For most of my life, I’ve tried to understand myself by looking at where I came from: Taiwan, the United States, the languages I speak, the cultures I grew up around, and the constant feeling of being somewhere in between.

But identity isn’t the only thing I’ve had to learn to live with.

There are also parts of myself that I don’t fully understand—parts that come and go, sometimes staying for days or weeks at a time. They affect how I see myself, how I see the world, and how I interact with the people I love.

I used to think coping meant ignoring those feelings until they went away.

Now I’m trying something different: giving them a name, acknowledging that they exist, and learning how to coexist with them.

This is Gloom.

Gloomy Nights

That is how it is,
in my head, at least.

Cloudy judgment and invisible pain,
flowing through my veins.

I’m naming you Gloom,
for what you are
and what you loom.

A fitting name, I suppose—
or perhaps that’s simply
what you pose.

I write this when I can’t sleep,
when I have too much on my mind,
when my mind is filled with you.

Oh, why must you come to be,
like a vacuum
that sucks out all the joy?

Gloomie, Gloomy, Gloom—
would you stop the drain
now that I’ve given you a cute name?

Five days to two weeks at a time.

Sometimes you just visit.
Sometimes you overstay.

There are always signs, I suppose,
right before you’re about to arrive.

That’s when the sunshine fades away
in my mind,
no matter how sunny
it actually is outside.

I wish you didn’t exist,
but I can’t just wish you away, can I?

So I fight to coexist with you.

But is this really a fight?

Sometimes I feel like giving up.
Sometimes I feel like giving in.

My loved ones worry sick,
but can I really recover that quick?

I want to hide inside a shell,
but I really long for help.

I write this while you’re away,
because I know I won’t be able to
when you come.

Gloomie, Gloomy, Gloom—

if I give you a cute name,
would you become
a little easier for me to overcome?