Thirty-something

I’ve been thirty-four for the the last 24 hours and part of me wants to return to my twenty-something year old self...so here I am...blogging on my Tumblr in a cafe, sitting alone. 

As I sit here, I wonder would my past self be proud of the woman I’ve become? Sure I’ve accomplished some things, but there are so much more to be done.

I wish I could tell her that thirty-four feels a lot like starting over...new career, new relationship, new apartment, and new friends. And Cleveland doesn’t feel like Cleveland anymore, most of your friends have moved or started families so you’re going to have to search a little deeper to find things that still feel like home. And that feeling of never belonging doesn’t go away...even in your thirties.

There are a lot of things you didn’t get right, but I’m thankful for the things you did. Like, walking away from toxic situations, refusing to shrink yourself to fit into places you don’t belong, and learning how to set boundaries to cultivate healthy relationships. Those are the things I want you to remember to celebrate. None of that other sh*t matters...who’s meant to stay will and there’s going to be so many things you’ve outgrown and that's ok. Change means you’re evolving.

Remember to celebrate yourself because no one is more proud of you than me.

xo.

Sex & other drugs: A journey of abstinence, rediscovery, and self love.

I remember the last time I made love to a man, every insignificant detail. The weight of his body on top of mine, the sound of our moans as we climaxed in unison still replays in my mind like a broken record.

It is human nature to want to be loved and wanted– to connect with someone intimately and to be able to express it in physical form. When I told people I wanted to abstain from sex, they’d asked me why was I punishing myself. But it didn’t feel like punishment at all. It was a cleanse– a detox of the energies I have collected over the years that did not belong to me but to the people I have allowed into my bed.

It has been over a year since I’ve committed to abstaining from sex. It was a personal choice. I wanted to explore a deeper, more intimate relationship with myself and with God. It has been a long, lonely journey.

Sex used to make me feel empowered. I could make a man fall in love with me, simply by the way I rolled my hips when I was riding him. I wouldn’t say sex became meaningless, but I grew tired of sharing intimate moments with temporary people.

I read some where that discipline is the greatest form of self love. I didn’t have a goal or an “end date”; I just took it day by day. The longer I abstained, the easier it was to hear my inner voice. I became more self aware and was forced to confront past trauma. Shortly after, I gave up liquor too. I began to eat cleaner and healthier and exercised frequently. I read more books. My relationship with God grew stronger. My self worth was no longer dependent on anyone else but myself. 

I was awakening.

Be weary of the man who is too good with his words. He has recited them to every women before you, And he will use them to win the woman that comes after you. He will make his empty promises sound like sweet poetry. He will tell you everything you want to hear without any intentions of loving you. He will break you. Do not fall for him.

Fall for the man who doesn't say too much, because he understands the value of words. A man who doesn't like to let you down, so he only says what he means, and does everything he says. Fall for the man who isn't afraid to love you. He will help heal you. Choose him.

- s. tan | Love is a verb.

Night after night, I lie alone, with my eyes wide shut, my mind doesn’t seem to sleep. Instead of counting sheep, I reminisce, and turn you into poetry.

I have a collection written on my bedroom walls. Hoping that one day,  the sun washes them away.

But the memories seem to stay leaving a permanent stain, reminding me of your absence everyday.

I’ll never be the same.

- s. tan | Bedroom Walls

I don’t hate you.

I hate what you’ve done to me —

I hate that you placed me in a competition with the women of your past without my consent. I hate that I understood you too well. I hate that I made excuses for you. I hate that you fooled me into believeing that giving you gifts and money was love, and intimacy was getting drunk enough to talk about our feelings. I hate that I let you jump from woman to woman so you could search for the love you never got at home. I hate that I allowed you to break my heart over and over again. and I hate that I took you back every time.

I hate that you always made me feel guilty for putting myself first. I hate that you took away my last days with my father, arguing with me about something so miniscule and leaving me to grieve alone. and I hate that I forgave you for something so unforgivable. I hate that I question my art because of you. I hate that you made me feel like I was “too much” when you were not enough. I hate that I let your dirty hands touch my soul. I hate that I get sick to my stomach when I see your face now, the same one I used to love waking up next to. I hate that I believed every empty promise you told me. I hate that you made me terrified of trusting people,  and afraid to love anyone. I hate that I will use every shooting star, 11:11, birthday candle wishing to forget you. I hate that every time I look in the mirror all I can see is a wounded spirit. I hate that you refuse to let me move on, knowing I’m too good for you. I hate that it took me three and a half years to realize that too.

But most of all, I hate myself for loving you.

- s.tan

Before I die...

I found myself standing in front of a chalkboard wall, randomly in the middle of the city. It reads: 

“Before I die, I want to…” 

Perhaps if I wasn’t heart-broken or day drunk I might have put more thought into what I was about to write. I would have wrote something logical or practical like, “save the world,” or “write a book.” Instead, I wrote something so cliche, even for myself. 

I grabbed a piece of chalk and I let the words and honesty flow through cursive letters. In my inebriated state, I let my masochistic heart speak. Without a second thought, I write: 

“…fall in love again.” 

I walked away never thinking it was going to come true.

Years later, while laying in bed with this beautiful man, I realized that I had fallen in love (again). It was crazy, chaotic, magical, intense, obsessive, irrational, illogical, overwhelming, compulsive; it was exactly how I remembered it. Eight billion peple in the world and I found the one person that could create madness and peace within me. And as I stared at him sleeping, I felt my walls fall apart, brick by brick. In that moment, love was enough. 

Loving him was an accomplishment. He was the most difficult, selfish, and reluctant person I had ever met. He wasn’t easy to love, but nothing that has ever been worth it was. 

Love involves risk and bravery. You open yourself up to the universe and pray that gravity is kind to you when you finally hit the ground. Because you always HIT THE GROUND. 

Silly of me to ever wish this upon myself, as if the first time didn’t hurt enough. 

http://emotionally-slutty.com

I was featured in an episode on The Kulture Breakdown Podcast! Check it out!

Emotionally Slutty

Your mind is too untidy, Your heart is too unkempt, Spilling your feelings out, exposing too much, confessing who you are, revealing yourself, sharing your soul, to complete strangers, to be understood, by a world that may not accept you.

You are sheer chaos, yet so graceful with your words. Don’t ever stop telling your story. Never apologize for the mess you’ve made.

- s.tan

How art saved my life:

I remember in May, when I was at Dead Logic hanging my art for the last Sheer Art Exhibition, my father called me. He was having an asthma attack and I left the studio to make sure he was ok. Two weeks later, my father was in the hospital on life support and passed away after going into cardiac arrest while in the car with me.

I never felt the same about making art or writing since then. Perhaps it’s because I felt so guilty for leaving him alone that night. After he passed, we began cleaning his room; I found notebooks full of poetry, quotes, and verses written in Khmer and French and translated in English. It was like my father was writting to me. We had the same gift. I had found my connection with him.

I’ve spent months trying to write—rearranging my pain into beautiful abstract prose, trying to make sense of everything I had been through—but no words could describe the heaviness of my heart. I thought I was broken. It was like I had run out of things to say because the one person I wanted to say them to was no longer here.

I almost gave up on my art until Jasmine asked me to be a part of Sheer again. I was hesitant at first. But how can I pass an oppurtuity to work with such amazing women again? So I swallowed every bit of fear inside of me and accepted.

I spent weeks brainstorming concepts, constantly frustrated, endless rough drafts. I wanted to display my words to capture beauty and grace along with heartfelt emotion. I choose to paint my poetry using acrylic paint on canvas sheets and framed them in various sizes and different styled gold frames that I thrifted.

Being a part of Sheer was especially important to me because I have learned that I am still capable of creating beautiful things and connecting with people, even when my heart still hurts. It has taught me that I cannot run away from my purpose, no matter how far I stray. It will always find me and make me into the person I am meant to be.  

I am a writer—a poet. I am my father’s daughter. I am healing. I am growing.

Special “thank you” to:

Jasmine Smith for putting together another amazing event and letting me be a part of Sheer again. Chanary for assisting me in my pieces and helping me bring my vision to life. Glenny for answering all my random facetimes during all my freakouts. My family and friend for the continuous love, support, and encouragement. And Khanh for his assistance (lol). The women of Sheer for their uniqueness and amazing energy. The people who came out to support - whether you were a fan before or not. And lastly, the boy who drives me crazy and keeps me sane at the same time…this night wouldn’t of been possibe without you.

More recap photos featured on Cleveland Scene here !

xoxo, s. tan.

A letter to my father:

You were fine the night before, I don’t understand how it happened so quick. You asked me to take you to the hospital because you were having trouble breathing. You told me your chest feels heavy, I told you to stay calm because we were almost there. I could hear you struggling, so I held your hand. Your breathing stopped. I screamed your name but you never answered.

The doctors told me they were able to bring you back. But you never really came back. You had already said your goodbye to me in the car but I still had hope. I spent days by your side, waiting for you to wake up. instead, you showed up when I was asleep, in my dreams to tell me it was time to let go.

How dare you give up? It was too soon. I barely started my life, how am I suppose to get through it without you. Twenty-six years with you isn’t enough. There are still so many things you need to teach me. I have yet to become the woman you always wanted me to be. You cannot leave me with a broken heart when you are the one who always fixed it. 

It’s been months since you’ve been gone but it still feels like yesterday. Some days I know I’m healing. Then there are other days that get so dark. Now it is my chest that feels heavy every time I think of you. A piece of my heart is gone forever; I do not know if it will ever be whole again. 

Always & Forever, S.

Homesick

My home no longer feels like home. It is an empty house, not of things, Empty because my dad is no longer here.

Since my dad died I’ve felt homeless, a stranger in my own life. I would wake up and attempt to get through the day without falling apart every time someone asked me, “how are you,” I knew if I was asked enough times I would eventually break.  I thought after time passed it was going to get easier, but it doesn’t. You learn how to live with that void. This is just how things are going to be from now on— always feeling homesick for a place that no longer exists.

Then there was you— You talked me off the bridge without knowing, You taught me home is not a place. It is not where your things are. Home is the open arms you run to when the world doesn’t accept you. Home is inside of those who love and care about you, the ones who help you put your heart back together every time it breaks, even if they’re the ones who broke it. Home is forgiveness. Home is the memories you hold on to. It is a little glimpse of heaven when you’re going through hell. Home resides deep inside your own soul. Home is hope. Home is where the heart is.

Sheer Art Exhibitions

May 14th, 2016 I had the pleasure of being part of Sheer, an all women art exhibition. The showcase featured six artists—Jasmine Nicole (The Painter), Lily Pearl Mclaughlin (The Photographer), Destanie Rodriguez (The Illustrator), Haf and Haf (The Drawer), Tiarra Smallwood (The Designer), and Sundavish Tan (myself - The Writer) also included two female DJs—NiccNacc and Yulissa; they provided the vibe for the entire night.

My definition of “sheer” wasn’t very Merriam Webster. When I thought of the word, I visualized a woman who was confident in being completely herself, who saw strength in vulnerability—an ethereal being, whose work of art touched people. Which, I believe each woman showcased at the exhibition. They defined that definition of the word. I am so humbled and thankful to have worked with such an amazing group of women and to be part of, not just a dope event, but a movement.

When I was asked to be part of the exhibition I was honored, ecstatic and nervous all at the same time. I had four weeks to showcase my work and I wanted it to embody the definition of the word “sheer.” 

I had a few brainstorm sessions with Glen, my artistic counterpart and best friend, which involved a lot of beers (lol). He let me bounce ideas off of him and gave me his honest opinion, some ideas stuck…some didn’t.

Once I came up with a plan, it was time to execute. That was the hard part. I tried to make deadlines for myself, but between finals, my niece’s prom, one of my girlfriend’s wedding weekend, work, and my father being in and out of the hospital, that did not work out. I was stressed out and almost quit a few times. Thankfully, I had a strong support system that wouldn’t let me. There were a lot of late nights and early mornings, days I was too busy to eat, and times I fell asleep in paint. I’ve gained a great appreciation for art shows and the effort and money it takes. Bruh listen. I understand the meaning of “starving artist” now.

When I actually started doing the work, everything else kinda just fell right into place. I hand stamped, each letter with acrylic paint on canvas, six of my favorite poems, one of which was never published on emotionally-slutty.com:

Lover/Fighter - written this year, during a stream of bad luck which lead to a period of depression and self-doubt. I initially said this poem wasn’t going to make the show, but it was worth sharing. I wrote this as a letter to myself as a reminder to continue to be myself when the world is always trying to break me down.

Train Wreck - written in 2015. I went out to the movies with my best friend on some girls night out shit. We saw Train Wreck, the movie had terrible acting but I fucked with the moral of the story. (PS, she’s known for choosing shitty movies lol.) But it did have me in my feelings. I actually cried during the movie because my story was pretty similar to hers AND being on my period probably didn’t help either. It inspired me to write this piece.

Gemini Full Moon - written in 2015, during the Gemini full moon. The full moon is metaphoric. It is about someone *ah-hem* who is too timid to reveal their full selves to someone who loves them deeply. 

Aloneness - written in 2016. In the beginning of the year, I’ve never felt more alone in my life…but I also never felt more strong or more certain in the person I was. Aloneness is about self-love.

Bad Religion - written in 2015. I wrote this piece because I felt misunderstood by people who claimed to ‘know’ me. 

Emotionally Slutty - written the next night before the art show. I wrote this poem to define the phrase “emotionally slutty” to my audience. If you don’t know by now, I am a huge Sex and The City fan…however, I’ve wanted to be a writer long before I was introduced to Carrie Bradshaw. The phrase “emotionally slutty” comes from a line from the HBO series (season 5, episode 8 to be precise). I’ve been running emotionally-slutty.com since 2010, blogging about my feelings and experiences…basically sharing too much. This poem talks about spilling your soul out yet never apologizing for the mess its made.

I had a countless number of people, mostly strangers, who pulled me aside to explain certain pieces to them, usually the ones they related to most. It was prob my favorite part, I enjoy when people want to pick my brain. Art doesn’t need to be pretty or perfect, it just needs to provoke emotion and I think I accomplished that.

My display consisted of six 16 x 20 pieces on canvas that were framed, a table that included a handmade frame that hung seven quotes of affirmation on type written notecards, which were written by me (my 12 year old niece helped me come up with the concept), my typewriter that I used as my guest log, a vase of one of my fav flowers, and a collection of vintage books.

Saturday night was one of the best nights of my life. It didn’t feel real until I saw the first person take a picture of my poems…I actually walked into the back room because I could not keep my composure. I def cried tears of joy. As Dead Logic began to overflow with people admiring our art, it felt more like a celebration than an exhibition. And when my friends showed up with two bottles of Moet the rest was history. As I was popping the bottle I actually heard someone say “it’s not Sunda without a bottle of champagne,” lol. Everything about that night was perfect, beginning to end.

Special “thank you” to: Jasmine for curating the event and daring me to get out of my comfort zone, Glenny the Hype for being such an awesome friend, my family and friends for not only showing up but giving me words of encouragement when I began to doubt myself (I could individually name you all but I’m sorta tipsy right now and it’s too many of you fuckers), the women of Sheer, the boy that gives me headaches but keeps me inspired, Georgia Sada for being the first (out of five people) to buy my art, the people who came out to support - whether you were a fan before or not, and everyone who believed in me…this night would’t of been possible without you all.

“Thank you for seeing museums in me when I only saw blank walls. “

Soundtracks that inspired me: Kaytranada - 99.9%, Marcus Alan Ward - Last Night I Grew Tentacles, NiccNacc’s Sun Down mix, The Internet - Ego Death, some Erykah Badu and Frank Ocean.

More recap photos here.

This is not a love story: reality vs expectation

You asked to meet at one of our favorite low-key bars on a random weeknight, nothing out of the ordinary for us. You weren’t there yet, so I order us shots of whiskey and a some craft beers, something you never had before...cause that was our ‘thing’. You finally arrive and I am the first person you see—the only person you see. I am standing by the bar, making small talk with strangers, unaware of your presence. You stop to take in the moment before walking towards me. And before I can get any words out, you grab me by the neck and kiss me deeply. The music doesn’t actually stop but in my head it does. All I can hear is your raspy voice telling me that you want me the same way I want you—completely and selfishly.

Well, that's how the story plays out in my mind.

The reality is he was never going to choose me. I spent the last two years of my life waiting. I tried loving him into loving himself so he could love me. I wanted him to be the one. I know it’s sounds crazy to wait for something that was never going to happen. But as much as he pushed me away he pulled me in twice as hard. 

When we were in the same place, we’d act like complete strangers, stealing glances but never saying a single word to each other. Oh, but when we were together, just the two of us, especially when we were in the same bed there was an undeniable chemistry and comfortability, like old lovers. Intimate moments shared between the sheets and we’d talk about everything and anything, like best friends. It was our safe haven— a place of refuge and security, a home made up of two unready hearts.

Those were the moments that made me hold on for so long. That made me pathetically stick around waiting for him to change—hoping and praying that we will finally get this right…that somehow he would step up like the man I built him up to be in my mind—because I was finally ready.

But that’s not how the story goes.

The truth is, some people won’t choose you back and it has nothing to do with you. You cannot fall apart each time. You cannot beat yourself up for having too much love to give; you can only feel sorry for them because they don’t know what they’re missing out on. You cannot ready someone who does not want to be. 

You must remove yourself from their life no matter how much you want to be in it. “I love you,” does not lose it’s meaning even when it’s followed by, “but I have to leave.” Because you have to leave. The most destructive thing you can do is wait for someone to love you. 

There is a love that will be ready. When the person you are meant to be with finds you, that person will know it also. 

Be ready. Stay ready.