing and watching TV and eating. I enjoy sitting on the beach, reading a book. But Iʻm not going to forget how my body loves to move. I can be lazy and adventurous! Kanani can be many things even if they seem contradictory. Iʻm contradictory, after all. Donʻt you know me? Iʻm complicated. Iʻm complex. I am intricate.
Besides, you donʻt have to be good at something to do it. Iʻm just gonna do what I love and hope it works out in the end.
My therapy homework assignment for the past 2 weeks: write a love letter to myself.
Have I ever written you a love letter? I write beautiful love letters, I think. Having never received one that Iʻve composed, Iʻm only guessing, but I think Iʻd love to get one from me. Why had I never thought to do this before?
Iʻll tell you why. Because itʻs fucking HARD.
You see that image at the top? Thatʻs how far I made it before I sobbed one big sob, no tears. The sound just escaped my throat, like my stomach barfed it up involuntarily.
And not because I donʻt know what to write. Iʻve had enough time to start mentally composing, and it helps that I do actually like myself more than I think I ever have in my life. Itʻs just hard to write the words Iʻve only ever thought. I typed those words, "you are a treasure," with my eyes closed.
I buy into this exercise. Iʻve poured so much love into other people, but Iʻve never turned that focus on myself. "Kanani, I love you because . . . " How powerful is that? When Iʻve written a love letter to someone else, I filled it with my heart. My goal is to have you feel as close to what I feel about you. I try to make my love tangible through words. Do you see how much you mean to me? Do you feel my love surrounding you?
Whatʻs it like to feel my own love wrapped around me?
I love getting love letters-- itʻs probably one of my favorite gifts to receive. Those words, just for me? I love words, right? And those words that youʻve written were chosen for me? For little me? You chose those words for me? Each one is a gift! Thatʻs so fucking special!
Which words will I choose for myself? Which words are worthy of me? Iʻm not sure yet. That will come as my fingers fly across the keyboard. Maybe Iʻll even share it with you as a public testament, I donʻt know. I donʻt know anything. But Iʻm learning.
Iʻm struggling and Iʻve been struggling, and Iʻm not okay.
These past two days have been a giant shitbag. I feel sad and empty and everything is sad and empty.
Why am I doing this? Why am I saying this? Why am I going there? Whatʻs the fucking point?
I woke up yesterday after a great 8 hour sleep and I felt good. I felt relaxed and maybe even content. "In this moment," I thought, "things are good."
Then I got up to pee, came back to bed, and started to cry.
Thatʻs how quick it happens, folks. Thatʻs how random.
Doing things when I feel like this is like it was when I was bleeding constantly. I have to plan or at least have an idea of what Iʻm going to do, how long Iʻm going to be out, do I trust the person Iʻll be with if I have a meltdown? I canʻt just go out and have a good time. It hasnʻt been working like that lately.
This coming weekend is camp, and I was looking forward to it. Itʻs going to be big. The kind of big where we plan menus and set up the 10x20 tarps. The kids are already packing and excitedly talking about what they want to do when they get there-- crabbing, surfing, sʻmores! Usually, Iʻm excited, too. Being surrounded by family and friends, nothing to do or worry about except staying hydrated and sufficiently covered in sunscreen. We kanikapila, have a talent show, play games. Dad and I work on crosswords together. Last time, Kiel taught me how to crochet while he made stuff for the kids
I woke up yesterday thinking I donʻt wanna go.
I joke about my high-functioning depression, but itʻs not a joke. Itʻs not pretty or funny or cool. Itʻs not something Iʻm proud of nor am I ashamed of it. I worry that it will scare my friends if they donʻt understand. Itʻs sometimes difficult to admit Iʻm not okay. I donʻt really know why I lie to those closest to me and say Iʻm alright when Iʻve been crying off and on all day. Often, itʻs cuz in that moment I feel fine. But itʻs my mental health, I think, getting in the way of my mental health. Because I wonder, "What good could possibly come of admitting to you that I feel like shit and hate myself?" Even if you want to help, how is your help going to help? That might not make sense to you, but it does to me.
How contradictory depression can make a person!
Todayʻs been better. I woke up, went to the gym and the market! Washed dishes, even. Musicʻs been a balm, and it isnʻt always. Iʻm trying to stay rooted to this moment, to enjoy this moment, to remember that itʻs fleeting and fickle. You know the title of my blog, right? Not this individual blog, but the collection of them. Be here now. Thatʻs always the goal.
I know Iʻll be okay again. One day, it wonʻt always be such a struggle. One day, the punch in the gut wonʻt be so close behind the laughter. Itʻs hard now, but thereʻs also so much love in my life-- maybe more today than ever before-- and, you know, I actually like myself most days. And thereʻs so much beauty in the world, so much light, so much to marvel and celebrate. I donʻt always see it or feel it or celebrate it, but at least I know itʻs there, waiting for me.
I thought thatʻs what I had to be because thatʻs what strength was: isolation, silence, beauty.
Wanna know a not-secret? That bites, it doesnʻt work, I donʻt want to be that kind of strong anymore.
For whatever reason, Iʻve been talking to a lot of different people lately, though mostly women around my age, and Iʻve discovered that *gasp* Iʻm not alone. *Gasp* Iʻm not the only one sucking. *Gasp* Theyʻre struggling, too. Theyʻre having trouble with their partners, their kids, their bodies, their brains, work, school, exes, whatever.
On the faces of these women, I see smiles, and I get it. I donʻt think youʻre being fake or putting on a show. I get it. Thatʻs me. Because so many of you are working hard to keep it together and keep it moving. It isnʻt fake, itʻs just what we know, right? There ainʻt nothing for it but to keep keeping on. And if I smile through it all, itʻs because I have hope, even if I donʻt feel it. Itʻs because I know it wonʻt always be like this, even if I donʻt feel it.
Itʻs also because maybe we donʻt know how to ask for help. Maybe we donʻt even know we need or want help. Maybe we think weʻre the only ones. Maybe weʻve gotten so much shit from others when weʻve tried to reach out that it isnʻt a fucking option anymore.
We have become islands.
I asked Jonah, I asked Liane, I asked Shelley, I asked Shani and Kehau: what do we do with this? Do we continue to be islands? It ainʻt working, yo, and it breaks my fucking heart to see so many of my friends, so many beautiful, smart, and kind women suffering alone. I canʻt just ignore this. It needs to change. Yes, my own pain sucks, but itʻs lightened whenever I connect with one of you. Itʻs a burden shared when we come together, so we need to come together.
But I donʻt know what to do with these islands. Iʻm not Maui with his hook. At least, I donʻt yet know what my hook is. Best I can figure is to continue to invite you all to join me on my daily walks. Thatʻs how Iʻve been able to connect one-on-one with some of you recently, but maybe if more of you join me, we can expand our community.
Because I see community as a way of dealing with my anxiety and depression. Community is my remedy for isolation and loneliness. Iʻm not being hyperbolic when I say that I have been shouldering my shit for as long as I can remember, only begrudgingly sharing the load when it was completely unavoidable. It is still incredibly difficult for me to trust people. And these same sentiments I hear over and over from the women around me who are dying for help but donʻt know how to ask for it or accept it or who have gone unheard.
All I can do is try and all I can do is reach out to my friends, my acquaintances, my coworkers, and family. Come throw a ball with me or join me for a walk. We can talk story, laugh, cry, all of the above. Together.
I spoke with a lot of people this weekend and reconnected with some old friends. The camaraderie, Iʻve missed this last little while. The knowing. When you see friends with whom you have all this history, itʻs like a warm hug, isnʻt it? I feel rooted again.
And the very next second, Iʻm not. Iʻm unsettled and anxious. I feel it in my chest and stomach, that tightness, but itʻs also an emptiness.
Who am I? Where do I fit in? Why donʻt I love myself?
These shifts happen all the time. I like to think of them as microclimates, you know? The shift is usually subtle, but they are all over the place and can escalate quickly.
A friend who I saw on Sunday tried to kill herself that night.
This might confuse a lot of people who are lucky enough to have little to no experience with depression-- how could this happen? She seemed fine. We talked and laughed and hugged that very day!
Because these things can change between breaths. Between one exhale to the next inhale, you can breathe out joy and suck in pain. It just happens. And though I canʻt speak to my friendʻs depression, I can relate to the quickness of that shift. It happened to me that very day, multiple times over.
Why donʻt I love myself? Why donʻt I love myself? Why donʻt I love myself?
Why canʻt I be happy?
It makes me crazy. It makes me cry. Every day is a struggle.
On the struggle scale with 10 being super hard and 1 being super easy, I tend to hover around a 3 on a daily. But make no mistake, itʻs a struggle. Every day requires some kind of effort, and itʻs worse if Iʻm tired or hungry (although, thanks a fucking lot, depression, for also suppressing my appetite. Ugh.). I can span the scale in a day, going from a 2 to a 9 then down to a 1.
But hereʻs the success: I know in my heart, my brain, and my guts that Iʻm making progress. I know Iʻm learning to love myself and to manage my anxiety and depression. Iʻm learning new moves, gaining new tools, changing bad habits. I need to trust myself, and in lieu of that trust, I can be patient with myself.
Hereʻs the thing, though. Until such a time when I can confidently proclaim that I love myself (or whatever the fuck that looks like), until I spend more time in a 2 than an 8, it sucks. It fucking sucks.
NOTE: Iʻve previously written in another post that "every day is not a struggle." This is not a lie or a contradiction. This really just illustrates how I learn and grow and how I manage. I donʻt always know what the fuck is going on or how to identify and describe my experiences. But I try.
My high-functioning depression knows when to slip in.
Yesterday, the last day of school, was non-stop testing. Bang it out, donʻt stop, keep going til itʻs done. Iʻve been administering these assessments for the last ten years, maybe, so I got it down.
The tests themselves are easy and each only lasts one minute. I explain the instructions, start the timer, ding!, tell them to stop, repeat. I hear the same thing over and over (and over) again. I say the same thing over and over again.
I love it because I get to sit down with just about every student in the school. I get to visit with them for a few brief moments, which is even more meaningful now that Covid prevents us from actually interacting on a regular basis.
But it meant, yesterday, no self care. I could have, but didnʻt, take a break. I didnʻt, though I could have, stop for lunch. I just plowed through the testing, scored MOST of them (sorry, Lori!), packed up my personal things, and took down my crap off the walls. This took the entire school day.
By the time I was closing up the classroom, I was famished, headachey, and tired. I could feel myself slipping. I knew where I was going. Home, yes, but specifically my bed. Iʻd be curled up, half-dressed, trying to keep myself afloat.
And I knew, I knew it was because I didnʻt listen to myself. I should have taken more brain breaks, I shouldnʻt have waited until nearly 4pm to eat lunch, I shouldnʻt have tried to pack all my crap and haul it home in one go.
So, at 2:45pm yesterday, you would have found me curled up on my bed, tears streaming down my face. Itʻs a success, though, that I gave myself space to cry it out. Itʻs a success (and itʻs super important to acknowledge this) that I wasnʻt sobbing uncontrollably, which is what happens in my darker moments. Itʻs an enormous success that I could identify what triggered this reaction because then itʻs more manageable: eat, Kanani, and rest.
Take care, my friends. Tend to your mental and physical health. Listen to yourselves. Honor your inner voice when it urges you to take a break. I guess I needed the reminder that running on fumes sucks donkey butt.
Learn from my mistakes, yo. Donʻt suck donkey butt.
"You are an average of your four closest friends," Jonah said to me last night. He wasnʻt talking about me specifically, and the message he was really trying to convey was: what do your close friendships say about you?
This slight change in perspective has been super impactful today.
Because I have amazing fucking friends. They are smart, perceptive, kind, generous people. The manaʻo they share blows my mind.
And often, Iʻve felt myself unworthy of the love they show me. Their patience and compassion.
I think I suck.
But if I consider how beautiful they are and that theyʻre MY friends-- they choose to be friends with ME-- then maybe Iʻm amazing and beautiful, too.
I cherish my friends. I love them. I would never hurt them, and if I did, Iʻd remedy it as quick as I could. Whenever they call on me, I try to be there, and if for some reason I canʻt, I work hard to explain why. Because theyʻre important to me. Because itʻs who I am. Because I cannot do anything less. (To be honest, my friends know this about me, anyway, so no need explain, even. But I still do cuz no can help.)
Then I look at myself. Who am I? What kind of person am I? You wanna know what I came up with? It surprised me.
Iʻm the person Iʻd treasure. Iʻm the person Iʻd cherish. Iʻm the person Iʻd make that effort for. Because Iʻm a pretty fucking kick-ass person. I didnʻt always know this.
Iʻve been through a lot. Iʻm still going through a lot. Meredith called it "high-functioning" depression, and I laughed. Itʻs true. Sometimes I canʻt tell if itʻs the depression or anxiety thatʻs getting me, though probably Iʻm sure itʻs both. But Iʻm high-functioning so even though maybe I canʻt clean the fucking house or return a simple email (let alone read the fucking thing), I can laugh, listen, teach, comb my hair, floss, pick people up and drop them off. Most days, Iʻm good.
Point is, if I were my friend (and, you know, not me), Iʻd be kind to me. If I were my friend, I wouldnʻt consider myself a burden, Iʻd be stoked to know me, Iʻd think it an honor to help. How do I know that? Because I never think that when one of my friends needs me. I never think, "What a hassle she is!"
Thatʻs what Iʻve always thought of myself. A burden. A humbug. Asking for help meant burdening people, giving them a reason to reject me. Get rid of me. But Iʻd never do that to any of you! And I think you all know that. Yes, lately, Iʻve been dropping a lot of balls. I donʻt text back, I donʻt do what I say Iʻll do, I canʻt commit. Iʻm sorry. I only have so much bandwidth these days. I hate being unreliable.
Nevertheless, Jonahʻs words last night have been helping me see myself differently-- as a person worth loving, caring about, making an effort for. Iʻm the kind of person Iʻd work at to keep in my life. There are a few people who have "unhomied" me (go watch Atypical on Netflix, yo), and for long time I wondered what I did. I felt disposable. Long time it took me to understand itʻs not me. And even if it was me, then why didnʻt they say something?
Itʻs not always easy to remember my worth. I easily forget how special I am. I forget how much love I bring, how much I give. I forget how fun I am, how smart I am, how compassionate and thoughtful. I forget that Iʻm accepting and safe, open-minded and silly. I know Iʻm flawed and Iʻm always trying to be better. Do better. My sometimes fragile mental health doesnʻt make me weak, it makes me stronger. It makes me work, learn, change, grow.
I forget that Iʻm a prize.
And now that I have caught a glimpse of this beautiful person-- I can see her kind heart, playful spirit, and keen mind-- maybe I can value her. Maybe I can treat her better. Maybe I can love her.
I donʻt trust myself, so Iʻm lucky that I have really great friends.
Because Iʻve trusted my friends. Theyʻre reliable, honest, supportive, and will call me on my bullshit. Trusting them has been pretty easy. Loving them, easy, too.
Trusting myself? Not so much.
Itʻs an underdeveloped skill, letʻs say. I didnʻt know how to do it because Iʻd never been taught. Of all the lessons our high school counselors could have planned, I think this should have been right near the top of the list but wasnʻt.
But thanks to therapy and a super generic "how to trust yourself" Google search, Iʻm learning.
Two weeks ago, I started an "I am enough" practice in which TWICE every single damn day, I write "I am enough" and provide three supporting points. As an exercise, this terrified me, but the format was familiar-- itʻs a stupid thesis statement, isnʻt it? So even though I knew I could handle, I was terrified. Challenging myself to think about myself was bad enough, now Iʻd have to think actual good things about myself? Holy shit!
I was surprised when, after the second day, I began to look forward to the exercise. Cuz it is like exercise where you donʻt really wanna do it, but when you do, you feel good you did. If nothing else, you know you invested in your health and future. Doing the list was difficult, that much was true. I didnʻt just sit down and have three things off the top of my head. I had to think about it! It required effort!
And that, dear friends, was the fucking blessing.
From the beginning, Iʻd been wondering what shit made me "enough." Is it what I like? Is it my personality? What Iʻve accomplished? When you get as cerebral as I can be, and when youʻre as inexperienced at this as I am, this stuff can make you nuts.
So, I had to prepare. I started putting things into my memory bank for later. Whether I was teaching a class, helping Shelley write a paper, watching Jordan Klepper on YouTube, or eating an orange (minus the rind, of course) like it was an apple, Iʻd think, "Oh! This would be good for the list!"
Until I realized only a couple of days ago that Iʻm not just coming up with shit for the list, Iʻm fucking changing the way that I think about myself. Holy fucking shit, Mahanaʻs good!
Like Merf reminded me, changes can occur at one degree increments. Just one thing, one time. Then two times. Then five. Then two weeks! Just posting these damn "I am enough" pictures is super effortful for me. Makes me feel like a fraud or a narcissist. But feeling good about myself DOESNʻT make me a narcissist. Itʻs like the only person who ever doubts that Iʻm a fucking kick-ass person is me, right? I know it-- I just gotta BELIEVE it. Because I really am proud of wearing my laundry basket as a hat when I go downstairs, you know, out in public where people can see me. That I make robot noises loud enough to embarrass the kids. I love that when I came home from the park last night and washed my hands, I got to see the brown of chalk and dirt swirl down the drain.
These things make me happy. They make me feel alive. They make me feel like me, and thereʻs no shame in that. I got this.
"I used to call myself a tomboy, but now I just call myself a girl," I told Shayne.
She was showing me her new long pants and checkerboard high-top Vans. I showed her my checkerboard Vans socks poking out of my Doc Martens.
"I just call myself a girl because girls can dress like butchies, too," I finished. Then added, "But I also wear dresses. Just with these shoes."
Because girls can be whatever and can dress however. Someone said to me the other day, "You like the 90s?" in such a way that suggested she was throwing shade on my fashion choices. My answer was diplomatic, but what I really wanted to say was, "No be jealous cuz I look good, yo."
I dress how I like. I wear what I like. Iʻve described my style asold lady meets skater boy because I like masculine and feminine, comfort and punk, mixing and mismatching basics. Itʻs been fitted tops and baggy jeans, fishnets and shorts and band t-shirts, knee-high socks and penny loafers and mini skirts, pretty pink sun dresses with black 8-eye Docs. My style is as complex and contradictory as my personality. The best is when I can combine both the so-called feminine and
masculine in one quirky look because fashion has always been more about self-expression than looking attractive.
Shayne lamented, though, that there werenʻt more "tomboys" in school who look like her. And I can understand. I didnʻt know a lot of girls who looked like me, either. But for years, now, my fourth-grade niece has worn what she wanted, and I couldnʻt be prouder. Because her style is her personality made visible and tangible, sheʻs bravely expressing her inner weird! And she is weird, yo.
I not only like that, I see it as my job to encourage it. To nurture that curiosity, self-expression, and self-acceptance. It is an act of resistance, for sure, but itʻs also fun and liberating to be who you want to be. To be who you are.
Being a weirdo has never really been a problem for me-- Iʻve always kind of embraced it and had fun with it-- even if it was sometimes lonely (and maybe made me feel a little bit crazy) when I thought I was the only one. Itʻs important to me that the kids in my life see that a person-- particularly a woman-- can be a whole range of different and still be "normal." Sheʻs still kind, funny, relatable, honest. My young students are still shocked when I teach a lesson sitting cross-legged in the middle of my desk. Gasp!
Because none of us is one-dimensional, yet often, thatʻs all we see. Itʻs all we show.
I like to imagine that my weirdness informs all I do. That it helps me to co-create safe spaces where people see the genuine interest I have in them as individuals and can enjoy the warmth of our interactions.
I no can tell you how jealous I am of people who donʻt have depression or anxiety. People who donʻt feel like theyʻre teetering on the precipice of mental well-being. When I go for a walk or Iʻm driving to work or something, I look at random folks and wonder, "Is she happy? Is he doing what he wants? Are they content? Are they
with the people they want to be with? Where is
this person on their journey?" I wonder if theyʻre as fucked up as I can
be.
I havenʻt always been this person. Obviously. Sorry for insulting your intelligence there, I simply needed to state that for my own sanity. For better or worse, I havenʻt always been this person. This unsure, weepy, no-light having person.
When I think about that perfect Spring Break Friday back in, like, 2017, where everything just sort of fell into place, where I started the day on my own, letting the universe unfold its path before me, and having the universe-- in the form of my friends, Heather and Keahi, and my sister, Shelley-- meet me exactly where I was, I marvel at the faith I had that the universe would provide. And it did provide. A completely unplanned day where events unfolded as they were supposed to in accordance with the void. A day after which I was super relaxed and elated not just because I did fun things, but because the universe answered my call.
That was trust.
And today, Iʻm envious of all of you who feel that trust in the world. Who trust yourselves and in the space you occupy.
Because hereʻs what I trust at the moment:
I have the physical strength to easily haul my bicycle up and down the steps of my apartment and then reliably tether it to the car rack with a piece of rope.
My therapist, the awesome mofo that she is, will help me leapfrog through the week until I donʻt have to leapfrog anymore.
Reading and writing are my pillars. Even writing this blog right now grounds me. Writing is thinking. Reading is imagining. Both activities can be transformative and transcendent.
I will make it to the end of the day. In one piece. Smiling.
Iʻm not saying Iʻll do it with grace and style. Brah, sometimes itʻs fucking ugly. Thereʻs a quote from Dean Koontzʻs, Odd Thomas, that I loved since I first read it years ago: "Life is not about how fast you run or even with what degree of grace. Itʻs about perseverance, about staying on your feet and slogging forward no matter what."
But.
Every day is not a struggle. I going say that again. Every day is NOT a struggle. Most of my days are good ones. Laughing is easy. I like to laugh. Iʻll whack your butt, fart in your face, belch in the middle of a conversation, say something entirely inappropriate (are we not doing phrasing anymore?), talk to you like a baby, have a dance party in the middle of the parking lot with the rope I use to tie up my bike (or pretend to use as a belt).
It was Shani who reminded me that depression doesnʻt have to be the lowest of the lows. Depression can sit just below normal.
Thatʻs where Iʻm at.
But.
Neither have I always been this comfortable with who I am, inside and out. Maybe ever. Despite being mentally and emotionally all over the place, I am physically fit. My body is strong and healthy. Iʻm weird and playful and curious. Iʻm getting better at making space for myself, Iʻm more confident, Iʻm more open to the world.
And perhaps thatʻs also why I struggle. This is new to me, this openness and acceptance. Iʻm often vulnerable and uncomfortable. I want to hide my flaws, I want to not give a flying fuck, I want to pretend Iʻm okay when Iʻm not. I want to stay small, stay silent, and smile smile smile. But lying-- and those would be lies-- doesnʻt suit anymore. Pretending is ill-fitting.
Look, I know Iʻm kind of a mess. After Iʻd been beating myself up for being complicated, Mahana looked it up. She first asked me to define "complicated," and my answer, of course, was all negative. Her Google search (and I looked for myself later) yielded this: "consisting of many interconnecting parts or elements; intricate." I laughed. "That sounds desirable. Artistic, even," I said.
So, Iʻm complicated. I consist of many interconnected parts. I am intricate. I am a work of art. Unique and ordinary at the same time. Because yes, I have anxiety and depression-- I sit just
below whatever the fuck normal is-- and that can be enough to convince
me that Iʻm not worth the effort of knowing. And though I am flawed, my mental health is not a flaw, and neither is my weirdness, intelligence, or sense of humor. Iʻm learning that embracing all of those parts makes me stronger, that trusting myself begins with being kinder to myself, and both lessons make it easier to weather the shitty moments when Iʻm inexorably drawn to that abyss of tears.
This probably means nothing to you. Why would it? You donʻt wonder about my step count or understand the significance of removing the device from my wrist.
The last time I took it off was when we began sheltering in place from Covid in March 2020. It was a particularly difficult time for me, as the uncertainties of the pandemic aggravated my preexisting anxieties. I didnʻt want to leave the house, even for a walk. And I love walking. I didnʻt want to exercise even though I love exercising. I was so scared, so anxious.
So, taking off my fitbit this afternoon? Yeah.
Back toward the end of January, I had a couple of bad days. Iʻd come home from work and land up in bed, sobbing for an hour or so. When I was done, Iʻd be right as rain. I chalked this up to a menstrual cycle that no longer included bleeding (because if thereʻs no bleeding, how do you know where you are in your cycle, especially when that cycle was never regular?). But there didnʻt seem to be any obvious trigger or reason-- I just had to cry.
The last time I experienced something like this was immediately following my hysterectomy in 2018. It was hormonal, my physician said, and she couldnʻt give me hormones to treat it because of the cancer risk, which was increased since, you know, Iʻd had cancer.
But these recent episodes, which are relatively short but potent, followed me into February. By the end of the month, I figured that since I deemed those symptoms worthy of a doctorʻs visit in 2018, I should go see her again now.
Short story, short: she gave me a low-dose anti-depressant to manage my symptoms and told me to come back in two weeks for a follow-up. Iʻve been taking it for a couple of weeks now and donʻt see much improvement.
One of the side effects of the pill Iʻm taking, however, is weight loss. And that might seem a boon to many of you, and youʻd assume it would be for me, too. But I was already losing weight before this pill. I havenʻt told most people, but I actually lost twenty pounds between mid-December and February. That was in addition to the twenty pounds Iʻd already lost before that. And you know what? Iʻm still losing weight. My body feels good and healthy because I changed my diet (out of necessity), exercise often, and am active daily. It makes sense that Iʻm losing weight.
It means, however, that my body also feels foreign to me, and when I look at it, I donʻt really see it as it is now. To be honest, I probably never had an accurate view of my body. Anyway, remember what I said in my other blog? You get used to seeing something through one lens, changing your perspective is hard. I am perhaps the most fit Iʻve been in my adult life. I can feel the muscles in my shoulders, arms, and legs. My core is stronger and tighter. I feel physically awesome. My body is strong and it looks more like how I want it to.
The cruelty, though, is that I feel physically healthy and strong, Iʻve accomplished this huge feat of losing weight and getting fit (and changing unhealthy eating habits into healthy ones to accomplish this feat), Iʻm starting to like the way my body is changing, and yet emotionally, Iʻm a fucking wreck.
I can feel myself slipping, you know, even if I donʻt know when it will hit. It starts as a heaviness in my chest or belly and I feel like it drags down my heart and brain. And when Iʻm in the middle of it, my heart feels like itʻs being ripped apart into a million fucking pieces. Thatʻs not hyperbole, yo. Thatʻs how it feels in the most vivid figurative sense.
Anything can set it off, and nothing at all can set it off. I couldnʻt tell you what triggers it or what Iʻm thinking about as Iʻm sobbing myself silly, curled in the fetal position, my blanket pulled over my head. All I know is that frequently, Iʻm unable to pull myself out of it as I have done since the beginning of my life.
Iʻve never been a depressive person. Dramatic, sometimes, yes, but you know me, right? You know me as cheerful, flexible, easy going, optimistic. I have always had hope. Always. And even when I had tough times to endure, Iʻve been able to self-soothe or use other tools to pull myself up.
This is different. I havenʻt been able to. I do the usual shit and still end up crying. And yes, Iʻve had a lot going on in my life in the last two years, not including Covid, but that doesnʻt feel like the reason I canʻt seem to manage this feeling. Because, brah, I have always been able to deal.
Not dealing has been fucking with my mind, too. Not only am I afraid of being perceived as weak, Iʻm afraid that Iʻm actually weak! Okay, okay, okay, I know Iʻm not, but the thing with mental health is that knowing something cognitively isnʻt the same as feeling or believing it.
So I havenʻt talked about this with most of you. Some of you have seen it, and some of you have experienced my storm. But largely, I havenʻt spoken about it.
It was telling when a few weeks ago a friend Iʻve known for over a decade said, "But Kanani is always happy! I canʻt even imagine you being grumpy." And yes, thatʻs been me historically (though I can be plenty grumpy, believe that). Iʻm the cheerleader, the nurturer-- just ask my siblings. Each and every one of them. Theyʻll tell you. Iʻm the one they come to for emotional support. And I enjoy it! And Iʻm good at it. But it makes asking for help or talking about my issues more difficult for me.
Instead, Iʻve taken off my fitbit because I canʻt bring myself to care about it today. That canʻt be the part of my identity that matters. I like being active, I like love going for walks, and reaching my goals is exciting and rewarding. So, that Iʻve removed the fitbit is significant.
Friends, I believe something is wrong with me physically. I will be 45 years old in a couple months and notice that many of my friends of the same age are also experiencing what seem like hormonal shifts. In 2018, when I was bleeding heavily and constantly, my doctors were sympathetic and compassionate, but I didnʻt get the feeling that any one of them was particularly concerned about my problem. I had to advocate for myself. I had to make humbug for the doctors and their staff. Iʻm going back to the doctor tomorrow, and Iʻm lucky because sheʻs very supportive and responsive, but Iʻm going to make humbug.
Because these crying episodes fucking suck ass. I hate them. And with no obvious catalyst, I lack the mental defenses to prevent and combat the feelings of hopelessness and sadness. It is a deep well. And not only does it suck donkey balls just to feel that way, itʻs fucking with the way I see myself. Is this what Iʻm going to be like for the rest of my life? A weepy mess, unable to care for herself? Weak? Surely not. Iʻve seen myself as strong and capable. Impulsive yet also rational. This crying is not rational.
Iʻm sharing this with you all now for at least two reasons:
1. It feels good to write. Iʻve avoided it for a few weeks, youʻll notice, and mostly because mental health. Ugh. Fucking mental health. It feels right to write about it now. Talking with my sister in law last night was super helpful in this matter. Which leads me to
2. Sharing stories connects us. Iʻve said it so many times and Iʻll continue to say it a million times over. When we share our stories with each other, we build bridges and make connections. We can feel less isolated, less awkward, better supported. Trusting someone with your story can be super difficult, but also super rewarding. Weʻve done that before, havenʻt we? How many of you have I thanked for sharing your bravery with me? How many of you have heard one of my stories and thought, "Holy shit, thatʻs me!"
So, here it is, my story. I sometimes feel very isolated because of this depression? Is that what this is? I donʻt really know. I donʻt really understand whatʻs going on with my body, and understanding shit really helps me deal. And maybe you know what Iʻm talking about. Maybe you have experiences similar to mine. Maybe you know what that slip feels like, what the bottom of that well feels like, and what the sometimes sudden onset of clarity at the end of that desperation feels like. Because-- silver lining alert-- Iʻve always come out of it and I can always smile and laugh again.
You know what Iʻm going to end with, donʻt you? Iʻm totally predictable.
We can support each other and build community, simply by sharing stories. Just by trusting each other just a little bit. I know itʻs hard because itʻs hard for me, too. Itʻs super hard for me. Even this blog is an exercise in trust, and not everyone is worthy of your trust. But I hope you find someone that is, just as I have decided to trust all of you.
Hereʻs my question, and though itʻs mostly rhetorical, I ask in earnest: how the fuck do we know anything?
I posit that we know what we know because weʻve been taught.
Whether itʻs experiential or academic or passed down from older generations like second-hand clothes, what we know is learned, and in many situations, we only know as good as the information we are given. So, if our parents were raised with faulty logic, which they then passed to us, then we perpetuate this cycle of misinformation even if it hurts us, separates us, makes us feel like we want to die.
Hereʻs what I know about being a (cis, mostly-straight) woman:
Your value is largely based on what you look like, and the better you look, the more value you have. But you must also have the right (silent and agreeable) personality.
1. Pretty = flat stomach, good boobs, tight ass, long hair, shapely hips, legs for days, symmetry.
2. Great personality = uncomplicated, happy, eager to please.
3. Sense of humor = laugh at the jokes. All of the jokes. That guyʻs hilarious.
4. Fashionable = skirts, dresses, form-fitting or otherwise; tiny shorts, skin-tight jeans, low-cut or cropped tops (or both!); slinky black dresses, cosmetics.
5. Bookish = boring, lazy, cerebral (read: smart [read: complicated]), too much thinky.
6. Loud = manly, masculine.
7. Muscular = manly, masculine.
8. Sensitive = complicated, emotional, stupid, crazy, naive, inconvenient, too much work. God, canʻt you just shut the fuck up and go to sleep already?
I know these things, like most girls know these things, because Iʻve watched enough television and movies, flipped through enough magazines, interacted with enough men and women, been called enough names, been given more than enough (well-meaning, unsolicited) advice.
I know enough to know that I have never been a pretty girl.
I grew up identifying as a tomboy because I knew no other words to describe what I was. None existed as far as I could tell. I grew up wanting to be just like my big brother and my dad. I dug for bugs, whacked whiffle balls with a whiffle ball bat, ran out for passes.
As teenagers, we turned tomboy into Ugly Girl-- a moniker I wore with pride. Iʻve never minded being an Ugly Girl. We were outsiders among outsiders. We were awkward and surly and unable (unwilling?) to hide it. We werenʻt popular. We were there to dance. To rock. To get sweaty, losing ourselves to the music. Not to be seen. Not to hook up. We moved in canvas shoes or Doc Martens, rocked slacks with button down shirts. When we were thirsty, we drank water out of the public bathroom sink. At one point in my youth, sick of feeling like I had to live up to the random beauty standard, I shaved my head.
Iʻve been asked many times, "Why ʻUgly Girlʻ?" It was in response to what we knew a girl was supposed to be.
But a more complete answer (and
itʻs important that you remember I speak only for myself and not for any
of the other Ugly Girls) is that I felt ugly.
Even as I rejected that archetypal pretty girl, I couldnʻt help but also buy into it. I was ugly because I wasnʻt any of the right things, I was all of the wrong things. I didnʻt have the ideal body, I was sarcastic, read a ton of books. I felt things deeply. I often spoke, sang, and laughed at max volume. I was smart and smart was bad, especially for a girl. I was headstrong, impulsive, defiant, and inquisitive-- all bad things for a girl to be.
These are things I knew. Things I learned.
When I was a kid, I was already self-conscious about the shape of my mouth when my dentist explained that the color of my lips was a result of me licking them so much. It made me feel like a freak because the color of my lips needed explaining. They required justification. I am still conscious of this today, folks. This shit endures.
How many different ways can a
girl be told sheʻs fat? That sheʻs not enough? Her thighs touch, her face is too round, her
calves too muscular. She ought to shave her legs, ought to have longer
hair. Smile more, wear different clothes, put on some make up. My body seemed perpetually available for inspection and discussion in varied and humiliating ways.
But I recognize now that I know fuck all. I know nothing. I donʻt know a goddamn thing.
My body has changed in the last few years, and especially in the last few months. I can see and feel the changes, but still itʻs confusing. Some people comment about how different I look, though most folks say nothing. And when I see myself in the mirror, I donʻt know who Iʻm looking at. I donʻt know what Iʻm looking at. When I see a photo of myself, I wonder, is that what I look like? Because the girl in that photo doesnʻt appear to be the same one I see in the mirror. Which girl is me?
And so if I take fifty photos of myself, they can all look drastically different based on the angle, time of day, amount of light, what Iʻm wearing, whether my hair is up or down, whether or not Iʻm wearing a cap, whether I smile or not. A million different variables and a million different Kananis. And cognitively, I can hypothesize that I am an amalgam of those images, but that breaks my brain. I still donʻt know what I look like. And because I canʻt verify the veracity of any photo of myself, all photos are lies.
I donʻt know what pretty is. I donʻt know what ugly is.
Instinctively, I want to say that on the attractive spectrum, Iʻm closer to ugly. I would often tell people when I met them online that I look like any average Hawaiian Chinese girl. Most of them didnʻt understand, and I was okay with that.
I donʻt know what pretty is.
I donʻt know what I am. I donʻt know what I look like. And even if you said I was pretty, I wouldnʻt know what that means. What does that mean? What combination or configuration of features makes this so? Is it the way I look? Or is it the way you look at me? Or, and hereʻs a fucking crazy, hair-splitting idea, is it what you see when you look at me?
I donʻt know anything.
But let me tell you what makes me feel good about my body. I can dance. I love dancing and my body can move. I can throw and catch a ball. I can play the ukulele. Maybe not very well, but Iʻve learned you donʻt have to be good at something to do it. My legs are strong. They can pedal a bike or walk me up a hill or propel me through the ocean. I have great teeth despite my contempt for oral hygiene.
You know what I learned I could do the other night? I was sitting astride Judahʻs skateboard in the parking lot, and with nothing to hold onto for leverage, I came into a standing position using only my leg and core muscles. I didnʻt make any groaning noises. Nothing hurt. My ass was a couple of inches off the ground on a very roll-y machine, and I stood up from a squat without falling and without the board flying away. I felt strong and I was amazed.
It ainʻt easy, you know, loving yourself. Trying to love yourself. Youʻve seen something through one lens for so long, you can only see it that way. Sometimes
I catch a glimpse of my eyes in the mirror and I think, "Wow, theyʻre
so expressive," and then immediately shut myself down. Donʻt be stupid, Kanani. I see myself in my virtual classroom and think, "I look cute today!" And then immediately feel like shit.
I asked Mahana if it was as simple as me flat-out rejecting the idea that I can be anything more than ugly. In true Mahana fashion, she tossed the question back to me. I donʻt think itʻs that simple, honestly. Maybe it is. Maybe Iʻm in denial. But I think itʻs that I donʻt know a goddamn fucking thing about anything, and thatʻs what I told her.
Not knowing anything is fucking liberating. I can release all that old,
worthless shit about what makes a girl pretty or wanted or desirable and
replace it with stuff that makes sense to me. Itʻs taken me this long to realize that, like the Green Day song, all my doubts are someone elseʻs point of view.
So then I recognize that those times when I notice my eyes, even if I shut myself down, are successes. Those are wins. Those are gains. I feel closer now than ever to embracing myself, inside and out, with genuine love and kindness. Itʻs also more important to me now than ever that this source of love and kindness is me.
But I cannot ignore the importance of having that kindness reflected back to me from the people I love and love me. Because hereʻs another thing I once "knew": you cannot love others until you love yourself. And yet another thing: if you truly love yourself, you donʻt need reassurance from others. I call bullshit on both counts, yo. I have loved others even as I hated myself, and your love, your gentleness, even your frustration supports me. We can be mirrors for each other, reflecting kindness, beauty, and even pain. We are not alone, we donʻt have to go it alone. We can teach each other and learn together.
I donʻt know that I will ever fully embrace this body and the weird soul it contains. And at this point, I donʻt know what new idea will replace the old. I donʻt know what my pretty is. However, the more I begin to recognize my own beauty, I feel more like me. Like Iʻm reclaiming geography. Does that make sense? I feel fuller and more complete. Definitely happier.
And you might say to me, "Kanani, your outward appearance doesnʻt matter. Itʻs the inside that counts!" You might suggest that this preoccupation with my body, with my appearance, is superficial and vain. I donʻt know if youʻd be right or wrong because I donʻt know anything.
Which means anything is possible.
Postscript:
There is a song, Not a Pretty Girl, by ani difranco. I donʻt think the message is the same as m blog, but definitely related. Because I used to think she was rejecting the pretty girl, but now I believe sheʻs pointing out the problem of the gaze and the relationship between subject and object.
"No one told me you were lovely, I just decided it was so You got that glow Like sunlight on the windows of an empty room Like television snow"
Itʻs not Super Bowl Sunday, folks. Itʻs Kananiʻs Day of Atonement. Thatʻs what it feels like. Like for all the hurt Iʻve ever caused anyone-- intentional or un-- today, I wear my hair shirt.
To be clear, no one has said or done anything to me. No one has hinted at past (or current) wrongs that Iʻve visited upon them, and not one person has said an ill word to me (except for the passive/aggressive announcement at Uniqlo that warned "everyone" to stop trying on clothes in the aisles). Heck, even the dog is cuddling up, his snout tucked under my leg.
But Iʻve hurt people. Iʻve been thoughtless. And what bothers me the most right now is that much of what Iʻm thinking about was caused by my failure to recognize that I mattered to other people. Kind of weird, right? I couldnʻt see that what I did had consequences for them.
What Iʻm trying to say is that I was callous and indifferent without even meaning to be. And that might be a relief to you, to know it was incidental, but it isnʻt to me. Itʻs worse than if I had acted deliberately. If Iʻd done it on purpose, at least I could own it. Doing it on accident means, "Hey, I know I caused you pain, but it was only because I was careless with your feelings."
I donʻt want your reassurances, although I appreciate the inclination to ease my suffering. Iʻm not suffering in a tragic sense, anyway. Itʻs just an acknowledgment that I fucked up. I know, I know, I know. Shh. I donʻt want to qualify how I feel right now. Iʻm not trying to wallow, Iʻm acknowledging in the hopes that I can do better moving forward.
Because I know weʻve all been there. Iʻve been hurt by those I love, too. I know Iʻve also brought joy to peopleʻs lives. I know Iʻve helped ease othersʻ suffering. Iʻve made them laugh, Iʻve alleviated their stress. Iʻve helped write their papers, fed them, taken them dancing, bought them ice cream, given them money, let them crash on my couch.
Tonight, however, Iʻm feeling the cruelty that Iʻve visited on people I loved. Itʻs just sitting on my chest, pausing, as if waiting for me to tell it the time.
Inevitably, I will hurt those I love again, intentionally or un. And maybe itʻs selfish of me (although, for sure Iʻm setting the bar real low here), but Iʻm just hoping that I do that unintentionally with less frequency.
In the movie, A Knightʻs Tale, Heath Ledgerʻs character, William, announces that heʻll win the jousting tournament to prove his love for Jocelyn.
Jocelyn, however, is completely unimpressed. She has zero fucks to give. Williamʻs declaration, the same that every other knight in the tournament has made to her, is meaningless because it costs him nothing. Sheʻs like, "Fuck that-- you all win for your own glory, this ainʻt got shit to do with me. Iʻm supposed to be impressed and flattered? Fuck that." But more to the point, winning requires William to demonstrate no vulnerability, and perhaps thatʻs what sheʻs really craving. Some realness. Because when we show our vulnerability to others, we open the door to deeper connections.
Itʻs easy to do things for others that come easily to us. Itʻs easy to treat well those who treat us well. Itʻs easy to demonstrate our physical prowess if weʻre athletic or to sing in front of a crowd if weʻve an excellent voice. I have no problem walking around the beach in only my swimsuit even though I have a far, far, FAR from beach-perfect body. The beach is my safe space and I feel comfortable and confident. Showing you the parts of me that Iʻm already confident about requires
little vulnerability. Those parts are easily visible no
matter who you are. But ask me to wear revealing dress and put on makeup? Fuuuuuuck thaaaaat.
However, even if I trust you, revealing the uncomfortable bits of myself requires me to take a risk because thereʻs still the fear that though that thing didnʻt break you, this thing might. This thing might be too much or not enough. Too cerebral, too ugly, too real, too superficial, too heavy, too scary, too foolish.
So, this is the work Iʻve been doing. Showing up for myself, being me, leaving myself open to judgment or acceptance. Iʻm going to do my best to be transparent with you. Iʻm going to tell you how I feel, what I like, what I donʻt like. Iʻll try to tell you what I need and want and how you can help. Iʻll ask for your help if I need or want it. Iʻm going to do my best to care for myself and trust that youʻll let me know if I step on your toes. Iʻll probably rub up against your boundaries, but Iʻll trust your judgment. Youʻll say something or not. You can tell me no, for real, but I going ask. I will also possibly appear foolish, naive, or otherwise unattractive, and Iʻll feel super uncomfortable. Iʻll get over it. Garanz.
And I know that there are pieces of you that youʻre afraid to show the world or just your special person, but want to. Or wish you could. Maybe, like me, your tolerance for faking shit has dropped dramatically. You desire authenticity and genuine connection. You want to drop the pretense and be present with your flawed self.
Well, Iʻll be there for you. Yes, you, my (few) readers. Dear friends. You can tell me what you need and what you want. You can tell me how I can help and then ask for my help. I canʻt read your mind, you know, and Iʻm kind of tired of anticipating and fulfilling. Because the transaction where we actually communicate with each other about what matters to us, thatʻs where we build trust, empathy, and love. At least, the kind that Iʻm looking for in all my relationships.
And I know itʻs shame to care about stuff. Or at least to show that you care about stuff. Youʻre supposed to keep it inside, be cool, be stoic, suffer in silence, pretend youʻre not hurting or confused or even frustrated. Youʻre supposed to be sunshine and bubbles and cotton candy. Youʻre not supposed to tell people, "I hurt. I need you." Shelley and I were fucking going over this yesterday and the numerous ways this shows up in our lives and pisses us the fuck off.
From Brene Brownʻs The Gifts of Imperfection
Because for someone like me who suffers from general anxiety, I sometimes feel like Iʻm the only one who cares about anything. In my nearly 45 years, I know (and, I mean, I KNOW) Iʻm not. I know there are times when youʻre faking it, too. I know you donʻt want me (read: the world) to know youʻre upset, tired, anxious, scared, angry, sad. You want to keep things light. You want people to believe youʻre as easy-going as you seem. You no like complain. You donʻt want to make humbug.
But make humbug, okay? Kehau and Shani hear it from me alllllll the damn time. I make choke humbug for them and have been for years and years and years. They know they can make humbug for me, too. No have to be stoic all the time. Itʻs human to complain. I going let you know, okay? No have to worry that I no can handle or that I no like handle, which might be kind of worse, yeah? To think the people you love and love you choose not to embrace you.
Cuz if you know me at all, you know the kind of person I am. I challenge you right now to think of a time when Iʻve intentionally been a dick to you. When have I not rolled with the punches? When did I not gracefully accept what was? Hard for do, right? Iʻm pretty fucking flexible, forgiving, and accepting. This not bragging or delusion. This is observation. This is self-knowledge. People have called me a sucker for this, and itʻs taken me plenty years to reject that idea. I care because I care. I no can help if you take advantage of me.
Fair warning, though: I might not be as easy going as I once was. Iʻve been working on setting, observing, and maintaining boundaries.
So know this as well: if you tell me youʻre fine and youʻre not, no expect me to read between the lines. No tell me you all good if you not. No tell me you not carrying bags if you stay holding bags in both your hands. No make me guess. Cuz I will give whatever I can to you, my friend. I will support you however I can. Even if you push me away, you know Iʻll never leave you hanging. You know me. You gotta be one humongous fucking jerk for me to cut you out (and even then, maybe not? Not forever, anyway). No be shame, even, to say, "You know what? I changed my mind." Cuz I change my mind, too. Sometimes, what I thought was, maybe isnʻt anymore. But I wonʻt know that you need me unless YOU FUCKING SAY SO.
Trusting each other with our authentic selves doesnʻt mean we give in to each other or sacrifice ourselves. It does not mean we decline to each other. So, maybe I canʻt give you what you ask for and maybe you no like give me what I need. Thatʻs fine. When Jocelyn tells him to lose, William says nope. He no like. Losing isnʻt a small thing, either. At this point in the movie, Jocelyn doesnʻt understand that losing the tournament has far more consequences than just a bruised ego. But itʻs still his choice, and I canʻt imagine that she expected a different answer in the first place. This is one of my favorite scenes in the movie because I love that they were both brave (stupid?) enough to say what they meant at that moment even if it put them in conflict with each other.
At this point in my fucking life, Iʻd rather experience a little bit of conflict or disappointment for even a chance of meaningful connection with you than sacrifice all meaningful connection for a bunch of guessing games just so I can maintain this illusion of nonchalance. Itʻs so not the fucking business.
