Scars

It's important to understand the complex and often misunderstood issue of self-harm. While it might seem irrational to someone who hasn't experienced it, self-harm can be a way for individuals to cope with overwhelming emotions or situations. Here are some key reasons why people might engage in self-harm:>For some, self-harm is a method of expressing deep emotional pain. When words fail, physical pain can seem like a more tangible way to express feelings that are too intense or confusing to articulate. It's a cry for help, a way of saying, "I'm hurting," when they feel that no one is listening or understanding their distress.Others may use self-harm as a way to regain a sense of control. When life feels chaotic or overwhelming, causing physical harm to oneself can create a sense of order or predictability. It's a way of taking control over one aspect of their life when everything else feels out of control.Self-harm can also serve as a distraction. The physical pain can momentarily take their mind off emotional or psychological pain. It's a way to interrupt a cycle of negative thoughts or to feel something other than numbness.For some individuals, self-harm is a way to punish themselves. They might struggle with feelings of guilt or self-loathing and see self-harm as a way to atone for perceived wrongdoings. It's a physical manifestation of the emotional pain they feel they deserve.

Lastly, it's important to recognize that self-harm can become a coping mechanism or habit. Just like any behavior that provides temporary relief, it can become ingrained and difficult to stop without help.

Engaging in healthy conversations

Removing the stigma of mental health- engaging in healthy conversations by Yasmin

Talking about anxiety and depression openly can be incredibly challenging, especially given societal and cultural norms that often discourage such honesty. I've been open about my own struggles with these issues, and it's not always easy to navigate the stigma that comes with mental health conversations. However, these discussions are essential because they bring to light a very real and pervasive issue.

I remember attending a luncheon in Singapore. It was a social event, a chance to catch up and enjoy each other’s company. During our meal, I decided to share my experiences with depression and anxiety. Initially, there was an awkward silence, but slowly, each person at the table began to share their own mental health challenges. One of them asked me to describe how I felt during an anxiety attack. I told them it's like being thrown into the deep end of a pool without knowing how to swim—you're flailing, panicking, and desperately trying to keep your head above water.

This conversation was significant. It highlighted that everyone, regardless of their background or circumstances, can face mental health challenges. It also underscored the importance of normalizing these discussions in all areas of life. There is no shame in feeling anxious or depressed; it's not a sign of weakness. In fact, acknowledging these feelings and seeking help is a sign of strength.

Reflecting on my journey, I realize how much my own experiences with anxiety and depression have shaped me. These experiences have made me more open-minded and accepting. I no longer feel any shame in going to therapy, and I encourage others to do the same. Therapy has been instrumental in providing me with tools and strategies to manage my anxiety effectively.

One of the most transformative practices for me has been mindfulness and meditation. These practices can bring a sense of calm and help ground me in the present moment. Simple techniques like deep breathing and guided meditation have become a part of my daily routine. Apps like Headspace and Calm offer guided sessions specifically designed to reduce anxiety, and they have been incredibly helpful.

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) has also played a crucial role in my mental health journey. It has helped me challenge negative thought patterns and develop healthier ways of thinking. By working with a therapist, I've learned to reframe my thoughts and approach my anxiety more rationally. This has made a significant difference in how I handle stressful situations.

Regular physical activity has had a profound impact on my mental health. Exercise releases endorphins, which naturally lift my mood. Whether it's a brisk walk, yoga, or a more intense workout, staying active has been crucial in managing my anxiety. I've also found that maintaining a balanced diet, getting enough sleep, and avoiding excessive caffeine and alcohol can significantly reduce anxiety levels. Taking care of my body has been essential in taking care of my mind.

Connecting with others who understand what I'm going through has been incredibly supportive. Whether it's friends, family, or support groups, having a network of people to talk to has made a huge difference. Sometimes, professional help is necessary. Therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists are trained to help manage anxiety and depression. Seeking their help is not a sign of failure; it's a proactive step towards better mental health.

These tools have been instrumental in my journey, and they can help others too. So next time you encounter someone discussing their mental health, don't dismiss it as a sign of weakness or brush it off as millennium jargon. Anxiety and depression have always existed, and it's only now that we are beginning to talk about them openly and without shame.

Meaningful conversations about mental health should be included in all walks of life. By talking openly and honestly about our struggles, we can break down the stigma and create a more supportive and understanding world. Trust me, there's no shame in feeling anxious or depressed, and there's certainly no shame in seeking help.

The unhealed wound

                                                 The Unhealed Wound Can Time Really Heal?

Time is often said to heal all wounds, but for us, time has only deepened our sorrow. Watching our 28-year-old daughter slip away, powerless against the relentless grip of the Epstein-Barr Virus (EBV), commonly known as mono, left us feeling utterly helpless. From February to May 27, we witnessed the swift and cruel decline of her body, shutting down despite all efforts to save her.

The grief we bear is indescribable. People tell us that time heals, but we know better. Wounds might heal, but they always leave scars. Our daughter's scar is etched with memories that linger in every corner of our lives. I see her everywhere, feel her presence, and catch her scent. How does a parent navigate life after the loss of a child? The truth is, we don't. We endure, carrying the weight of grief that never truly heals.

As a mother, I find it impossible to stop grieving. The pain is an inseparable part of me now. But amidst this unbearable sorrow, I hope to do something to carry on her legacy. In every step I take, I strive to honor her memory, to ensure that her spirit continues to shine even in her absence.

Grief is real, and it stays with you forever. For parents like us, there is no delusion of healing. Instead, we find ways to live with the scars, cherish the memories, and keep our beloved daughter's essence alive in our hearts and actions.

The weight she carried

                                                                 The Weight She Carried

Emma's eyes always looked empty, but her face never lacked a smile. It was a smile she had perfected over the years, a mask that concealed the turmoil inside. To everyone around her, she seemed like a typical young woman, full of life and dreams. But beneath the surface, Emma was drowning in a sea of anxiety and depression.

From a young age, Emma had been an achiever. She excelled in school, participated in various extracurricular activities, and was loved by her friends and teachers. Her parents, proud and supportive, often spoke of her bright future. Yet, as the years passed, Emma began to feel the weight of expectations pressing down on her chest. It was an invisible burden that grew heavier each day, making it hard for her to breathe.

Despite her achievements, Emma felt a profound emptiness inside. Her mind was a constant whirlwind of worries and self-doubt. At night, when the world slept, her thoughts raced uncontrollably, denying her the peace she so desperately needed. She often described it as feeling like a heavy weight on her chest, an incessant pressure that never eased.

Emma tried to reach out for help in subtle ways. She would mention feeling overwhelmed or tired, but her words were often dismissed with well-meaning reassurances. "Everyone feels stressed sometimes," they would say. "You just need to relax." But Emma knew it was more than just stress. It was a deep, unrelenting sadness that she couldn't shake off.

Her parents noticed changes in her behavior. She became more withdrawn and less enthusiastic about the activities she once loved. Her grades started to slip, and she spent more time alone in her room. Yet, they attributed these changes to the typical struggles of adolescence. They assumed she would bounce back, as she always had before.

Emma's breaking point came one winter evening. She sat in her room, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes, once bright and full of life, now looked hollow and distant. The smile she wore felt like a lie. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt genuinely happy. Desperate and afraid, she knew she couldn't keep up the facade any longer.

She mustered the courage to speak to her parents, to lay bare the depth of her pain. With tears streaming down her face, she told them about the constant anxiety, the depression that had taken hold of her life, and the thoughts that haunted her every night. She spoke of the weight on her chest, the racing mind that never let her rest.

Her parents were shocked, their hearts breaking as they realized the extent of their daughter's suffering. They had always seen her as strong and capable, never imagining she could be struggling so profoundly. They listened, finally understanding the importance of her words, and vowed to support her in every way they could.

Emma's journey to recovery was long and arduous. She sought therapy, medication, and the unwavering support of her family. She learned to confront her demons and slowly began to reclaim her life. Her eyes, though still shadowed by her experiences, started to regain their spark.

To all parents, Emma's story is a poignant reminder: never ignore the signs of anxiety and depression in your children. The smiles they wear may be hiding a world of pain. Pay attention, listen with empathy, and offer support without judgment. Your awareness and understanding could be the lifeline they desperately need.

In the end, Emma's story is one of hope and resilience. It is a testament to the strength of the human spirit and the healing power of love and support. Let it be a message to all parents: your vigilance and compassion can make all the difference in the world.

Conquering college FOMO — celebrating Cooler snacks and meaningful moments - by Sana Vasi

https://theoccidentalnews.com/opinions/2017/03/13/conquering-college-fomo-celebrating-cooler-snacks-meaningful-moments/2886215

An exotic beauty? No, simply westernized and objectified by Sana Vasi

Barbies were banned from my house when I was growing up. “It’s just a doll,” I pleaded on my seventh birthday as I clutched the plastic figurine, its long, blonde hair tickling the base of my thumb. But my dad was adamant. The Barbie, with its vacant, pink-lipped smile and unblinking blue eyes, was tucked away into the back corner of his closet — doomed to spend the remainder of its shelf life nestled among old work shirts and paisley ties. “Don’t you think you’re being a little extreme?” My mom asked later that night. It was 10 p.m.; I was supposed to be asleep but had woken up to the sound of raised voices in the hallway adjacent to my room. “Sana’s right,” she continued. “It is only a doll.” My dad paused. I pressed my ear against the door. “I don’t want my daughter to think her value lies in her looks,” he said. “I want her to be more than just pretty.” The truth is, though, that I do not meet the conventional beauty standards that my discarded Barbie embodied. Yet, as I grew, past high school and into college, men still objectified me as if I were a toy — just not an American one. I was “exotic,” a word wielded as a form of dehumanization and control. When you call me “foreign,” you define me by your experiences, not mine. Growing up, I wasn’t pretty. Instead, I was cute in the way that all elementary school kids are cute, with missing teeth and pigtails affixed with scrunchies and sparkly barrettes. I was awkward in the way that all middle school preteens are awkward, with frizzy bangs and a thick layer of kajal smeared across my waterline. I flew under the radar in high school, secure in my position as an average-looking nerd who read too many books and attended too few parties. Now, in college, I am different — a word that is meant to be a compliment but only emphasizes all the ways in which I do not measure up to normative standards of beauty. “Where are you really from?” has become a common refrain — a reference, I’m sure, to my untamed eyebrows and wide-set nose. “How did your English get so good?” strangers ask, marveling at the subtle lilt of my accent that lingers long after phone conversations with my parents. “Sana,” they say; my name fizzles flat on their tongues. “How unique! Does it mean anything?” “But you don’t look Indian.” “You’re a halfie, right? Pakistani? You must be.” “So, what are you?” The constant barrage of questions soon turned grating. I’ve grown tired of the asterisk that attaches itself to my identity whenever I tell people I’m American, the insistent, pervasive belief that I don’t quite belong to the country I consider home. When I told my mom I was writing this article, she sighed. “You’re overreacting,” she said. “They just want to get to know you better. You should take it as a compliment.” I did not take it as a compliment when a boy messaged me on Tinder to tell me, first, that I looked “foreign” and later, for clarification, that I was “beautiful but not white.” I did not think that stranger wanted to get to know me better when he grabbed me at a club, his eyes roaming my body like it was uncharted terrain he had yet to conquer. I was not overreacting when I pulled away from his probing inquiries about my ethnicity; I was not defensive just because I told him to mind his own business. It was not okay that he felt entitled to an answer. It definitely wasn’t okay that he felt entitled to me. Whatever the intention, these daily intrusions turn me into a papier-mâché art project, assembled out of tissue-thin stereotypes and multi-layered expectations of who I’m supposed to be. “You’re not like most girls,” is not a tribute to my personality but an affirmation of my position as an outsider. Snide remarks about how I “sound too white” do not make me feel included; they make me feel as though I am not enough. Conspiratorial comparisons to “coconuts” only shove me further away from my sense of self. “Exotic” is not, and never will be, a term of endearment. I refuse to be someone else’s doll, my so-called racial ambiguity used to justify the relentless invasion into my personhood. I may have outgrown Barbie — their blank stares and artificial grins now give me the creeps — but I still have not let go of the desire to be pretty. The difference is that I do not want to be admired because I am “unusual” but because I am me. So the next time you see me alone at a party, nursing a red solo cup in the corner of a dimly lit room, remember: I am quiet, not because I’m cloaked in an aura of mystery, but because I don’t like talking to jerks.

Short truths by Sana Vasi

My parents told people that I had been in a car accident. It was a lie borne out of love, I know — a way to protect me from the difficult questions they didn’t think I was ready to answer. It made the first few weeks back home unbearably awkward. Family friends — the ones I only knew through vague bits of small talk at dinner parties — would look me up and down, searching for the physical markings of an imaginary trauma branded on my skin. “I’m okay,” I would assure them, offering a close-lipped smile. “It’s been an emotional roller-coaster,” my mom would jump in. “She doesn’t really like to talk about it.” “Well, you look good,” they would say, their eyes soft with sympathy. In those moments, I loathed them for their well-meaning condolences — for their superficial expectations of what “good” looked like. Last March, I tried to kill myself. I was exhausted and desperate, searching for an escape from the gray plains of my depression. At the time, swallowing pills seemed like the only way to muffle the voices that reverberated within my head — the ones that whispered about how worthless I was while maneuvering through the 6 p.m. dinner rush at the Marketplace; how pathetic, as I laughed and hugged my sisters during Bid Day. The doctors told me I was lucky to be alive. Nurses stationed outside my room called it a miracle. My parents, haggard and solemn, attributed my survival to the power of prayer. Seven months later and I’m still not sure what to believe. If I were the protagonist in a cliché young adult novel about mental illness, my attempted suicide would have been the turning point in my journey towards self-discovery. The 300-page paperback would gloss over the 72 hours I spent in the hospital — fast forward through the grogginess, the boredom, the bitter taste of activated charcoal in my mouth. It would skip the mundane and barrel instead toward the inevitable conclusion: Life is worth living. It is easy to give into that hopeful narrative; to hide underneath a candy-coated veneer of happiness; to nod and smile and agree that yes — I am doing so much better, thank you for asking. “I’m not lying,” I tell my dad over Skype. “I’m all right, I promise.” “I’m fine, Mom,” I insist, whenever she calls. “More than fine, actually. I’ve been doing great.” In truth, I still cling to depression like the threadbare baby blanket I drooled over when I was four. Every now and then, I even find enjoyment in the modicum of companionship that it provides. Depression dulls the sharp edges of my world — soothes my frayed, tattered nerves in the instances when I forget how to simply be. I may be better, but I am not fine — and I am certainly not great. As much as I want to conclude this narrative on a note of cautious optimism, recovery is not a linear progression. My obstacles are not easy to overcome; I am not a fictional character who emerges on the other side as a stronger, wiser version of herself. Reality doesn’t operate under the same assumptions that bind a made-up universe — where the rising action and subsequent climax herald an unambiguous resolution that ties up loose ends and signals the end of the final chapter. I’m not all right. I am, however, learning to accept the complexities of my illness by navigating its rough-hewn landscape — one made up not of peaks and valleys, but of sun-baked dirt and jagged pieces of gravel that cling to my bare feet. I am learning how to wake up every morning, unencumbered, before the weight of the next 12 hours settles heavy on my chest. I am learning that the white-hot scars caressing my wrist, my hips, the inside of my thighs, will serve as a permanent reminder of where I once was — and, to a certain extent, where I still linger. I am learning how attached I am to the pried-apart razorblades tucked away in the back corner of my dresser. I am learning that what is familiar is not always healthy, though it does provide a fragment of comfort. I am learning that my ability to endure does not make me brave — just tired. I am learning that I’m not okay — not yet, maybe not ever. I am learning that all sad stories do not have happy endings. And I am learning how to live with that. “It’s been a difficult year,” I tell people when they ask. “I don’t really like to talk about it.”