On a whim, I happened to read through some of my older non-fiction work, most of which has me very delicately and romantically describing my depression. But I was actually shocked by how good it was — how lovely and melancholic with perfect similes and metaphors that still so perfectly describe the hell I suffer when the sads come to visit.
Read MoreMy name is Sarah Alma Khan –– pronounced SAH-rah AHL-ma KH-an –– and for the first 26 years of my life I hated it. Now, at 32, I think it’s one of the coolest names ever.
Read MoreOne thing that always annoys the hell out of me is when people equate my fictional short stories to my lived experiences or emotions. The things I write in my fiction, even when inspired by or closely resembling real life, are not real life; they are fiction. This is a concept that seems to be incredibly difficult for many people to grasp, especially when they see a familiar aspect in one of my stories.
Read MoreNever am I going to become a prolific writer. Never am I going to grow thicker skin. Never am I going to stop being hurt. Never am I going to change the world with my words. If all these nevers are what make up my literary career, then the question arises of why I continue to do it.
Read MoreHow can you stop yourself from feeling too deeply? I’ve wondered and tried and found that it’s impossible for me. Even when I decide not to feel anything at all, it only numbs the emotions and stores them up deep within, weighing me down and making me foggy and unintelligible to myself. It’s not possible to just stop feeling and, more importantly, it shouldn’t be allowed
Read MoreI’m sitting here in bed feeling low, low, low with no reason to justify it. This weekend marks approximately one month since the last time I indulged in self harm and, instead of celebrating my streak, I am fighting every fibre of my being not to restart that nasty habit.
Read MoreWithout the courtesy of a doorbell or knock, the Sads have barged in and taken you hostage.
Read MoreIn thinking about my dad these past few years I came to the unhappy and disappointing conclusion that I didn’t know him at all. We visited London once when I was about eight and he excitedly showed us his old haunts and babbled on with stories about his time there. I was bored and didn’t listen to a thing he said because I took for granted the fact that he’d be around to re-tell those stories if ever I was interested.