Living with mental illness is a constant cycle of wellness and illness, and each recovery is impermanent.
I think now, what is life if not a rather ridiculous, fumbling, histrionic, financially ruinous, unwieldy thing?
The self-regard that came with watching Bergman films helped me feel rich in something, for the first time since arriving in America.
Underneath the shiny veneer of Bollywood, there’s something affirming about seeing people caught in the maelstrom of politics and war making choices—to flee or stay or fight.
Our fathers may never know us the way we wish they would. And if we learned that ignorance is bliss, it’s because we learned it from them.
When Americans consume media that privileges white survival, what does it mean for which disasters earn our attention, our money, our likes, our grief?
Wong Kar-wai’s films showed me how to navigate that liminal space between tenderness and loneliness, connection and alienation, East and West.
If we’re going to spend so much time with suicide in pop culture, I do believe we are owed an honest reckoning with what ideation is, as well as depictions that are truthful rather than dangerous.
My codependency is always trying to convince me that it deserves to live. It asks me to keep the poison coming.
“Unlike most popular orphan characters, I wasn’t too young to remember my parents.”