Show Navigation

Erika Delgado

Here lies, the early drafts, abandoned projects, and hopes of a chicana, humorist, sci fi loser, feminist writer/poet from the SF Bay Area.
i am writing and stuff kinda sorta just being miserable
the norm

i am writing and stuff kinda sorta just being miserable

the norm

I’m sick of people telling me I shouldn’t let my mental illnesses win.
That I should fight back and win.
Mental illness is not a fight and even when it seems like it, it’s not one you can win.
Mental illness is more like in grade school when the teacher announces you need a partner and you have no friends in that class so you get stuck with that kid who eats his boogers.
It’s something you have to work with and not lose yourself in.
Something you have to learn and work with.
Something that sometimes makes you feel like you have no control.
That’s not losing.
You are not letting it win.
You just have to work harder to perfect a type of life long contract that allows you to have control.
Allows you to not feel crippled and stuck.
Allows you to want to get up in the morning and be who you need to be and want to be.
But mental illness isn’t something that you will defeat.
It’s not a war.
It’s a really shitty job.
A really shitty school assignment.
Something you don’t choose.
Something you need to take time to live with.
To control and have control.
Something you need to understand isn’t a choice.
It’s never a choice.
It’s just something you get better at dealing with when you take the time to realize you can.

Booger-Eater, Erika Delgado

You know when you have like an amazing idea, then you go to put it on paper, and it’s really not as great as you thought.
This is one of those.

You know when you have like an amazing idea, then you go to put it on paper, and it’s really not as great as you thought.

This is one of those.

first new thing I’ve written since I graduated college

first new thing I’ve written since I graduated college

New Comic in collaboration with trevialohilani

emails to boys #17

emails to boys #17

A Conversation With My Dad

A Conversation With My Dad

Memoir comic for my Graphic Novel class. 

Memoir comic for my Graphic Novel class. 

A letter to my parents,

I was not born with privilege. Honestly, the word is so rarely used in my world, that it’s hard for me to spell it. It’s hard for me to say it.

I was not given privilege. Nor gifted it. 

I do not have a trust fund or a fancy car or fancy clothes. I don’t know how it feels to have so many options, that I don’t feel the need to try. 

But I what I do have. My parents worked for. They saved up. Sacrificed their own selfish superficial material wants to give me the ones I wanted and even sometimes begged for. 

My parents have worked so hard for me to have anything I really wanted and needed. They wore old clothes so I could wear new ones. I was never without food. I was never without love. 

Everything I have and everything I am is thanks to my parents. 

They came to the states for different reasons. Came together for one. Worked for most of their lives in the shittiest jobs until they couldn’t work anymore. Not because of age or luck, but because those shitty jobs were not safest either. 

I remember the day my dad didn’t show up at the time he always showed up from work. I remember trembling and breaking down on a mattress made of pillows on the floor of my parents room. I remember the call we got. I remember hearing about an accident. My dad lived. He survived. But everything he had found his reason in was stripped away. My dad who worked any job he could get, to provide a life to his children that he didn’t have, was gone. 

Til this day, he spends most of his time on the couch watching tv, and taking so many meds that I am not sure if the dad I see, is my dad at all. But he is. He still works hard to give me a life I can brag about. He sells his little fancy things he has had for years, things he saved up for on the side, so I can stay in college. 

Everything I have and everything I am is thanks to my parents. 

My mom has always been my best friend. Even when we fight. Even when we make each other cry, the next day, I am crossing the mother-daughter barrier, and telling her the true reason I am so upset. She has helped me through the worst moments and weeks and months. She has sat with me in ERs. Stood by me when my depression took over. Has read every story and poem I was willing to share. Pushed me to do better. Pushed me to keep going. 

My mom who has nearly died time after time, but still kept going herself. Made it seem like everything was okay, when it was not, but in the end it was, because she never stopped going. And even when her body stops, her strength will go on in me. 

Everything I have and everything I am is thanks to my parents. 

My parents came to a country where dreams root from the ground. Where hatred tries to ruin the soil. And they still grew high. Spreading their seed to three more dreams who only grew higher. Because in the end there was no room for hatred in the soil their roots spread across. 

Every drop of privilege I do have was not given nor gifted, but fought for and worked for by my parents.

And everyday, I grow higher and more grateful. 

Thank you, mom and dad, everything I have and everything I am is thanks to you. 

My Imaginary Boyfriend by ME