Let's Talk

In Canada, we have this thing called Bell Let's Talk day, where we tweet, share or make a donation by using the hashtag #BellLetsTalk. I'm not sure if other places in the world do this, but it's pretty much a big deal here, with millions of commercials, posters, and of course, endorsements. And how can it not be? According to Canadian Mental Health Association, 20% of Canadians will experience mental health issues in their lifetime, and it's something that affects every age, culture and gender.

I contribute, by tweeting and sharing posts, but this year, I wanted to do something different. I don't know what else I'm good at other than talking and writing things down, so... here we are. However, I think my biggest motivation behind writing this post is because, ever since I started university, I've noticed a lot of things changing.

Aside from realizing I've acquired terrible sleeping habits, stress levels reaching a whole new level of scary, and constant eating, I realized how hard the transition is going from high school to university. Your life changes drastically: a routine you've had the majority of your life ends, you drift away from people, and you're trying to find your place in the world while being stuck in a terrible limbo of trying to be an adult, and clinging onto that sense of curiosity, free-spiritedness and passion that comes from being a teenager. 

If you go to school at Ryerson like me, you probably seen them- the suits. And I'm not talking about the television show. I'm talking about the business people with caffeinated bright eyes and designer eye bags for days. I'm talking about the pros and Yuppies- the latter of which make you question if you really got your life under control because there's no way they're over 28. It's a dose of reality that makes the transition scarier, and that times almost up, and we can't stop being kids anymore: we actually have to be responsible and knowledgable in life without constantly ringing up mom or dad for help.

I'm pretty much open to change, and moving onto another chapter in my life has never really phased me. But I will say, that there are times when I feel like I can't do this, and there are times I'm feeling down; this transition has nerved me at times, but thankfully, I have good people around me. However, not everyone can be fortunate, and for someone that's been touched by mental health in various forms in her lifetime and is a full time student with a part time job that understands how hard this change can be, I can't imagine how difficult it is, and for that, I won't say sorry- it's not your fault. Instead I'll say: want to talk?

Because I get it- I really do get it. This world goes on around you, while you feel trapped on the inside. There's a million things go on in your head, and you don't know what to say, who to say it to, or worst of all: who will listen and care about me? It's a constant cycle of trying to get better, but not trying to seem weak. Trying to understand what's going on in your head, without wanting anyone to think that you're just not ready, that you're crying 'wolf' or seeking attention. It's a new level of stress, anxiety, and emotion that adds more pressure on you than others think.

While today is Bell Let's Talk day, while today is a great day to see what a country can do to start a conversation, I wrote this post today because I wanted everyone to know that conversations shouldn't start or end because of a hashtag or trend. They should always be talked about, otherwise we lose what we've build towards- we lose our voices on the matter in a way, and let everything not talked about go by without notice.

I wrote this post because... well, once, there was a time when I was feeling at my worst, and one of the only people that I thought I could trust... Well, they told me my problems didn't matter. That I was making it up- that it wasn't real, not compared to their problems. Because I was a teenager. Because I was a student- what type of problems can I have? If I focused more, studied more, there'd be no problems. I never felt more alone, never felt more scared, angry, and of course stuck.

I don't want anyone to feel like that. While I'm great right now, I never want anyone to go through that alone. We have to end the stigma, we have to end these stereotypes, because it's not helping anyone. We have to understand that there's no easy way to fix this,

So let's talk. And let us not stop talking. 

Canadian Mental Health Association: http://www.cmha.ca/

Wordcount: The Artist

Artists were different. This was something that she knew as a fact.

She thought she was an artist once, because she had so many ideas, many thoughts, and her imagination never seemed to stop.

She was wrong.

She learned that she was different from even the most different. She was a dreamer. Not an artist. And it changed everything.

An artist could tell the world what they felt, thought or heard, what they experienced or what others have. They absorbed everything they experienced, and made it art. She did that too- but art was never the end result. Sometimes she’d have written some words, but then she’d erase them, as they were not what she wanted to say. Sometimes she’d draw, but it wasn’t what she imagined. Sometimes she’d sing, but then someone would sing something back, immersing her with a sweet melody, and reminding her she’d never be able to hit their notes.

She was a dreamer, because her mind never stopped creating and imagining- and it was limited to just that. She thought things, but had a hard time telling them through any outlet. She was stuck in her own head, reimagining the world to her will, but only telling a few what went on in her mind. They were rare to come across; they had to be open minded. And then they’d take what she made in her mind, and use it in their worlds. She used to get mad, but she’d made peace with it, and her existence.

And then as time passed, the dreamer turned into an adult, slowly but surely. The dreams existed, but the new routine changed her, made her sleepier, to the point where she forgot to dream at all. And on the rare occasions she did get the chance to dream, it was hard. She’d think of something, but then it’d quickly slip away from her mind. It bothered her, and made her feel out of place again.

If she wasn’t an artist, and no longer a dreamer, then what was she?

She knew the answer, but she refused to accept it. Refused to acknowledge that she’d become part of the world she swore she’d never be part of.

Then one day, instead of dreaming, she decided to go out and see what the artists did at night- to see if their unconventional life styles would inspire dreams in hers.

She danced and danced, full of makeup and dressed in black, the sour aftertaste of their liquid inspiration on her lips; it was familiar to her, but strange in so many ways.

She turned and saw an artist, dressed up with a bright red bow tie, and laughed. She laughed and danced, and kissed him all night, till she had to leave, because the artists decided they needed another place to inspire themselves. She left the artist and bid him goodnight, and with a heavy heart, said a silent thanks to him; she’d never hear back, but he’d be etched in her mind forever. A new dream. She was sad, but pleased, and happily joined her group of artists, hoping that wherever they took her, she’d meet more artists, dressed up, maybe in red, maybe with bow ties.

But that didn’t happen. The artists decided in the end, that their witching hour was over, and it was time to go back and sleep. To let their creative minds rest.

The dreamer was happy to dream, but was sad: she wanted to see more of their world, and wondered if they all had so much fun at night while she was dreaming.

She dreamt of nothing that night, and it disappointed her. She left, and went back to her own world, leaving the artists to their day. But she kept the memory of the artist she met the night before with her, replaying the night and dreaming about how wonderful it would be to be one of them: carefree, passionate, wild and courageous.

Then the unthinkable happened: her dream became a reality.

The artist found his way back to her, and filled her day with happiness and smiles. She was a happy dreamer again, but this time, full of hope with their new found friendship, and instead of reimagining the world, she dreamt of them becoming something more.

But then the artist revealed his true form; he was no artist, he was one of them. A conformist. A realist. His world revolved around work and work, and the occasional night where he pretended to be an artist.

The dreamer’s dream was shattered, but she held on to him, making herself believe that he was just like her: someone that stumbled into the wrong world, and had a hard time getting out. But as time past, the artist never remerged. So slowly, the dreamer let her dream fall apart. Slowly, she accepted that he tricked her, and the artist who danced with her, who kissed her, was never really there.

She was sad at first, but then surely enough, she started to dream again. Not of the illusionary artist, but of other things: of art, of passion, of happiness and smiles.

She called herself a dreamer, because she had a hard time expressing her thoughts into reality. But she now knew what it took to make her dream a reality: courage.

No, she wasn’t an artist, and nor did she ever think she’d be. But she now knew that to keep her dreams going, she’d need a bit of courage. She’d never be able to express her crazy thoughts like an artist for the world to see, but she knew how to make them real and her own personal creation.

(Originally posted on my Wattpad)

Wordcount: To all of those that loved before me

To all the friends all of those that loved before me,

I admit: I based off this open letter on a book by Jenny Han entitled, To All the Boys I Loved Before. I found it an enjoyable story, and a very relatable one; its nice to have a book connect with you in such an emotional way, especially when you read too many books in that genre (honestly, too many books in general) to count.

I liked the book, because it portrayed love in a realistic way for me. It showed that love is wonderful, and falling in love is a beautiful thing. It makes you happier, smile more, and gives you a little jump to your step. But it also shows how love is messy, and how easy it is to make a mess of things, whether they be big or little.

And this is where my open letter really begins.

To all my friends, I want you to know: loves a mess, and it makes you a mess, but it’s a mess we’ll have to figure out and experience on our own. As friends, we’ll be able to pick up the pieces of a broken heart, or we can fan the sparks and help ignite the flame, but what you experience is between you two and you two alone.

Love.

What is love?

If you look in the dictionary, there’s no absolute definition of it. Love is blind. Love is a losing game. Love is infinite. Love is undefinable. I would give you the definition of love, but I don’t know it myself- well, not in that sense.

I do know love: the unconditional love of my family, your patient love, and the love of those that work alongside me, the love of strangers when I make their day, and the love and connection I have with my God. But the love of two people? That’s a foreign concept to me. I don’t know what that is. I think I’ve gotten close to it a couple times, but I’d never actually loved someone. I’ve been in love with the concept of love, but haven’t had the opportunity to express it with another person.

Love is a crazy thing. Too complex for me to understand.

When you first meet a person you’re attracted to, there’s a pain deep within your core, unexplainable but unyielding. Then, like a fever, spreads to your veins, till it consumes your heart, mind and soul- till you realize you can’t get enough of that person to the point where it pains you to stay away from them longer. And when you two start something together, you make memories, experiences, something that’s special than the relationship you have with others.

It makes me wonder how something so special can hurt you in the beginning, give you the best time it can during its course, and depending on the end result, bring you back down again.

I’m not writing this to make you feel scared about falling in love/falling, nor make you feel guilty about my sad love life. I’m writing it so you know to cherish that love with another person for as long as you can, and if you guys can’t make it, not to get angry or sad: to be happy.

Love is a scary thing. It’s a messy thing. It’s really confusing and draining, but in the end of the day, I see the light behind your eyes, and honesty of your smile, so I know that love is great.

To all my friends that love or have loved before me,

To all those that love or have loved before me in general,

Keep it. Don’t lose it. Don’t forget it.

Not everyone is that lucky to cherish something so special. So go ahead, and don’t be afraid to love.

Sincerely,

The Loved 

Wordcount: Restaurant Manners

While working in the restaurant industry as a hostess, I learned that people generally don't have proper manners.

That one particular incident is still engraved in my mind. I was working a seven and a half hour shift, and I haven't eaten my dinner yet. I was done all my duties for the night and was ready to eat when four people showed up.

I was ready to seat them when they decided to tell me they would be a party of 14.

See, usually, I wouldn't have a problem with this. I've seated people more than that before closing before. The problem? They weren't entirely sure how many they would be, when they'd arrive, and our kitchen staff was still doing orders while slowly doing their own side duties for the night.

I told them that we would be closing in less than an hour, and that I would have to ask the kitchen staff if they were alright taking it in, which I assure them they would be since we've done it before. 

Being the dutiful hostess, I went back to the kitchen and told them. The waitresses and kitchen staff weren't amused that they weren't entirely sure how many they would actually be so I went back to finalize the numbers, ready to set up the tables afterwards since they gave the okay.

I went back and asked them again, but then the son started being, well, an asshole.

"What are you trying to do? Are you trying to kick us out?" He asked in a disgusted tone. He was tall, probably around six feet, and was looking down at me, literally and figuratively. I didn't know how I actually felt. I was ashamed, scared and really pissed off by his tone and his temper, and felt the blood in my veins turn cold. I didn't know if I was going to be really nice again, or was going to tell him and his ugly ass clothing to leave and go back to 2009. 

Regardless, at this point I knew it was going to end badly. I was going to have a panic attack if I didn't fix this. Or at the very best, be in a constant state of worry afterwords. Not for my job, but for my life. I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice, and I placed my hand on the podium so they wouldn't see me tremble in fear. 

"No, sir, we're not-"

"Okay," he retorted in a booming voice, and a new edge in his tone, telling me he was ready to kick my ass. I've dealt with enough kids with IEPs and anger issues to know that shit was going to go down. "If the sign says you close at 9:30, then why can't you accommodate us?"

"I just went to the back, and they said they're fine, all I need to know is how many there will be so I can set the tables," I replied as calmly as I could, but by the looks of their faces and the sickening feeling I felt, I knew it probably sounded flat and unamused. Which, was how I felt, but in my defence, I was terrified to a point of no return and wasn't entirely sure how to feel.

"But you," he said this pointedly, making big gestures with his hands that made himself look bigger and more intimidating than he already was. Maybe I would cry tonight, I thought, as I looked as his parents did who did nothing to stop him, while his sister look so torn between wanting to back up her brother and wanting to back me up. "Should be able to accommodate us." He continued, and at this point, I knew for sure there will be a panic attack. Not here though. I glanced at the clock, and realized that I had 45 minutes to go. I can hold off the nerves and do it at home.

We are bringing business to your restaurant," he said smugly, knowing he's cornered me. I try to speak, but he continues to rail me. "This is so unprofessional. You should be able to accommodate us, why can't you? You said it closes at 9:30, what's the matter?"

At this point, my knuckles had gone white, and I was going to faint from anger, from shame, from fear. Here are four people, no reservation, coming in with 45 minutes left in business, trying to get me to seat 14, which we didn't mind. But they were evading my questions, and were bullying me. I've been bullied enough in life to know that. I just wanted to scream that I was 17, that I was underaged, and that you, sir, who is probably in your mid-twenties, is currently yelling at a child.

I tell him that the reason why we needed to know is because our kitchen closes at 9:30. He doesn't take my crap, and is about to yell at me more. I try pleading with his parents for sympathy, turn to the unamused dad, saying that at 9:30 people like me, had to go home or they'd get in trouble like he night before- he wasn't taking my crap either. At this point, I thought I made it clear what the others had told me and thought I made it obvious that I was still a kid, but during their son's aggressive exchange and my panic I started to ramble and forced myself to hold back tears. My face was hard as stone, but my nerves were frozen in fear and panic. 

"One moment please," I told them a little harshly as I scurried to the back. I was not going to cry, I wasn't going to cry...

I went to the back, and told the waitresses and kitchen guys the entire situation. One of them went to go speak to them, while I went to set up a table for twenty. I took a sip of water, before heading back to my podium.

"This shouldn't be a problem," I heard one head say, and I wasn't sure if they meant the table or the whole entire situation.

"...we just don't want to be rushed, and if this was explained to us like this earlier, we would have understood and not wasted our time." The mother finally said out loud, and gave me a hurtful glare. I wrapped my arms around myself, scared, and bit my tongue. I told them what I was told (and admittedly in a state of panic), and then some. I won't cry, I said in my head. I won't cry.

My co-worker started to repeat what she said before, as the whole situation apparently escalated from when I left. I was there, tables ready, but apparently they weren't taking our crap. They started to leave, asking for the name of the person that served them.

Technically, asshole, I hosted them, and your son started to attack me. Clearly parenting skills wasn't his strong suit. And neither was proper communication. Guess the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree. 

They wanted my name. I was pissed and ready to cry at this point. How dare they ask for my name? I'm 17, and you just verbally assaulted me. You harassed me, coming in here evading my questions, and vehemently protested our efforts to resolve the problem by making room for you and your tribe to eat with (by this point), 40 minutes left till closing.

I look at the old man, the father of the rambunctious and rude man-child, and tell him a false name, "Grace Hernandez. Grace Hernandez is my name," I tell them pointedly. 

It's amazing what happened next. Their faces snapped in recognition, realizing that the hostess was one of them. A Filipino. Yeah, suck on that. I think that made things worse. Country men are supposed to stand beside their country men. Too bad this one was a young woman whom they pissed off.

"Grace Hernandez," the old man says. His elderly mother, Lola Asim, whom I've nicknamed in my head at this point, looks at me in discontent. "Why are your arms folded?"

He knows I covered my name tag. Well, obviously he thinks eating and causing a scene at a restaurant is above harassing a minor. "Because," I spit out, trying not to cry. "I just want to leave."

"You want to leave? Then go- leave." He says. I was about to reply, with a witty remark but held it back, and shoved it into the depths of my mind along with my tears and fears. 

The people have started to leave, and my co-worker says something that I miss, as I try not to cry. I've never seen any more rude people like them in my entire life. The mother says, something about not wanting to be rushed before she leaves. 

The last thing I remember is this, "You're not going to get in trouble, she is," he points at me, and I know it's a threat and a promise. I'm shaking and I'm going to faint. I haven't had a panic attack since Dia Armando got everyone in sixth grade to hate me. "Grace Hernandez," he repeats venomously, and I'm going faint, I'm going to fucking faint and my co-worker isn't going to help me. Crap. Crap. Crap.

They leave and a tremble as we walk to the the kitchen and our supervisor asks for our side of the story. 

We tell them what happened, and how to man-child was attacking me. She calls the manager, who knows what went down.

The others are telling me to be calm, to eat so I can calm down. I go and try to calm my nerves, and my friend who helped me tells me why they were even more upset when I reappeared. 

"They told me that they were going to be 14, but later on they wanted to know if they were in the restaurant, they could have their other family members come in after 9:30, since they were already inside and they were still picking them up." She rolls her eyes. "I told them when can serve you, but our kitchen closes at 9:30 completely, and we have to lock our doors."

Well, at least that made some sense as to why they were upset. But she went on.

"They didn't want to be rushed, which is understandable. They wanted us to open the doors for them, but I told them we can't do that." She sighed. "Then that son was swear at me, telling me to go back to where I came from. He was saying, 'This is fucking stupid', 'Fuck you, fuck this.' And then his dad or something's said, 'My son's a cop!'"

"Legit?"

"Yeah, I told them calmly that we can't do that. And then he kept swearing at me, and I told him I don't deserved to be talked to like that."

I stayed quiet, my hands still balled into fists. They were pale and hadn't stopped shaking. "On a scale of one to ten, how much trouble am I going to get in?"

She waved her hand away, dismissing the notion. "Honestly, you did everything you could. They were just upset that they couldn't get what they wanted." She paused. "Everything's going to be alright."

Somehow I didn’t believe her.