Samantha Theresse Doble

16-071 Tth
5:50pm – 7:20pm

Home was not a pleasant place to me. So, in the quiet spaces where my soul would
constantly rest, I crafted tales of endurance. This journal entry is one of those tales.

“Stir Fried Noodles Tale”

I remember when i just turned sixteen and I woke up with a few faint scars on my right
hip and a bleeding wrist. I felt the most alive i've ever been seeing the red drip across
my light green pajamas, like the nightmare before Christmas, only this was reality – and
all i could think about was how to make stir fried noodles.

Since a girl with bleeding wrists couldn't go out to buy the ingredients herself, I settled
with the samyang pack that was hidden at the back of the cupboard. You know the one
your aunt gives you because she hoarded a bunch of sustenance from the newly
opened Korean mart. Yep, THAT samyang pack. I remembered reaching for it at the
back of the dusty cupboard before washing my wrists and covering my battle scars with
a handkerchief. Not like the handkerchief could stop the bleeding nor could it
temporarily stop the hurt inside of me. It was just armour; a barrier so no one could see
me bleed.
I remembered sitting in silence while the noodles cook, thinking of what sweater I'm
going to use to cover up the scars. I remember cutting the nori up into little pieces,
stealing a piece or two. In those tiny moments, I picked myself up little by little, as I
slowly strained the noodles out of the water, as I slowly mixed everything together, as I
ate in silence.

I remembered how I loved that it burned my tongue, and I'd drink half a big glass of milk
just to soothe it back down again. I remember how I'd take a break once in a while,
because there was no rush in eating my midnight stir fried noodles— that little moment
was mine: slow & steady, no rush, no pressure, no one watching. It was me at my most
vulnerable; uncomfortable of being alive but comfortable in the threshold of pain.
I remembered how the spiciness got to my nose, my throat, and my tongue and I
remembered how I stopped and waited until I was okay again to take the next bite,
devouring it slowly & surely, like my will to live was hidden at the bottom of the bowl.

You see, despite how spicy it was or how long it took my mouth to finally soothe down
and take the next chopstick's full of noodles, I kept going. i only ate what I can handle at
a time, with milk and water, and lollipops, until there was only the orange stain left on
my bowl.

It became a ritual, a tradition if you will, that after one big bowl of samyang stir fried
noodles, the deal was that I keep going too. And here i am, 4 years later, with 3 kinds of
samyang stir fried noodles hidden in the cupboards and a tongue that got used to its
burning savory taste, i could eat it without breaking a sweat, without milk or water, and I
still kept going.