July 4th, 2024 — 2:56 PM
Content Warning: Mentionings of depression.
I lost my job today.
I was hired on part time for a spotlight gig, for a show called Jersey Boys. You know, the jukebox musical about Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons? I had never heard of it before until my sister started doing spotlight for it back in January, and my dad and I got free tickets to go see it in April. I absolutely fell in love with it—it's such an underrated show imo. You have this incredible cast of guys, especially the lead actor playing Frankie, with a passion for music with these beautiful voices. The show was fun. And when I asked my sister if it's at all possible for me to work part time over the summer, her good reputation got me in on word of mouth—I didn't even have any experience.
I hadn't worked there very long. I was hired for under a month actually, and had only gone to five different days. The first two days were me shadowing my sister; I gained an enormous respect for her watching her in action. She didn't just do the main spotlight, she also queued in the other two spotlights in tandem, a job that requires an insane amount of multitasking and comfort in your own job. This last weekend was my first time spotlighting: I had a show on Friday, two shows back to back on Saturday, and one on Sunday.
It was the most fun I've ever had at a job.
I've been struggling all summer with my depression. Call it seasonal, call it chronic, I don't know anymore, but I've had this overall sense of loss in myself. I was already feeling pretty depressed on not making the cut for my Radiography program for next year (an additional sting knowing that the girl I helped carry through Chemistry did make it over me, a type of bitterness I haven't felt in ages), the summertime makes me feel a type of worthlessness that no other season is capable of. It's the lack of distraction. Lack of motivation. The days blend together for me, my sleep schedule turns to shit, and it's too hot to go out anywhere, especially where I live.
But when I was up there in the spot area, sitting at my huge spotlight that breathes fire on my skin, that's bulky and jerky and hard to manuever when it matters, with the frames that sometimes don't want to lock in place, I felt like I was doing something. That I was making someone else feel happy, doing a job that really fucking mattered. It was the satisfaction of a job well done, along with this immense joy in getting to witness musical theatre—something I already have a love for. When our Frankie would sing Sunday Kind of Love, I'd fall in love with the production all over again. I loved the rush of it all, the healthy kind of stress in making sure your timing is perfect, your iris is the right size, just all of it. My back would hurt every night, neck sore from looking to my right for two hours, but I left feeling so happy.
It also allowed me to spend time with my sister without the influence of anyone around us, something that comes rare these days. We have a rocky, tenuous relationship that I don't want to delve on right now, but to be able to just hangout with her without any of our family holding their breaths at the next fight, or egging us on to fight, felt refreshing to say the least.
The show was supposed to be here for five years—it lasted six months. One of the production companies bailed out, and we couldn't afford to run the show anymore. Half of the cast and crew moved here, just for this show, and all of them are fucked over now. There just wasn't enough money coming in—I blame the location they put the show at.
I can't tell you how hard I cried upon hearing the news. That crushing sense of loss was so visceral, so painful. I really, truly fell in love with this whole show, and I was really starting to feel a sense of happiness again that I haven't felt in months now. All of it, gone in an instant, slipping through my fingers like sand—this shortlived moment that I will cherish so much.
My mom told me on the phone this morning that my sister is so proud of me, that I really impressed her with how quickly I became a natural in such a short time, and it only made me cry harder, because that means I could've really made a thing of this, especially as a way of making money while I throw my own money away at university. But she also told my mom that she will take me to the next production, and the next, and promises to make sure that we work alongside one another for as long as I'll allow it.
And I'm enormously grateful for it, and hopeful for the next performance as well.
July 6th, 2024 — 11:21 PM
Content Warning: Mentionings of emotional abuse and manipulation, future familial death, racism, transphobia, cancer.
I wonder, when my grandma is on her death bed, if she will look back on the 25+ years with me. I wonder if she will die happy in knowing she has done nothing but make me miserable all these years, a punishment for the crime of being conceived — an extension of her vendetta against my mother marrying a Chinese man and creating a family with him.
My grandma has never been your run-of-the-mill grandmother. There was never that classic warm, quaint home, with florals and outdated furniture that smelled like mothballs. Never any fresh baked cookies or warm hugs. No sweet words of affirmation and loving adoration. No; my grandma is rugged. A country woman with a yearning for the desert, even if she grew up in the muggy green landscapes of Pennsylvania. Cigarette smoke and hay bales, a stucco octogonal house built from the ground up, a psuedo ranch always having at least two horses at a time occupying it. My grandma is mean, a glutton for misery — an insomniac who struggles with chronic back pain, and more recently, terminal lung cancer.
Early on it was established who her favorite grandchild is — my sister — and who her least favorite one is — me. This is mainly because we are the ones that live the closest to her — my four other cousins are miles away, safe and sound from her constant abuse. Us, on the other hand, lived next door, and grew up with her always in our lives. It's safe to say that she's the main reason for mine and my sister's rocky relationship growing up, because her miserable self enjoys pitting us against one another.
My sister: beautiful and talented. A wonderful singing voice, a love for acting, and captain of the volleyball team. Grandma had all of this to be proud of, but she also pitied my sister as well. My sister and I are half-siblings, but we never grew up feeling this way. My dad treated her as his own from the moment he met her. But of course, my grandma sees this differently.
But me? She thinks I'm uglier. She thinks I'm untalented. She thinks I'm stupid. She thinks I'm troublesome, and loud-mouthed, and too outspoken. She has compared me to my sister my whole life. "Why can't you be more outgoing like your sister?" "Oh, if only you could sing like her." "Maybe your peers would like you more if you were more like her." She thinks I should be punished for being opinionated. She left my mom to an empty house and an unbuilt crib when I was born, deciding to take a trip out of town instead of helping her daughter with a newborn and a five year old — she has always hated me.
She has confessed to my mother before that she purposely says things that will upset me, that will make me react, to "teach me a lesson in patience.". She has confessed to my sister before that she likes picking fights with people, and itches for conflict. She has always been a miserable and bitter woman, unjustly cruel to my selfless mother — envy born from the fact that my grandpa adores my mom, and tends to listen to her over anyone else. I think she has extended that cruelty to me because I am also my grandpa's favorite — a type of insecurity over your husband loving his daughter and granddaughter, I suppose.
Why am I making this blog post right now? I'm in Evanston, WY for the weekend, a new yearly summer tradition consisting of my grandparents coming up here to escape the heat. I try and come up here at least once per summer to enjoy it with them, watching the horse races and going to the lake. It's currently just me, my grandma, and my mom here this time, for my grandpa's health couldn't allow him to come anymore.
My grandma, all day today, has had a bone to pick with me. She gets like this sometimes. Something will put her in a mood — such as my cousin calling this morning, waking her before she was ready to talk about the child he will be expecting soon — and she will be crochety for the remainder of the day. And because I am here, I am the perfect person to take it out on.
It started the moment I woke up — numerous comments inquiring when I'm having a baby. Passive aggressive remarks that are worded in a way that I'm not allowed to be angry with her over — she has mastered the art of manipulation. I, having learned my lesson in "patience", ignore this. Then, later, she decides to talk about bloodlines on the bleachers. "[My mom's name], I think your generation in this family is the last generation with a pure bloodline. Yes, [literally, my other four cousins] are all white still, but my great grandchildren from [two of them] aren't going to be pure anymore (they are married to Puerto Ricans)." Once again, my lessons in patience allowed me to ignore this.
Unfortunately, I have not mastered patience, for it all came to an ugly head at dinner. To condense this already long blog post/rant, she went on to talk about the white woman who is being crucified in the WNBA for "being white", and then brought up transgender people in sports, and I lost it at her. At first I tried to explain to her just how crazy the argument is of people transitioning for gold medals is, and she wouldn't listen to me. I called her argument a strawman, and she argued against it. It was when I looked at her though, and saw that she was giving me this shit eating grin that I knew I fell into her horrible fucked up trap: she got a rise out of me finally. She relished in my anger, in my frustration. So, as someone who was fed up, tired, and annoyed, I made it very clear that I don't give a shit about her opinions on gender and race anymore, and I don't want to hear whatever bullshit she has to say.
Did not end well.
Mom tells me later that I made her cry, that she found it unfair that she "always lets me finish my argument" and yet I never let her finish, always cutting her off. WHY the FUCK would I EVER let her finish her disgusting racist, transphobic diatribe, ESPECIALLY when she KNOWS it is a topic that will get a rise out of me?? Oh, but my grandma, the master at deflection, managed to convince my mom to tell me to apologize. And when my mom brought up to my grandma that she should KNOW those topics are sensitive for me, she feigned ignorance with "I was just trying to think of a topic we can both discuss."
Cry me a river.
When was the last time she has asked me about my major, about my hobbies, about my jobs or my collections or my aspirations or my thoughts on fucking HORSES or something? SHE DOESN'T. Because she doesn't care. And she never will.
You would think being diagnosed with lung cancer, a tumor that has not gone into remission and probably won't at this rate, she would maybe start thinking about her limited time on this Earth. About how she wants to spend the last few years of her life with me, someone who has always forgiven her, always went out of my way to visit her and care for her through her constant abuse of me. But she won't.
I'm just glad my misery has brought her joy. At least that means there was something about me that she loved.
July 11th, 2024 — 7:38 PM
Some days I don't think I'm very good at writing.
I mean, everyone thinks that way, right? My art isn't good enough, my writing isn't good enough, nothing I create will ever be good enough. But I guess my biggest concern is that I'm too tropey, that my characters have no depth, that they aren't interesting, that I ramble too much in my stories, or ever explain things without needing to. I tend to let things I see on social media make me self conscious (a horrible, horrible habit, I might add) and then start overanalyzing my writing.
Am I writing a story and adding tropes? Or am I trying to fit a story around tropes? I'd like to think I'm the former. I do have a rough storyboard laid out for Cassio and Lucien, it just takes time to get there. "I thought you said they're going to become a bit of a 'dark' romance, with toxicity and codependency. Why is it all this fluff right now?" Because I have to build my way there, of course, but also because this journey as a consistent writer is actually a lot harder than I expected. I've never been good at writing the hard stuff — any type of turmoil between them is difficult for me because I love them so much, even if it creates the story I want. Also, I guess I'm a glutton for the tropes, for them falling in love and being sweet with one another. But it rounds back to the original question — am I too into it?
I guess it doesn't matter one way or another — why limit myself because I'm scared of someone thinking my self indulgence is annoying? Maybe I do over explain myself in the first person POVs, maybe they don't have as much depth as I thought, but I just wish I didn't care about the opinions of others. Even if the reality is that nobody reads my writing (understandable, who am I! I'm just another random person on the internet.), I wish I didn't let other people's opinions dictate the amount of fun I'm having. But it's human to want approval, to want praise for your hard work, and so I'm stuck in that horrible middle ground.
Lately I've been struggling with my next addition to the story Take Me As You Please. I thought writing Lucien's POV would've been easier for me, since I've had him as an OC longer than Cassio and I used to RP with him consistently. But I'm realizing now that I used to write him very different than I am for myself, and that type of character he really is, compared to what I made him to be for other people RPing is a lot more complex and difficult than I imagined. It's always fun getting to know your OCs better, but when writing them? It's a drag, a bit of a nightmare, because I have to relearn him all over again through the process and it's hard.
This blog post feels a little silly for me to make since I'm just rambling, and I don't think it's helped much in making me feel better, but I still feel good getting it out there anyways. I've never been one for journaling before and I've always struggled writing my feelings down, so I like to think this is another way of practicing writing for me. Any form of self expression is better than none.
August 5th, 2024 — 12:45 AM
August is my birthday month.
More specifically, the 27th is my birthdate. I've always kind of loathed my birthday actually—it's always happening during the first week of school. So you get the back to school nerves, along with nobody really giving that much of a shit that it's your birthday because they're too busy catching up from over the summer, and then the day passes and it's over and done. Even in elementary and middle school, when my class had a total count of 30 students, did some of them simply forget. It's even worse when you're in a big high school, and not a single friend of yours is in the same class as you, and nobody really gives a shit this time because you are essentially a stranger all over again, and by the time you manage to make some new friends and someone asks the day has long since passed. And they will forget by the next year. Repeat cycle.
It compounds, year by year, the empty feeling of my birthday. I think starting college so late has me feeling worse about it these days: turning 26 this year (losing my family insurance!), still having a couple years left to get my degree (didn't get accepted into my program this year. Maybe next year...?), it turns into something shameful. All of these bright-eyed, bushy-tailed 18 year olds fresh out of high school, are so very, very alien to me. I feel the age gaps between me and my peers, even if I am terminally online. And they feel it too: the wedding ring, my outdated fashion, my low-rise socks—not to mention I'm becoming more visibly masc, teetering on the line between Cis+(tm) or non-binary; people tend to avoid me.
And it's not as if I haven't tried to make friends, to branch out. But instead I am seen as a tool: oh you're smart, can you help me study? I'm going to text you pretty much all the time begging to compare our homework and quiz answers. I'm going to invite you to study sessions in the library. I'll even walk with you to the garage since we both parked there. But our conversations are strictly educational, and when summer hits I'll be gone. Thanks for helping me pass Chemistry by the way.
It's all very isolating.
I have my family at least, right? They, of course, do give a shit about the day I age. But that's bittersweet for me too. I celebrate it almost every year with my grandpa, his birthdate just five days before mine. A tradition I've always had since the moment we all lived in the same city. And I do dearly love my grandpa, I have never minded sharing our birthdays together. But he's sick now. He doesn't have much time left, not really. What'll happen when suddenly my birthday is spent alone? When it's a day of mourning? That's the thing about getting older: people die. That inevitable truth. He will die someday, and while people will put on that happy face and sing me my song, his chair will be empty next to me, and we all will feel it.
But I will still have to share my birthday with someone. My two brother-in-laws also happen to have August birthdays—to be honest, everyone has an August birthday—and so we must all meet in the middle to celebrate the three of us aging. A boring, tiresome affair with a family that actually hates the passing of time, stuck living in the past and divulging in their routines due to fear of forgetting. We will eat hamburgers, my father in law will complain about his not being well done, there will be a Sam's Club cheesecake, and nobody will talk about anything meaningful or new. Rinse and repeat.
And how do I even start on the idea of receiving gifts from people? It's always what do you want for your birthday? Any ideas?, but I am so tired. I can't think of what I want when I have bills to pay, when I am on the brink of poverty at any given moment. A mortgage, an AC unit payment from when the stupid shit died last summer, my electric bill being insanely high from the 120 degree temperatures, and whatever other fucking payments I need to make. No, guys, I can't really think of a knicknack or toy I want this year because I'm too busy worrying if I can afford my home. Oh, but how I loathe money gifts. It makes me feel terrible. Like I'm not really an adult; I'm just a child who is in over their head.
Maybe I am.
August 11th, 2024 — 6:29 PM
Content Warning: A LOT of self-loathing. Sorry.
I've been feeling stagnant.
Are "August Blues" a thing? There's a plethora of things it could be; a multitude of factors that weigh down on my sore shoulders. Atlus with the Earth, Sisyphus and his boulder, Prometheus and the eagle.
Impoverished, subdued, I feel no joy or excitement in the day to day, and as the start of my meaningless semester looms over my head with each passing second, everything feels heavy. Maybe I'm stir-crazy, driven to madness within my constant four walls. Can home be a prison? It feels like it. But the heat is so oppressive, the gas prices are too high, there's nowhere to go, nothing to do. My parents are constantly busy, so visiting them has even become a chore. My partner, honey dearest, is my only friend and companion, but even that becomes tedious when there is nothing to say or do. Want to watch a movie? Want to watch a show? Watch watch watch. The TV mocks me, my computer screen burns my eyes, my phone is shackled to my wrists. I'm surprised I even know what day of the week it is anymore.
I'm so painstakingly lonely. I have no local friends—I am an afterthought to my partner's friends. I'm an obligation. With his bright eyes and easy-going smile, able to strike up a conversation with even the most dour of faces, he is golden and I am dull. I've been scorned by so many people I've once known, faces I mourn for I know that I'm no better; I've done my fair share of scorning. I think most about the people who were the worst for me, people who were unpredictable and moody, constantly breaking apart in front of me and begging me to fix them—am I so terrible to miss that type of dependency? To be needed and wanted? I know I am loved, even if it's not by many. But I need my partner, I need my parents. I don't think they really need me, they just love me enough to have and to hold me.
What happened to my drive? That wonderful, aching desire to create? Staying up till 5AM drowning in code, in my own writing? It's like I finished my latest writing project and...lost it all. And it's not as if I don't have things to do—I have so many things I need to work on for this Neocities page. Notebook pages full of ideas for my next, and next, and next writing ventures with my OCs. A needlepoint work in progress begging for me to continue. Where did it go? It's not as if I'm not still staying up till 5am, reading books on my phone, forgetting to eat and sleep and talk. Rotting in my bed. Anymore the simple act of sitting upright makes me exhausted.
I'm so tired. I sleep all day and I am still so, so tired.
My birthday is in 16 days. I don't know what I want more: everyone to remember, or everyone to forget.
October 14th, 2024 — 3:30 AM
Hello. Long time no see, huh?
I'm sorry for the absence since my birthday. Part of me kind of drifted away from this project, and it coincided with the fact that my school semester had begun again and I suddenly had less time to dedicate towards it. I ended up dropping a few of my courses, and now I'm just taking sectional anatomy (fascinating stuff; anatomy through the lens of radiologic imaging) and a history of rock 'n' roll class (which is very much opening my eyes to a whole world of music I never bothered exploring before). It's a very easy courseload, nothing major, and honestly I feel bored this semester due to the lack of...well anything.
Let's see, let's see...what has Shibardnek been up to? Well, I've been getting much more into movies lately, and currently attempting (and failing) to get into classic horror for the sake of October. I've gotten into comic books now, a newly born interest in the X-Men that I never saw coming. I'm currently on the Chris Claremont run, and it's been a blast. I'll be visiting Chicago soon for my anniversary with my dear partner, for we absolutely love Chicago and all there is to see there. Other than that? I've been pretty stagnant. Sleeping in far too late, dragging my feet through the mundane life I've given myself; no money, no job, nothing to motivate me forward really. I've turned into a bit of a zombie I suppose—I feel very dead anymore.
I think it's due to my lack of outside stimuli. I live such a lonely, sad existence, actually. I stay home all day and read comic books, watch movies, and doomscroll on my phone until I get too tired to even do that, and then I play picross on my computer until I fall asleep at 5 AM. The only people I speak to consistently every day is my partner, and a singular long distance friend who puts up with far too much of my bothersome behavior to be healthy.
Who created that lie that college is the best time to make long lasting friendships? I've heard that before, you know. This myth created by socialites (like my partner), who claims their closest friendships were born from the shared suffering of the paid tuition. Through study groups and club activities, eating lunch in the student union and laughing together on the grass. How do you get such an idyllic life? Because if that is the norm, I am living on a remote island far out into the ocean, the waves of loneliness crashing against the shore. THe crash against the rocks sound like the laughter of friendship, and it makes my bones ache with envy. I don't have any friends. And I think that's my own fault sometimes.
It's such a complicated thing—friendships. I feel that I am too much for the modern relationship. You ask anyone close to me, and they'll tell you I am loyal to a fault. I will give you the shirt off my back. I will let you stay at my place for far too long. I will give you money when I have none to give. I am an adept listener, a known nurturer in my own weird fashion. I may be brash, and cynical, and maybe even a little prickly, but if you take the time to know me you'll see I am so full of love that it tortures me. I crave those deep friendships so desperately, and yet all of my friendships end because I've done something wrong, I suppose. I had a falling out with a friend a year ago (or was it two?), which resulted in a split in our friend group, and subsequently a good portion of my friends picked them over me, regardless of all the times I've proven to care deeply for them, and their lives, and their interests, and just as people. It didn't matter. If all friendships are based on the same video games we play, the same tv shows we like, I'll never stand a chance I suppose.
I was researching a band I'm writing a project on, and organically stumbled on an ex-friend's music blog where they wrote an article in 2019 over the band, and they mentioned me by name as that band's number one fan. A small piece of history, of our friendship, and I blew that too, because I didn't like their partner, and she didn't like me. How do I even fix that? We had been friends since 2014. We had fallen out before, but made a mutual effort to try again. And then I blew it all over again due to a disagreement, a bad trip to Texas that I regret so badly. I miss them every single day actually. What do I have to show for my "understanding" and "kindness" now? I let them not showing up for my wedding sour that relationship, and to be fair I do think it's warranted, but not a good reason overall. For every instance of kindness I suppose I have, it's balanced with the same level of bitterness too.
I don't really know what I'm talking about here. Just rambling for the sake of rambling. I hope all of you are well. I lost a neighbor, but that's to be expected with such a long time away. I might come back sooner rather than later, but I wouldn't hold your breath on it.
With love, Shiba.
March 4th, 2025 — 2:35 AM
I went backpacking this weekend.
My college offers PEX classes for additional credits, a way to fill in the gaps to help college students fulfil their full time status to qualify for grants and scholarships. Hopefully this is my last semester waiting—I'm so sick of waiting to be in my program—but to kill the time and get my loan money I signed up for a backpacking class. Four classroom dates, and one three day weekend trip, and that's it. Honestly, I didn't think much of it when I joined; I'm accustomed to camping and hiking, having done it a lot with my family my whole life. I love being outdoors, I love experiencing new places, and while I have a love-hate relationship with hiking, I can appreciate it for what it is.
I didn't think I'd create long-lasting memories.
But then suddenly, it's 7 AM on a Friday, and I'm standing outside of the classroom building with this 40 LB backpack and eight other people, and it hits me—this might actually be fun. The conversation in the car ride with the three other girls joining us was already a fantastic start. I don't get to socialize with other girls my age often, and I find that being a pre-medical major makes finding friendships difficult when all anyone sees you as is competition, rather than someone you can rely on in the future. None of the people in our group shared a major, and none of them were in pre-med. One girl is VP of the birding club on campus, another wants to do social work. For once in my life, I didn't feel that typical hostility and anxiety that can be founded from people trying to become doctors and nurses.
Now, the hike itself? Miserable. 5.6 miles at a steady incline of elevation, all on loose rocks in an empty riverbed, and with that additional weight on my back I truly felt like I was going to die. I'm already a slow hiker, but this bogged me down even worse than ever before. I'm not exaggerating when I say this was probably one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. If it weren't for my instructor's assistant staying with me for all of it, I really do feel like I would've given up, or my mental state would've crumbled to the point of a full on meltdown. I felt terrible, for I lagged so far behind the group that I began to blame myself for us taking so long. For all the rest stops made for me to catch up, because why was nobody else suffering like me? None of these people had backpacked before, and yet I'm here lagging so far behind that by the time the sun started to go down, the group rushed ahead without me, just so my instructor could come back and relieve me of my bag so I could have an easier time. How humiliating for me. By the time he came back, it was pitch black out with only our headlamps for light, and I still had a mile and a half to go. I really wanted to die.
I feel that sometimes I let my pessimism get the best of me. I struggle with human connection, I struggle making friends, and I struggle deeply with self loathing to the point I feel like I don't deserve the kindness of others, and I no longer expect it. And yet the whole time I hiked up that mountain, slowly and slowly feeling more pain and suffering, my hiking buddy never let me blame myself or feel bad about my speed. She never put me down, or hinted that I needed to do better. She told me I was smart, that there was no honor in hurting myself, and that she did not once mind enjoying a slow hike because it allowed her to appreciate the beauty more. And when I got to the campgrounds and stood there alone while my instructors went to start dinner, I began to cry—partly because I made it, and partly because I was so embarrassed that I took so long, thinking that my team hated me and thought I was pathetic for it. But then one of the guys in my group, a guy I hadn't talked to in any of the previous classes, came up and said, "You okay, hon?" and when I shook my head no, he very politely asked if I needed a hug, and gave me one without hesitation when I said yes. He told me that everyone was worried about me, not angry, and that all of them equally agreed that what we just did was hard, and I shouldn't feel bad for taking my time. It was so touching to me that he did that, that he comforted me when he didn't have to at all.
When I reunited with the girls, they shared the same sentiment, not at all angry that I had our tent the whole time and made them wait. They made me laugh and feel better, and it still baffles me now as I type this that so many people on this trip just...never made me feel bad for things that I felt I needed to be judged for. The next day even, when all the other boys sat around the table and talked with me, all regaled in their suffering too, a mutual circle of whining and complaining, and what better way to make friends than shared misery?
The weather was cold, all of us froze to death in our sleep, one of the girls threw up in her beanie and asked me to find our instructor, to which I aimlessly wandered the campground at 2 AM with my flashlight trying to find him and failing. The next day we hung out at the camp, gossiping and laughing, and it felt nice. Oh my god, it felt so nice to be off my phone, to talk to girls, to soak up in the sun, to breathe in the fresh forest air. To get in a circle and play riddle games with our instructor, to laugh and joke and jest and tell stories about high school and exes and where we grew up and places to eat in the city. It felt nice to have people talk to me for me, not as an obligation for my partner. That people sought me out when I was sitting alone on a bench, just to ask me about myself. One of the guys showed me his beautiful photography, another guy managed to hot wire a box in the public cabin to turn the lights on. So many different people, and none of us would have met under any other circumstances outside of this backpacking class.
On Sunday, at around 9 AM, we packed our bags and left all those memories behind, making the trek back to the trailhead. I lagged behind again, but not nearly as bad as the first time—I knew everyone wanted to go home, and I was determined not to make them wait. My instructor's assistant and I hit it off so well that she eagerly agreed to take my second ticket to see Tamino this month, while the other two girls and I all exchanged our Instagram handles with promises to keep in touch. Oh, but it's so bittersweet too, because even though I did make some lasting connections, I know that I'll never see any of those boys again, most of which I grew very fond of in this short period of time. For all of us to say our goodbyes in the parking lot, no hugs, no numbers exchanged, just waves and "It was so nice to meet you," it makes you really cherish the memory more. Because while a lot of us may never speak or see one another again, and might even pass each other on campus without even knowing, we all had the same experience together, and we all share those memories, and we will look back on them fondly from time to time, saying, "you know what? That backpacking trip wasn't so bad. I hope they're all doing well."
And I find a lot of beauty in that.
December 30th, 2025 — 12:24 AM
Content Warning: Death of a relative, medical talk, grief, grief, grief. I do not speak around what happened. I can't. PLEASE be cautious moving forward, and know that I do not write this for you. I write this for me. I write this because I need to. And of course I could write it down somewhere private, somewhere nobody can read it, but I want it to be on here. I want it to be known. I am tired of keeping it to myself.
Hello. I know it's been a long, long time.
I'm struggling in how to go about this. Do I start with good news? With bad news? I struggle to articulate myself for so much has happened this year, and yet when I go to write about it I find myself suddenly stuck in explaining it.
I did so much this year. I accomplished many, many things. On top of that backpacking trip in March, I went canoeing in April. I saw my favorite artist Tamino live between those two trips, and I've travelled so much this year! China in January, Portland in February, San Diego in March, Minneapolis AND NYC in May, Windsor in August, and Washington DC this December.
The amount of good that happened to me this year is astounding. I got into my program! The Radiography program I begged and begged for, the highly competitive degree that I worked my ass off to be good enough for, they finally accepted me on my second attempt. I have met such amazing people in the first semester of my program, people I know will be my friends for a long, long time due to our shared struggles and how easy it was for our friendships to grow. All of 2024 I was the loneliest I had ever been, constantly being put second or mistreated by the friends I had made online, or dragged alongside my partner to be friends with his friends. But now I finally have friends I can call my own, people I can trust and who like me for me regardless of my looks or how weird I am. The workload is hard, I will admit, but every single day I get to learn about this field I have yet to regret getting into it. I even got an anatomical skeleton from my mom for Christmas. I truly, truly, am happy.
And yet...
My grandpa died.
It wasn't as if we weren't expecting it to be soon, of course. But how do you ever grow accustomed to loss? He had been fighting multiple myeloma for over a decade, a survival rate uncommon for people with the affliction — a "gift" from the affects of Agent Orange in the Vietnam War. (I do not condone that war. I do not condone militant occupations of foreign lands. But my grandpa served, and while I do not support that it will never take away my love for him. He was only eighteen at the time.)
It happened on November 12th, but days prior he had a stroke — the cancer had metastasized into his brain, and he was vegetative by the time he was admitted into the hospital. I was the only person who saw the CT scans, who saw the mass in his brain and the bleed from the stroke. I'm very glad to have been the one to see it and not my mother or my grandmother, for I don't think they would've been able to handle it.
And that's the downside of being in medicine, right? I handle the hard words. I handle the images. I know what the doctors are saying. I am called upon by my mother at 8 in the morning the day it happened, begged to go to the hospital because she, for once in her life, had decided to go away for the weekend with my dad for his birthday; she says it doesn't, but I know not being here haunts her. And of course I was there, for I love my grandpa so, so, so dearly. I love him so much that I struggle talking about it, even now as I type this my eyes water and my chest hurts. I think about him in the ICU, hooked up to all those IV lines, intubated for he doesn't have the strength to even breathe on his own. He wasn't fully comatose though, for he could respond with the right side of his body at least when touched. But how much do people hear when they're like that? How aware are they? Are they scared? How much pain was he in? It haunts me. It haunts me.
It took me days to see him again, because when I went to that hospital and saw him there I was still of the belief that he could recover. That he would bounce back from this because my grandpa always bounced back. He was the most stubborn man alive, and I had seen him in and out of hospitals all year that I thought, what's a stroke to a man like my grandpa? But when you strip away the clothes, the quiet kindness he always gave, and put him lifeless in a hospital gown, you realize how frail he is. The cancer had finally caught up, and when it settled in for me that he really, really won't survive this, I couldn't see him. They moved him to hospice on the 10th? The 11th? I can't remember. All I know is the 12th was the last day I saw him.
Hospice is amazing. We had the most lovely RNA for my grandpa, one who was soft spoken and gentle with us. He routinely took care of grandpa, and the hospice itself was so lovely and serene. It's a shame it's such a place of sorrow, but I am so grateful a place like that exists to let people pass with dignity.
I hold guilt in my final moments with my grandpa, guilt I have been told time and time again not to feel. They say people who are in that limbo state can hear you. They say that sometimes, people hold on in hopes of hearing the voice of someone they are waiting for. To be told it's going to be okay, to let go. Some people choose to pass away when certain people are not in the room, to spare them the sight of it. And I, with my whole, whole heart, know my grandpa waited for me. He knew I was there when my mom told him, but when I finally had a moment alone to speak with him, to tell him that I love him so much, that I will take care of my mom, that I will be okay, he died maybe an hour or two later. My dad was 10 minutes late. And I can't help but feel like I took that from him. I took that final goodbye from him maybe. I need to forgive myself for that, but I struggle.
I feel a lot of guilt, actually, especially in how I feel about him dying. About him not being around anymore. I cried for a week probably, but then I just...stopped. I went back to school, I saw all my friends, I studied for my finals. I laughed and joked and smiled. I went to Washington DC shortly after. I did not think about my grandpa, all the while my mom and my grandma are torn apart. My mom has not been the same, every interaction with her is heavy with grief. She's so sick with it, unable to keep food down, unable to even eat. Every small task exhausts her, forces her to take a break to stop existing while watching something mind numbing on her phone for hours. My grandpa is everywhere. And yet, this Christmas, I was annoyed. Can we stop talking about him? Can we stop bringing him up with everything? Stop being so SAD!!! It's CHRISTMAS! Please, can we decorate the tree? Make cookies? Let's wrap gifts mom. Please, ANYTHING!!
It made me feel like a monster.
I was my grandpa's favorite. The moment I was born he adored me — I was due to be born on his birthday, but I was five days late. We celebrated every birthday together. Growing up, when I'd go to his house after school, he'd make us a can of Campbell's bean with bacon soup, a soup we both loved. We would eat ginger snap cookies with milk, share milkshakes, and he would never go easy on me playing chess. When it was cold outside, he'd drive me to my bus stop and wait with me. I was the only one who could talk back to my grandpa, who would be snarky and joke with him. While my cousins feared him, and even my uncles, I never once felt I couldn't tease or laugh with him. My grandpa loved me, and I loved him so much. In his will, his personal will, the only singular item he set aside was a sapphire ring he used to always wear, and it was for me. He never once told me anything about that ring. He did not leave a note or an explanation. All I know is he wanted me to have it.
I am a monster.
A monster for being angry at my mom and grandma for grieving. A monster for rolling my eyes at my sister's performative mourning. A monster because I can still laugh and find joy in my life, and I can go days without thinking about him. How awful of me. But all I can think is he wouldn't want me to be sad. He wouldn't want me to waste away, to cry every single night at the thought of him. To pause my life with my grief. I know he wouldn't. But that's an excuse. It's all an excuse. I pride myself in thinking I recover easy from grief, that maybe I am just stronger than everyone else, but I know it's because I am not dealing with it. I am not processing his death because I do not want to. Even writing this, I avoided, because I knew I would start to cry. I get angry at people bringing him up because I do not want to think about him. I do not want to acknowledge that he is gone. I walked into his house and I did not feel his lack of prescence because I refused to — Grandpa is away right now. He's in town. He's at an appointment. He's up in Wyoming with his horses. He's on a job. He's outside with the tractor. He is not home. I don't care that his ashes sit on my mother's mantle. I do not care that his clothes are being slowly given to other family members. I do not care that my grandma gave my uncle his old dog because she would spend all day waiting for him in his chair. He is not gone if I don't let him be gone. Obviously.
His celebration of life is in January, an event I dread. I do not want to see people who thought they knew him cry. I do not want to see relatives who never visited mourn their loss of time. I am angry. I think out of all the five stages of grief, I am the angriest. And I truly, don't know why, or at who, or what, or anything. I am simply angry. I am angry and tired and so, so sad, and I have no one to speak about it with. My sadness isn't great enough. I hate being vulnerable. I do not want my partner to look at me with pity. I do not want my mother to push aside her grief for my sake. I do not want anyone to know the depth of my hurt. They don't deserve to know. I am ashamed to admit it. I am scared of being that open. I hate being worried about. Vocalizing my loss makes me feel stupid and it makes me feel like I am fishing for attention. Oh, oh please feel bad for me. This is the closest I have come to actually talking about my feelings, and I don't even know if I feel better about it or not. Now I'm covered in tears and snot.
I need to wrap this up. I spin in circles about my grief, but what will that do? I thank you, reader, for letting me vent out this much at least, for now I know that I still have tears to shed, and hurt to feel, and that maybe I'm not such a cruel heartless monster that I think I am.
I hope for good things in 2026, and I will receive them. I will manifest them. I do not believe in God, I believe in myself, and I believe that my grandpa would want me to live my life to the fullest. In 2026 I would like to see more places, listen to more music, eat good food, and be happy. I wish the same for you.
—Shiba
