Diana Kurniawan

There is reward in my graveyard shift, a constant beacon during the early morning dawn, pushing me to grit and drive.

Nothing is without work, and the desire for stability doesn't always come with the benefit of a Mercedez. Sometimes, it comes during the global pandemic in a job that sustains me during the tough times, but pays the bills and is surrounded with acceptance and love from my humble peers. 

 

The phantom always wants to destroy the means to the end, corrupting it with drugs and addiction, pursuing my failure and tempts me with marijuana. Luring me to entertainment with men as scouts asking me to show my curves for show to feed the neanderthals in Denver. They lack conscience and ignorant of my intelligence, because my sacred being is worthy to be praised. 

 

Those who taunts me and degrades me in comparison of a higher life, mocking my sufferings and prays for my suicide are salacious hypocrites. Always destroying talented and dignified women through personal relationships, giving their chosen friends and families with a corrupt trophy and rich bank accounts through sexual assaults. Their political reasons, ethical reasons, religious gimmicks, or social ethics causes casualties of war, leaving behind traces of survivors who deserves justice and honor. 

 

There is truth in my walk and in working my days with my graveyard shift, although my mind reminds me of the education I have and the potential I possess. I will work it with pride because my peers are kind people who deserve my company and friendship. Working my morning and days feels hopeful, stable, strong, and healing. If I didn't see its value, I would feel terrible, instead, I feel loved and their generosity means a lot to me.  

 

There is peace in my work at the graveyard shift, because of the trust I build and the good work I show. Its returns on investments are peace of mind and a supportive environment, prone to progress for my mental health and well being. Sometimes there are pathways I am forced to take, as if God pushes me to enforce a learning experience. I don't mind this one, because I feel dignified working it, and happy with my results. If this is the long valley God wants me to take, I will keep going, keep praying, working in diligence, and not complain on this journey, because I know I will serve a greater purpose in the end.

 

Just write. 

O blessed soul, how grateful you are of the sight to see the blue sky. Thine eyes full of mercy for the lesser creatures of the forest and nature wild wanders inside your soul.

 

O blessed soul, how joyful you are of the laughter on a sunny day, although alone yet never short of companionship from loved ones and friends, beckoning good times and less sorrowful memories. They are the wholesome family you are yearning for since youth until old in age, perhaps never fulfilled but always beside you, forever.

 

O blessed soul, how lovely you are, with flowers around you with blooming petals easy to the eyes, reminders of God's beautiful plans for every life. For in due time, our own blossoming journey will fruit its labor from anything you never once expect.

 

O blessed soul, how glorious your life, although with a past scornful and bitter, your journey lends wisdom and brilliance in vernacular and truth. The trough proves its own grace with prayers and supplication uttering its hopes and faith.

 

O blessed soul, you are forgiven through love because the price paid for your life is of the cross, labor in divine intervention. Live forever more and be of courage light saber, for your soul is valuable to God and to this world.

 

Just write.

One of my writing teachers is coping with suicides of her loved ones. The rates of mental illness and suicide from the global pandemic are skyrocketing over this year alone, and it is heart breaking.

 

I am struggling, from the loss of my job, my Dad's stroke and the aftermath of the sexual assaults that culminated into PTSD and Depression. I work at a job that I know I can excel in, while working hard to cope with my struggles, loneliness, and helping my family. There are milllions of people like me, but some of us give in to the darkness and lose our lives. 

The stigma against me and those who are struggling with mental illness or trauma is brutal.  Several years ago, classmates from graduate school called me names after knowing I was a rape victim. The stigma against women and men from violence related trauma and also from mental illness makes it difficult to cope in life. This is why there are so many suicides in this world, and especially as a result of the global pandemic. 

I know as humans we compare people's lives out of the sheer enjoyment of lifting another up or out of selfish needs. I for one, can attest to the fact that those who dislike me, compare themselves against me to feel superior and to feel like they won a prize in life. These comparisons infects the world as pervasive as the global pandemic, and it infects the minds of those who are struggling.

 

I am sovereign in my journey and with my struggles, and as you freely read these blogs, know that I am just one of the billions of people who are also struggling. Humanity and compassion needs to live side by side, because it helps me through during the tough times. I am hurting some days that I can barely cope, and the high suicide rates gives an indication that a lot of people are too broken to seek help or too afraid to seek treatment during critical times. I can't let the stigma eat me alive, and I can't let comparisons eat me alive. 

The world may feast upon these blogs and reflect or critique, because everyone has opinions. But, what's important is the comfort and solace it brings to me and those who reads it. Please remember to never stigmatize those who are going through any form of traumas, violence, and mental illness. I hope those who are walking through their tough journey will one day realize how valuable they are, and know that they are sovereign, just as I feel with my blog and my life and to never compare their journey with anyone else in the world. 

 

Just write.

I ran like a beast, because the grim reaper chased me since birth. I ran because my struggles overwhelmed me and with the loneliness, they spoke danger to my life.

 

At times, I won't have anything inside my mind, but a presence of darkness loomed over me, asking for my surrender from this journey. 

 

I ran like a beast because I won't run away from my life. It was my right to live and love although with an empty heart.

I believed in respite from mental anguish, and running was the only way I knew how.  So, I ran like a beast, and I won't stop, forever, if I may.

 

Just write.

Dana called my father late after the evening at the Post building, and he sounded worried.

 

"So Rockfield married twenty times and became alone and cynical. When he met Giuseppe Baptiste, he just received his ordination to become a priest of the Catholic faith," said Dana, looking behind him towards the door as if he was expecting someone to break through it.

 

"Was that the same time Giuseppe Baptiste also became an ordained priest?" asked my father.

 

"Yes, and that's when they made a pact to rule the world and the way people shop and meet their social circles," said Dana.

 

"Oh my God, because they wanted to have the power to control people's lives?" Rambo asked.

 

"Exactly, and the way social connections are shaped in this world so their regime would be in power forever," said Dana, looking behind him.

 

"Oh my God," said my father. "This was because they never got to have the lives they desired? But, why a priest?" 

"So people will trust them more, just as the way they always dreamed of. Giuseppe was a noble background and Rockfield was too, but no one loved them," said Dana. "I guess it's a revenge for the sufferings they felt from rejections and ostracism."

 

"Oh my God," Rambo said. "They felt jilted by the world."

 

"Why didn't anyone help them back then? So they didn't have to end so many families and changed the course of history so terribly?" Asked Karina. "I am now an orphan, and it's an injustice and the Ting Dynasty deserves better."

 

"Oh my God," said Dana. "I just realized that Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rockfield are both without progenies, and their roles, if found guilty of corruptions, will have to be replaced by a completely different human being. Which means..."

 

"Betina and Boris deserve it, but Karina doesn't want the throne," said my father.

 

"I wish to remain in peace and help them, Pearsons and Giuseppe, but I wished I knew how," said Karina.

 

"Help them? Even though they were behind your parents's murders?" asked my father. "They deserve punishment."

 

"We will have to get their statement that they won't hurt Karina," said Rambo.

 

"We have to meet him and show him who Karina is," I said. "Just face him and ask him why is it not okay for Katina to exist in peaceful harmony. We already know The New Order men hurt Karina."

 

"We will record a video of Karina and me, introducing to the world who we are and what Giuseppe Baptiste and Pearsons Rockfield have been doing to the world. We have to abandon the Tier system and have transportation system the way a normal society would function," my father said. "The way the world runs now feels backwards and archaic, even with the advancement of our technologies."

 

"We can negotiate with them, and we can play it after Giuseppe finishes with his violin performance," said Dana. He looked to the door behind him, but there was no one there.

 

"Okay, get on with our work," said Rambo.

 

Just write.

 

The dense fog enveloped the front windows of my car this early morning, but I drove through it slowly at 30 miles per hour hoping a fox won't cross the highway 287. Permutations of what could happen to my life spiraled to the fears of an unknown destiny. Those fears chased my peace like a hungry bee for a spoonful of honey, just eating my mind as I kept on driving.

 

Suddenly, there were two blinking lights, blurry but visible, orange and bright. Those fog blinker lights gave me a sign of the right path, as I drove in between them on a stable road although slushy of snow. It gave me a strange sensation inside my mind, as if it was a guide I never asked for that showed during my dark times. I forgot how I kept acknowledging the dark, but didn't appreciate the light that came in the multitudes of forms like those who loved me throughout all these times in my life.

 

My happy co-workers who said hello to me this morning, and my own Mom, my brothers and sisters, my beautiful friends and God, the glittery donut pillow. The dense fog inside my life were those who hurt me in my past, and they appeared like my shadows under the sun that brought fears in the dark. But, when the struggles became so rough and I could hardly cope, those fog blinker lights appeared and although blurry, it took my attention for a moment. Those God winks reminded me to be grateful and to not fear the dark, or the fog, but to slowly approach the road with patience, faith, hope and persistence. 

 

I still won't know what the future holds until I lived it, and although there would be times when I fear further attacks from those who assaulted me sadistically, I promised my Father to never let go. The drive to work was slow, but I was on the right path, because I knew my drive was for good intent to provide for my family. I may have fears that suffocated me because I almost lost my life in the past, but I won't lose hope because those blinker lights were more visible now. I became so good at spotting them, that one day, no fears would beset me.

 

Just write.

Barely standing, I cried over the folded clothes and retail merchandise at work. My world felt broken and my heart felt so destroyed from the sufferings in my life. When someone asked, "how are you?" I remained calm and insouciance about myself, to wait for the moment to pass and back to the tears. PTSD and Depression was never something anyone could speak openly without judgment and I let these blogs speak for me to get rid of the awkward silences.

 

The only thing that kept me alive was God, my North Star, along with my siblings and parents, best friends and church group friends, whom without I would have died long ago. They have been my North Stars with miracles in their back pockets, whipping out wise words and verses of comfort. 

 

The first snow was yesterday, and as I drove to my workplace for my graveyard shift, the tears poured and it took several breaths to not break down.  Thoughts of how I would see someone I love marry someone else and to lose him forever, and thoughts of lost loved and broken relationships couldn't escape my mind.  I didn't even drink coffee, but I had to drink something to help me cope, tea.

 

I believed in journeys and I knew mine would be tough, but I didn't know how much it would take all of me. 

Just write.

Two days of spiralling thoughts from missing exercise and irregular sleep left me withdrawn. But, there was a pinky donut pillow that called my name, begging me to rest my head on it as it glittered in the store aisle. There was a moment of peace from a smile from a little boy and his wave to me, and a baby's wink gave me a giggle. Everything felt surreal, but I knew God was winking at me.

 

I went about my days with a broken heart of still recovering from whatever ailments went inside my head and the daily triggers that came with PTSD, but often there would be a small moment often unnoticeable, unless truly being present with yourself. The small patch of flowers on the sidewalk, the white roses that were still overbloomed although it was noticeably Autumn. The smell of eucalyptus oils that I had on, lingering throughout my days, and a friend who understood me and loved me with all that I was.

 

I had a friend when I was little, whose family was close to mine, and I never knew I would be in contact with her again, but it happened during my pressing time as well, and she sent a message through Twitter. The most inconspicuous moment, turned out to be the most rewarding.

 

God winked at small moments, not large ones. The big moments felt small compared to the long lasting effects of the small moments. God was near me, the whole time when I was down, although I felt so unvaluable and dispensable. He was trying to tell me that He does love me, and I was still the apple of His eyes, even during my struggles.

 

Just write.

Writing is an act of faith for me, so is never giving up. My life has been an adventure often full of turmoil, but I keep writing throughout my days, although not paid at every instance, because I know that if I keep writing, I will stay alive. As if I am to scribe my life to God as a report to Him, so He can read from heaven of how my days and nights are spent. 

 

There are sunshines and rainbows, and flowery moments and not everything is dark in my writing. But, when there is darkness inside me, I still write about it, to blog it, especially to God. My fear is not the perceptions of the reader anymore, but whether or not my writing serves its purpose to heal me. For once, my need to heal superseedes my desire to publish anything in this world. It is more important for me to write and write with good intention for the sake of my soul, than for the sake of commercialism or popularity.

 

I know a lot of writers want to have the literary agents and the contracts and publicity, and so do I, but I don't mind the wait and the process. I am allowing myself the journey to write, rather than ust becoming a writer with an overnight sensational story. It happens sometimes, a rags to riches story of a broken writer who suddenly becomes famous. I somehow know that I will not be as lucky, and I don't mind the work and education. Maybe, just maybe, that's what the literary bodies want to see, persistence and drive, instead of a miracle from God. They want to see the dose of reality, of a woman who is a living survivor, working through her daily struggles throughout her life with writing as her medicine. Perhaps, that's the proof the world needs, a survivor with her guts, blood, sweat and tears, pouring out with God at His mercy to give her the justice she deserves.

 

As long as I have these empty pages of my blogs, and the pen in my hand, I still feel alive. There is no money to compensate me, but the healing powers I feel inside is worth my time. This is why I will never give up, because everytime I write, there is a life force out of a mustard seed that grows inside of me, giving me the energy to keep on going. I don't mind the wait. I don't mind the journey. Just keep writing.

 

Just write.

Further than the past, all the way to the inception of my birth, I realized I wanted to become a writer. It was a calling since I was the cells of my Mother's womb. Then life came and it came hungry and greedy, fueled with jealousies because of my opportunities, especially in the United States. Every instant of my life felt watched with a camera by the CIA, with their men lurking to screen and critique my every move, that for every detail and every chance I had, I was to surrender it to them, and for their chosen families only to pursue. The opportunities I was bestowed from God felt stolen. Through bullying, through sabotage, from so called friends, and so called boyfriends, they felt the same, hateful and vengeful. 

 

These days, I felt like a folktale, of story of how I was once a hopeful girl who wanted to pursue a destiny I was called to do, but the path were ripped apart by those men and women who felt they deserved more than me. I felt the stories I wrote down were useless, and often times scanned through and thrown into the trash bin, because I had no more luck in me, since they were stolen and robbed out of me. The blessings inside my soul that were set apart by God were stabbed through my ribs, and even true love will no longer be in my destiny. 

 

I await the days when people snickered to themselves during their tea times at bookstores, telling stories of how I was once a frequent patron of the same spot, before I ended my own life because of the abuses I felt from others who stole too much from my life. I would be a ghost, flying in the midst of them, the enemies and the compassionate who would help but it was too late. My life would be a folktale of who I once was, and who I became but the world was to brutal to love me just as I was.

 

Just write.