Nameless Girl

By Lakan Amihan

There is a vase of purple flowers in her dreams. She never understood what it meant. Every now and again, she would dream of that dream, reminding her of her past mistakes. Of a childhood that never was. She would get a glimpse of untarnished simplicity, the kind that only exists in her imaginations, and she would wonder how it feels if only it were all real.

She can only cry helplessly, open-mouthed but without a sound, as she tries to quiet herself, to not draw attention, to make her pain smaller, even smaller than she already is. If she could get her to become small, real small enough, maybe she can completely disappear.

Every morning, after her nightly sobs, she would wake up sore and bitter. It was a lie she never believed, that crying releases pent-up feelings, and once expressed they’re out of one’s system. She remembers how her body trembled and how her throat burned. She remembers it like it was still happening. It never stops for her.

In a state of catatonia, one day, she tries to look for the vase of purple flowers in her dreams. She wanted to astral project; to leave the material realm plainly. She doesn’t really know how it works. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t leave that night.

So she just sleeps most of the time. Even during daytime. When her existence catches her attention, she instantly feels heavy. Her eyelids flutter and a yawn escapes her mouth. She seeks her soft but sticky bed for a familiar yet distorted kind of comfort. Her stomach grumbles but she never learned its language. Her heart sinks deeper in her chest, making the cavity wider, perhaps so she could make room for whatever she was waiting for when it arrives. 

She feels like she could fit herself there. If only she could shrink far enough she’d fall into herself. Maybe something can hug her there. Maybe she can make sleep more comfortable. Maybe she can reverse her own birth by imploding.

If only she hadn’t been born. If only she could be where those purple flowers are. If only nobody called for her to be on this godforsaken earth, she wouldn’t have known what longing is like. She didn’t need to understand solitude as profoundly intimate as she had. She wouldn’t have to keep waiting for that vase of purple flowers to visit her in her dreams again, just to ask what it wants to say to her.

Because she doesn’t want to know. She never wanted to know any of this. 

She doesn’t even like having a name. So, every day, she tries to forget about it. She sheds her identity like dirty clothes, even though she hasn’t changed in days. She hates her body so she tries to disappear in her room. Sometimes she’s thankful nobody looks for her. Sometimes she wonders what she’d feel if they did. 

And when she’s particularly lonely, she puts her name on the coffee table like the vase of purple flowers in her dreams. She decorates her world with a name she couldn’t relate to, wondering if it was a key to some dreamy place like the flowers were in her dreams. She wonders if the name had called her here, or if she called for it to keep her company. She wants to know if the name has a purpose. Maybe then, she’ll know if she has one too.

Lakan Amihan Biography
____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Lakan Amihan, a hobby writer from the Philippines, had dealt with mental health struggles from as early as 8 years old, but hasn’t been able to be professionally  diagnosed until now, due in part to the overlap of financial struggles and accessibility to healthcare. As a result of this, she had to pause her entire life to unlearn and relearn entire belief systems just to help get by in a society that isn’t built for people like her. In the meantime, with the tools available to her, such as writing and self-expression, she is able to cope with the uncertainties brought about by her lack of diagnosis, as well as still structuring her life around her mental health as best as she could.