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Human assembly lines that were created to carry down supplies raise their arms to ignite silence so the cries of those under rubble can be heard.

1:14 pm

The plan for September 19th, 2017 was to get organized and to be productive. After much dilly-dallying with my affairs, weekend escapades to paradise lands and loafing around, that Tuesday was to be devoted to completing long-avoided errands. By 1 pm, I made the decision that in 15 mins I would begin arranging after I showered. By 1:13 pm, I was in the bathroom, when I noticed a change in my vision. For many years, I have “suffered” from low blood pressure and mild dizziness is quotidian. The swaying rapidly gained force and in a slight second I realized, this isn’t a flaw in my circulation, but rather a grievous adjustment of the Earth. I held on tightly to the sink, calming myself by repeating the sole mantra I will never forget, “this will end soon,” concentrating on the small window drowning the shower in white light. I paled at the sight of the walls moving like elastic, back and forth like a slow-motion video of gelatin on a plate. Somewhat late, but just in time, my reflexes to remove myself from a potentially crumbling building kicked in, and I ran down the steps. Everything after those estimated eternal twenty seconds and the days that followed can only be described as a helplessly confusing and a dreadfully long nightmare. 

The screams.

The barking.

The sirens.

The anguish.

Thought #9: Bush, no bush, your choice

f4edba6394a31118132668a6811697a6.jpgI received my first bikini wax when I was 16, when I was young, naive, and easily corrupted. My teenage-hood wasn’t one that caused my parents headaches or involved nightly escapades to drink beer acquired from bums outside the local 7/11. I was relatively calm, confused, and enthralled by things most teenagers paid no mind to (holler in classic rock, magical realism literature, and British TV shows). But I did get my first bikini wax when I was 16. 

I can’t remember the exact reasons why, but it probably had to do with the media molding me into looking a very unreachable idyllic way, one that I still fight with today (I’m winning the battle I promise!).

Thought #8: We NEED more help

During my transitional period of post-graduation into the real world, I decided to test out other aspects of psychology rather than the traditional path of higher education blah blah blah. I began working for the largest psychology non-profit in the country (part-time) and would volunteer at another mental health non-profit near me. My volunteering consisted of: 

  • Sitting at a desk, answering calls for consecutive hours
  • Lingering, waiting for someone to give me a ring

And as dull as it may sound, it wasn’t. If anything, it was one of the most constructive experiences of my brief life. Because these calls left me feeling an overabundance of strong emotions but allowed me to be aware of a massive, not often discussed, issue we have.

The HelpLine is a free national service in which anyone in need of mental health resources, assistance or simple conversation can call. Most calls consisted of patients, parents, or friends looking for resources pertaining to finding a nearby psychiatrist, mental health insurance, or clinics. Simple, easy search in our resources binder. 

But the other calls. 

Cultural Perspectives Through Soup

As I sit down in my usual seat at the round dinner table, I look at the different dishes of food that my father has prepared. Looking at his cooking, my father speaks with pride in Mandarin Chinese, “I spent two hours boiling the soup to let the flavor seep in. It’s not as good as the one people make in Taiwan, but it’s the best here.” The contagious smile on my dad’s face spreads to my mother. She nods in agreement, “I brought this soup to my co-worker’s house yesterday and she said her dreams came true.” My dad adds, “ I added some red peppers and green onions for aesthetics.” I look blankly at the soup as my parents banter back and forth about the flavor and presentation of the soup. I am clearly indifferent about the subject of soup and mumble to myself, “It’s only soup. Who cares?”