“Stuff I Tell My Therapist”

Email Six: 27 February 2022, 22:14

(no subject)

I have been thinking about my death and how people around me will just move on after I die.

I feel that I have not influenced their lives enough for them to even miss me. Either that, or I have made their lives a little worse by existing and me “disapearing” will make their lives better.

One will find a better partner and realise that I wasn’t a good choice to begin with. Others will be rid of the burden of a “needy” or “moody” friend or sister. I imagine their conversations about me, how they shared so many bad experiences with me, and how they are loving life now that they don’t have to worry about me anymore. I know I’ll be dead and won’t see it or feel anything, but that thought makes me feel sad and like I am a failer already.

On the other hand, I feel yes, I might not be the perfect friend, sister, or daughter but maybe someone out there thinks I’m the best thing that could happen to them. But I don’t know if I’ll ever meet that person. I also don’t think I deserve that person.


“Stuff I Tell My Therapist “

Email three : 25 January 2022, 16:11

Hi Dr Jane

Here is something random I just thought about.

In high school, when all the adolescent girls were bringing pocket-sized mirrors to school, I never did. It wasn’t because I wasn’t interested, I really wanted to. It was because I hated my reflection. I even avoided all reflective surfaces like windows. All my friends would take the opportunity to fix themselves on car reflections and glass doors and I would feel so embarrassed when I saw my hideous face next to theirs.

I am still not used to seeing myself in the mirror, and gaining weight hasn’t made things any easier.

Depressed Patient no.55


“Stuff I Tell My Therapist”

Email two: 24 January 2022, 23:30


I don’t know what a loving relationship is supposed to feel like. Maybe my expectations for how our relationship is supposed to be are unrealistic.

But aren’t we supposed to be free to talk to each other about anything? I feel like I can’t be honest with my partner at all. I am afraid  he will judge me as he always does.

I want to be myself around Nohim but whenever I do, I get judged or my motives get questioned. I can’t live like this. 

Is it possible that choosing to be with this person was a mistake? 

Maybe we are not compatible. 

It makes me extremely anxious to see him angry or disappointed in me.

To be honest I didn’t get into a relationship with him because I fell in love- I’m still not sure what that feels like- I got with him because I felt like I wasn’t worthy of someone else (someone better). I said to myself; “well, at least someone wants me” 

It was a stupid decision, I know. And I regret it especially when I see couples who seem to be “truly in love”.

I feel like I ruined his chance of being happy with someone who would be compatible with him and would make him happy. 

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I am afraid of being unwanted by others if I decide to leave him.  

Please don’t judge me, I already have to deal with that at home.

Depressed Patient no. 55


New series: “Stuff I Tell My Therapist”

A series of e-mails I have sent to my therapist over the past year. Some names have been censored or changed.

Disclaimer: Everything is true, except for the parts that are completely made up! Proceed with caution! 😅

Email one: 21 Jan 2022, 06:50 am

Hi Dr. Jane Doe

Hope you are well.

I apologise for not opening up as much on our session, it was the first time I have ever gotten a chance to speak about my feelings with anyone. I promise to so better next time.

These are the lyrics of a song called “surface pressure” from a new Disney movie. I relate so much to the song. I hope it helps you get a better understanding of how I feel. I promise to open up more next time.

I’m the strong one, I’m not nervous

I’m as tough as the crust of the earth is
I move mountains, I move churches
And I glow ’cause I know what my worth is

I don’t ask how hard the work is
Got a rough indestructible surface
Diamonds and platinum, I find ’em, I flatten ’em
I take what I’m handed, I break what’s demanding

Under the surface
I feel berserk as a tightrope walker in a three-ring circus
Under the surface
Was Hercules ever like “Yo, I don’t wanna fight Cerberus”?
Under the surface
I’m pretty sure I’m worthless if I can’t be of service

A flaw or a crack
The straw in the stack
That breaks the camel’s back
What breaks the camel’s back it’s

Pressure like a drip, drip, drip that’ll never stop, whoa
Pressure that’ll tip, tip, tip ’till you just go pop, whoa
Give it to your sister, your sister’s older
Give her all the heavy things we can’t shoulder
Who am I if I can’t run with the ball?
If I fall to

Pressure like a grip, grip, grip and it won’t let go, whoa
Pressure like a tick, tick, tick ’til it’s ready to blow, whoa
Give it to your sister, your sister’s stronger
See if she can hang on a little longer
Who am I if I can’t carry it all?
If I falter

Under the surface
I hide my nerves, and it worsens, I worry something is gonna hurt us
Under the surface
The ship doesn’t swerve as it heard how big the iceberg is
Under the surface
I think about my purpose, can I somehow preserve this?

Line up the dominoes
A light wind blows
You try to stop it tumbling
But on and on it goes

But wait
If I could shake the crushing weight of expectations
Would that free some room up for joy
Or relaxation, or simple pleasure?
Instead we measure this growing pressure
Keeps growing, keep going
‘Cause all we know is

Pressure like a drip, drip, drip that’ll never stop, whoa
Pressure that’ll tip, tip, tip ’til you just go pop, whoa-oh-oh
Give it to your sister, it doesn’t hurt
And see if she can handle every family burden
Watch as she buckles and bends but never breaks
No mistakes just

Pressure like a grip, grip, grip and it won’t let go, whoa
Pressure like a tick, tick, tick ’til it’s ready to blow, whoa
Give it to your sister and never wonder
If the same pressure would’ve pulled you under
Who am I if I don’t have what it takes?
No cracks, no breaks
No mistakes, no pressure

Yours kindly

Depressed Patient no. 55


“The Most Hated boy in the World”

I thought I should share a draft of the first chapter of a novel I’m currently working on, about a young boy who faces abuse from the people he trusts the most- his family. It is based on true events. The title is as above mentioned.

Please feel free to leave comments and suggestions.

Chapter one – “To the bone”

As he searches for warmth in the depths of his pockets with his diminutive hands, a bitterly cold breeze violently slaps him across the face. The weather has been particularly unforgiving this week, and today is no exception. It’s a damp foggy Thursday morning and The silhouettes of the people walking in front and beside him slowly diminish and disappear into the mist. Young and old bodies strut by trying to catch up to the morning rush

Another one of the wind’s companions gives it a go, blow by blow the winds attack as to taunt him, knowing he doesn’t stand a chance against them. One more surge of cold air pierces straight into his eyes, forcing them shut.
A tear begins to fall down his frozen cheek, followed by another and another, tears start to flow like a flooded river during raining season.
He gives out a heavy sigh that seems to fall out of his mouth and warms up the cold air surrounding his face.

He wipes the tears on his face as quickly as he can and throws his hands back into his thin grey trouser pockets. He clenches his fists to trap the little warmth in his hands preventing it from escaping. It doesn’t help that his school uniform is made from horribly rangy fabric. The hefty sack on his back is not making the journey to school any easier either.

Anyway, it will all be worth it once he gets there. He enjoys school and loves to learn. The classroom is his sanctuary. It helps him forget about all his troubles…


“Call Me by My Name.”

Her heart was pounding, the wind blowing against her thick coily air, and her feet almost levitating off the ground, all those hours of training seem to have finally paid off. She is racing through the sports field. Sprinting passed her competition. She is almost there, almost at the finish line.

That was three weeks ago, and today she is still running, this time not toward the finish line, but toward safety. Running from that sweet lady from the flower shop, instead of lilies, she has a machete in her hands. That librarian who always shushed her and her friends for making noise in the library is the one shouting out the loudest “Get her, they must all die!”. And that postman who used to greet her every morning with a smile is now on the frontline of the crowd, the instigator.

She had been dodging bullets a few days ago, but it looks like people have run out of ammunition, and now they use whatever they can find as assault weapons. At first, it was fear in their eyes, but now it is pure rage and hate. They just want her dead.

This disease has changed many things, but the worst it has done is take away her precious memories. She can’t even remember her name.

As she runs passed the park, a sudden image crosses her mind like a vision. it’s of a man, familiar but strange. He is teaching a little girl how to ride a bike, a pink bike with sparkles on the paddles, and a small white basket in the front. She could hear his soft voice, so soothing, so encouraging as the little girl fell off her bike over and over again. “Never give up, no matter what okay? now go on dear, go on…try again, I’m here for you” he says. Determined, the little girl picks herself up and gets on the bike again. After paddling for longer than she did before and making it to the other side of the park, with the man running right beside her, she shouted out “Daddy, look I did it!”

She slowed down while trying to savor that moment. Tearing up, and looking back at the park she then slipped and fell over a toy, probably abandoned there during the chaos of people trying to leave town when the disease had started spreading.

The mob was coming closer and closer toward her, more determined than ever to be rid of her kind, the infected ones. As she tried to pull herself up, waking from the daydream of what seemed to be a memory of her past, a young man suddenly appeared from the side of the street, took her by her hand, and pulled her up to run. He took her into his white van and they drove off.

Wait…who are you?” she tried to say but her words come out all scrambled and chopped. She is losing her speech now. She is changing faster than she expected. The young man turns to her and says,
“Don’t worry I won’t hurt you, I’m taking you to a safe place, it will all be alright, trust me.”
Did he hear what I said?
She is confused but feels safe enough.
She has no more energy left to fight anyway. Maybe he is her last hope of finding out who she is and finding her family, if they are still alive.

She caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror, she is not an attractive young athlete anymore. The disease has added a few years to her face. Her beautiful golden-brown glow is turning to a pale grayish tone, almost transparent. Cold to the touch. Dark dilated pupils are looking back at her, she no longer has that pleasant hazel gaze that the boy from Geography class fell head over heels for.
She looks to her rescuer in the driver’s seat and notices how handsome he is, with clear skin and dark curly bangs that hung over his big brown eyes. She is jealous of his youthfulness. He is wearing a grey hoody, some faded blue jeans, and white sneakers.
Typical white-boy swag.

She sees they are leaving the city and going into the countryside. The more she tries to speak, the less she is understood.

Twitching and ticking have set in now, a sign that she is almost completely changed.
Her rescuer notices this and offers her some food as a distraction from the thought of her terrible fate. A stale tuna sandwich, and bottled water. She accepts as she hasn’t eaten in days. She didn’t even notice how hungry she was. As she bites into the sandwich the taste reminds her of something, but she doesn’t know what. She struggles to hold on to her fading memories but they are quickly slipping away. The disease is close to killing her, well the old her.

They make it to their destination, a massive
mansion in the countryside. Inside they are greeted by a young couple and an old woman with money and authority written all over her. She could have been the mayor or a town councilor, but she couldn’t recognize her anyway. They seem to be excited to see her, relieved even.

“Hi, my name is Leo and this is my wife Cassie, I’m sure Jonathan took good care of you, right?” The man said smiling, dressed in matching cargo pants and black t-shirts with his wife.

She didn’t realize that her savior had not introduced himself. She glanced back at him.
Johnathan, that sounds familiar.
They lock eyes. The old woman interrupts the moment and says in an authoritative voice, “I am Victoria, nice to meet you.” stretching out her hand for a handshake.

“My…name is…well, I don’t quite remember, I was hoping you would help me with that. I…uh”
She remembers that no one can understand her.

“Don’t worry dear, no need to explain,” Cassie says, she looks a little frightened but tries to hide it with pseudo-confidence.

They pull her into a room set up like a lab.
“Sit down dear” Victoria says.
Who are these people? Are they scientists? Am I their next experiment?
She is uneasy and hesitates to sit. She looks around for Johnathan, he is standing leaning against the door with his arms folded. He looks calm and tries to reassure her with a smile and a nod.

She sits, Cassie tries to strap her in the chair, but she resists.
“Stop! (Hissing)… no, (mouning) stop it, please! (Snarling)”
Everyone froze, she could tell that they were afraid of her but they were still
determined to do whatever it is they meant to do with her.
Johnathan comes closer, kneels beside the chair, and holds her hand. For some reason she trusts him, and without a word spoken she calms down and lets Cassie finish what she started.

Victoria just watches from the corner of the room like she is the one in control of the whole thing, whatever it is.

Leo then appears with gloves on and a needle and syringe in his hands. “This will sting a little.”
Oh well, that’s it for me then. I had a good run.
Taking one last look at Johnathan, she squeezes his hand. He looks into her eyes and says “It’s okay Aisha, you’ll be alright.”
Ais…Aisha, that’s it! that’s my name!
Wait, don’t…how do you know me? how do you know my n…
She falls into a deep sleep.


Book review; After: The Shock (book #1 in the AFTER series) by Scott Nicholson

It has been a week after a solar flare hit the entire planet, killing half the world’s population, and disrupting power grids, internet connections, communication devices, and transport systems. Most survivors have become violent mutants called Zapheads, and the remaining normal humans are left navigating in a civilization that has been brought back into the dark ages.

The protagonist Rachel Wheeler affectionately known as Ray Ray is a God-fearing young woman from Charlotte North Carolina, who believes that everything happens for a reason and that the apocalypse is possibly a test from God. She has lost her entire family and friends but has been successful in surviving on her own so far.

Along the way, she meets a black street-smart young man named Devontay and a 10-year-old orphaned boy named Stephen. The three of them make an odd trio, but they grow very fond of each other while trying to find a safe place to hide and survive. However, It turns out that the mutants are not their only enemy.

Even though After: The Shock is a post-apocalyptic thriller with violence as one of its themes, the author Scott Nicholson cleverly touched on some sensitive issues such as suicide, addiction, guilt, religion, and the meaning of life, in a humorous way which I appreciated and enjoyed. The ending lays a solid foundation for the next book in the series After: The Echo which I am looking forward to reading.

This story opened my eyes to how differently humans experience life depending on their backgrounds and beliefs. I saw how facing difficult situations can test one’s morality, and the most important lesson I’ve learned is that even after we lose everything materially, what will always remain is that which makes us human; faith, love, and hope.

I’m giving this book a rating of 4 stars out of 5. An overall great read.


“This is not a Love Letter”

To my hopeless love

This is not a love letter, rather, I write you with a heavy heart because I know we can never be together. Even so, I am gripped and can’t break free from your charm.

This is not a love letter, but I am incarcerated by your gaze. The truth in your eyes sees right through the lies in mine. I try to hide it, but you are all-knowing. Just a glance from you melts away all my defenses and chokes away all the words from my mouth. I can’t seem to remember how to speak or breathe.

I promise this is not a love letter, however, your rare touch, insignificant as it may be to you, leaves me longing for more. My hands and body quickly free themselves from your embrace but my soul can’t, and won’t let go.

This is still not a love letter, but the sound of your voice leaves me paralysed I lose my sense of self and I scramble to pick up the pieces of my scattered mind. That is what you do to me.

This is certainly not a love letter because we both belong to someone else, but I cannot ignore the passion between us whenever we are together, and the emptiness I feel when we are apart. Tell me what to do in this desperate situation, in this tug-of-war where the battlefield is my heart. How do I escape you or forget you?

This is not a love letter, but it might as well be because my heart belongs to you.

From your secrete love


“A Letter to My Tomorrow”

Dear Tomorrow

I hope you are well…for my sake.

The thought of you crosses my mind more often these days. It brings me a great deal of discomfort when I speculate about who you are and what you will become.

We are still yet to meet, and so I am curious about your appearance, your thoughts, and your choices.

I wonder whether the deep folds bordering your brilliant eyes will unwittingly expose the things you have seen and experienced. Will I look into those eyes and fail to find compassion and the spirit that once drove you to live a life that even I aspire to live? Has the passing of time helped you see things with more clarity, as they are, as they should be?

Do the unpleasant scars on your delicate hands serve as a reminder to never again dare to even dream? Will you ever master up the courage to change and reach for your dreams once more?

The grey on your head tells of the adventures that washed out the joy, wonder, and inspiration from you.
Does the lack of color suggest a lack of passion?

Do you still run toward the warmth of the sun or have your feet grown heavy, frozen to the ground out of suspicion and doubt? Do your legs still jump for joy when you accomplish a seemingly impossible feat or has fear succeeded in holding you back from even taking a single step?

You think your time has run out, that there are no more prospects left for you to reject and no more calls for you to ignore. Will you rewrite your story or will you live and die this way? Only time will tell.

When we finally meet, I pray that you look favorably upon me, as yesterday didn’t treat me so well.

The Present



She was planted on the cold hard ground.

Stomped on, stunted, just left behind.
Suffocating in a dark, cramped space, feeling confined.
The only voice of comfort was her own, her own mind.

She was scattered along the concrete sidewalk.

Expected to take root, expected to flourish.
Neglected, unwatered, unnourished.
Will she ever grow or see the light of day?
Or will she perish and just wither away?

Yes, she was forsaken. Yes, she was shaken. But she was never broken.

Against all odds, she began to sprout.
Shunning all doubt.
Shooting out, aiming for the sun.
She is chosen, yes she is the one.

Budding, flowering, blooming!
Soon all will see her rare beauty, so consuming.
They will hear her song unsung.
Be mindful, her journey has just begun.