Last Night

It was 1.07a.m last night (or was it this morning?) when I came to a conclusion. I did this with R.E.M on replay, watching wispy shapes on the ceiling made by the passing headlights of cars.

The conclusion is (drumroll please)…

…no one really knows the real me.

Nothing particularly revelatory there. It’s the kind of thing people sing about. We all think we know the truth to that statement. And so did I. But it was only last night that I acutely felt the reality of it.

I’ve always been an intensely private person. I knew that right from the start, I was different in so many ways. I was aware that my skin colour differed from my peers, that my hair was curly and not straight. I was overweight. My family was different too—my father never signed my report card. I felt the need to conceal all these from people. I became ashamed about my unique situation and resolved never to reveal too much about myself to others.

While I’ve had firm friendships, I’ve never a friend whom I’ve bared my soul to. It hurts me to say this, but that’s the truth. Everyone gets a piece of me, but then again, it’s just a piece. While in recent years I’ve become more comfortable about talking about my dysfunctional family, there’s still so much I’m hoarding inside. I’m afraid that no one will really understand.

My mother thinks she knows me, but at last she doesn’t. This is particularly sad as she’s my closest friend, and yet my closest friend barely treads the tip of the iceberg that is me.

This became apparent after a short argument I had with her. I wanted so much to shake her and say, “But I’m not like that!” And then I realised that by doing so, I would be destroying her image of me. The person that she wanted me to be, all her life. So my temper deflated and I let it pass. In those few minutes, the space between the both of us widened into a gulf. She seemed a few light-years away.

At 1.07a.m last night, with R.E.M on replay, my relationships with people felt as insignificant as the shapes on the ceiling.

For the first time, I felt very much alone.

And “Oh My God” Is All We Can Say

We are so ignorant. I’m so angry. There’s so much shit happening in the world. And we all let it happen.

I’m reeling in shock from what I’ve just read about what’s happening in West Africa. Well, yes, I love current affairs and TIME magazine and all that wordy crap. And yes I’m a dork. But moving on.

You may think “Yeah, yeah, they have no food, no water, they are skinny, they can’t read and there’s AIDS. Can you tell me something that I don’t already know?”

But this more than that. It’s not just sad or heart-wrenching. It’s scary.

Everyone’s involved in this. And the scary thing is that we don’t know it.

This seems pretty ridiculous and heavy. It shouldn’t be on the average person blog. But I can’t help it. I’m so disturbed. I’m going to write an entry here soon about this. You have been warned.

Sometimes I Do Stuff.

In my 17685^th essay here, I am going to talk about my deteriorating self-esteem. Brace yourselves.

Well I don’t exactly know how to beat around the bush for this one, so I’m going to spit out the sorry truth. And the sorry truth is that I feel so worthless sometimes. Not that I’m blaming God or anyone for that. Nor do I expect any heavenly assistance for this because this is my own stupid problem. But that’s the sorry truth right there.

And the sorry truth gets sorrier: I especially have a problem with good-looking or “cool” people.

You see, whenever I speak to good-looking people or “cool” people, I automatically feel that I don’t deserve to speak to them. I feel unworthy to occupy their time. Why should they waste their time talking to losers like me? What ensues physically is that I start to clam up and babble lame things like “The weather’s so shitty”. And that probably seals the deal for them because they clam up too and give me weird looks. They’re probably thinking, “No, you’re shitty. And boring. This is the end of our conversation.”

Which really doesn’t help my self-esteem at all.

And it hurts when people stereotype you and assume that there’s nothing more to you. That you’re just a nerdy-pants who looks nerdy and lives nerdily ever after. Which may be true to a certain extent. But every nerdy-pants, though he/she may be as flat and boring as a coin, does have two sides, no?

Take for example the schoolmate who only bothers to talk to you to:

1. Find out about your grades
2. Ask if you study every day (which, for clarification, is a NO)
3. Find out about the day’s homework
4. Copy your homework

and thereafter assume that you do not exist.

I’m starting to think that all this has a link with my slouch, which has more or less reduced my backbone shape to that of a prawn’s. I’m not a Hunchback of Notre Dame yet though. Might reach that level in a few year’s time.

To conclude this depressing essay, I’d just like to say that it’s only human nature to judge and stereotype. For example I’m judging those “cool” people myself and assuming that they’re dismissing me. And similarly others judge me and assume that my main goal in life is to finish my homework. So this is how karma works then. I’ll just swallow my pride, lower my head and walk along. And maybe secretly swallow some potato chips as well.

Home Improvement Madness.

Sometimes I feel that I’m slowly morphing into a middle-aged housewife.

I had a relatively carefree childhood, one that honed my free-spirited character. I didn’t understand the rationale of cleanliness (why clean something when it’s going to get dirty again?) and I could never understand my mother’s preoccupation with plastic flowers and vases.

However as I grew older, I began to feel the weight of the burdens that are associated with running and maintaining a home. Now don’t get me wrong, I do not have any particularly strong desires to behave like a housewife/homeowner. I’m just a kid. But still, being the only other person around at home to help my single mother slowly elevated my status from being “mummy’s little helper” to “mummy’s only helper”. I still did not give much thought to the weight of my role, until last month when my mother’s arthritic stabs took a turn for the worse.

And then I began to grasp the enormity of my responsibilities when my mother could no longer perform to her “full capacity”. I took charge of grocery shopping and minor chores like sweeping and dusting. In a bid to lessen the laundry load, I picked clothes carefully, opting for jeans so I could wear them a few times. I tried ways and means to earn extra cash so that my mother didn’t have to fund my transport.

I felt rather old among my friends, because while they yakked I would be making mental grocery lists or deliberating on whether the table fan needed cleaning or not. It was altogether pretty odd behaviour for an adolescent. Perhaps the one good thing that came out of my mental preoccupation with domestic matters was that I pondered less about what I could eat next.

What ensued was a period of mental torture because by nature I am a social creature. I pretty much hate pottering about the house when I know that concurrently my friends are at the beach having a barbeque. Or accompanying my mother to ogle at different sewing machines when I have no inclination towards such objects whatsoever. But I knew that as a daughter I had some filial duties and my mother depended on me. And so I suppressed my urge to slash those damn plastic flowers and did what I had to do.

In my mother’s calendar, Christmas is coming soon. And that doesn’t signal Christmas shopping but rather cleaning and pimping the house for bloodthirsty relatives. To be fair, the house isn’t in fantastic shape either. And that fact kind of hit home when things began to malfunction back-to-back, lizards began strutting around like they owned the house and cobwebs hung like chandeliers.

Here’s a glimpse of the To-Do list:

1. Clean and throw out kitchen storage cabinet
2. Clear out the storeroom and throw all the junk
3. Clear the ancient pots in the oven (with ancient food in them)
4. Cleaning of display cabinet and water pipes
5. Dispose sofa and clean the area
6. Clean behind the TV set
7. Install the DVD player
8. Install ceiling lights and clean up the aftermath
9. Dispose bedroom bookshelf and clean up
10. Empty and shift plastic cabinets to the kitchen
11. Sort out clothes, arrange in new wardrobe
12. Send the sewing machine for repair
13. Buy material for new curtains
14. Clean Kitchen cabinets and chest of drawers
15. Sell VCR, DVD Player and Desktop Computer to Karang Guni
16. Buy  full-length mirror and install it
17. Paint ceiling

And it goes without saying that I have a part to play in all of the above. Oh well, I guess that Mummy’s Only Helper has to come to the rescue!

You’re needed, so stick around.

Ever had the feeling that you were just horribly inadequate? That you were neglecting everything and everyone around you?

I did.

I felt like a lousy friend. When I met up with my best friend yesterday after aeons, I realised how much I underestimated the significance of our friendship. I thought that I would be able to get along just fine with my life even though we met up erratically.

But after all the disappointments I’ve faced so far, after putting my faith in people that didn’t put their faith in me, it was such a blessing to see my old girlfriend waiting for me at the bus interchange. As reliable as clockwork. As sincere and real as she always was. It was just like the old times as we shared the grievances we both faced in our new lives. Spending the day with her totally made my day. It also reminded me that when the world ditches you, someone would be there you lift you out of the gutters.

I felt like a lousy daughter too. I was spending less and less time with my mother. And I knew that I was all that she had left. It sort of pained me to see her waiting up for me all alone when I came home late. The moment I stepped into the door till the instant when my head hit the pillow, my mum would bombard me from all sides, asking me about my day, offering me a supermarket full of food to eat, relating the full news bulletin to me, etc. All her small talk just screamed of loneliness.

But after all the empty chairs and distant faces, the fake smiles and manipulation, the using and the discarding, it was such a blessing to return to my pigsty of a home, and see a familiar face waiting for me. Someone who was joined at the hip with me, whether the both of us liked it or not. In a way we were both in the same boat, me with my busy life and she with her quiet life. We both felt alone and clung to each other for reassurance.

What’s the present without the past? As I soon found out, I truly needed these two characters back in my present, and hopefully they’ll stick around for my future too. I’m sorry to have left them out of the script so far. Maybe that’s what was missing from it.

:”(

Ever since my estrogen has been able to control my feelings, I’ve been playing with fire and getting burnt again and again. It brings me to the top of the world when the rush comes on, the heady feeling when a guy looks you in the eye. And you know that it’s more than just a look.

But I have fallen again and again for people who toy with my emotions, and then discard me. 

Like how I came to know about someone who has hooked up after hanging on to me for so long.

And how, upon reflection, I realise that it’s not the first time I’ve been so caught up in the moment that I forget there’s no ground beneath me at all.

Then the bubble bursts and I plummet and I pick myself up. Only to be swept away again by that smile, that touch, those words. Cycle repeats.

Heartbreak heartbreak heartbreak. There’s only so much I can take.

I guess this is where my cynicism comes in handy. Let me switch back to my asexual mode, take a step back, and laugh at the folly of hormone-induced “love”.

I’m just unlucky, I guess. Now where’s my tissue.

Writer’s block blues: To blog or not to blog?

My posts here are getting erratic and my last post was so measly. It’s not that I’ve got nothing to bitch about. Rather it’s been the opposite—so many things have been happening around me that I’m losing focus.

Thoughts, which were previously as clear as crystal to me, have become hazy ghosts that flit around briefly in my head before dissolving into my medulla. I know I’ve got something—or actually many things—to write about. But when I stare at the blank “New Post” screen it stares right back and the blinking cursor taunts me and I ask myself why I am even at WordPress in the first place.

So the question is: To blog or not to blog? Should I consciously sit down and force myself to come up with something? Or should I just treat my blog as somewhere I go to only when I feel like it?

Of course most people would argue that blogs are for penning your personal original material. So why bother forcing yourself? For a while, I did just that and I didn’t post for a few months. I felt as inarticulate as Jessica Simpson, for whenever I wanted to post, a few naïve and ugly sentences would come out.

But then a gnawing sense of heaviness grew within me and before I knew it, I kept going back to my blog and staring at it. Clicking through the stagnant pages, I felt that some part of me was withering.

Furthermore, people were leaving me messages asking me to update my blog. Friends wondered if I was having some sort of emotional withdrawal. I missed sharing my verbose essays, no matter how wordy/eccentric they were, with people who actually gave a damn and read my crap. And while people gave a damn and kept coming back, I didn’t give a damn and I left a gaping silence.

And so I think I do have a responsibility to update, and in a sense compel myself to write. I want to go back to the old days when I could bitch on and on about anything at all. I never want to be handicapped inarticulate again. So here I am, trying to fill the silence.

Now I Know Why Kurt Cobain Shot Himself

Kurt Cobain, frontman of Nirvana

I recently received a belated Christmas gift (thanks, Fred) and it was Nirvana’s Greatest Hits collection. I have always had a special fondness for Nirvana and their music, simply because their music was so raw and honest. Not your typical screamo-emo fare you get on radio today, by juvenile bands attempting to sound tortured, but stripped-down bitterness that soars above the music and into your soul.

I listened to the tracks late at night, alone in bed, beginning with “You Know You’re Right,” where Kurt hisses the word “pain” in one long, murderous breath, coupled with Krist Novoselic’s thumping bass and Dave Grohl’s angry drums. Over 15 tracks, Kurt chronicles the various setbacks in his life: a broken home (as vividly depicted in “Sliver”), a tumultous love life (in “About a Girl”), and the cloying mix of sarcasm and delusion that was Kurt’s inner soul (a bittersweet, unplugged “All Apologies”).

The standout track, for me, was “The Man Who Sold The World.” it was a cover of David Bowie’s song, but only a man like Kurt could connect with the despair and loneliness of the song with his searing vocals. He was nearing the crossroads, the climax of frustration and quiet defeat, where neither making music, shooting dope, Courtney Love, or pretty much anything on Earth could fill the hole.

And on April 8, 1994, Kurt created another hole for himself. This time, it was on his head. Kurt was found dead with a shotgun in his hand. Suicide.

It never fails to amaze me, how these rich rock stars with everything they can possibly think of having,still end up depressed and unsatisfied. While common folk get by with less than 10% of what rock stars earn. I can rattle off a list of tortured souls: John Frusciante(RHCP), Ian Curtis(Joy Division), Elvis, Sid Vicious (Sex Pistols), Michael Hutchence (INXS)…

For a while I was baffled by their reason to commit suicide. Then when i was slipping into my agnostic-depressive phase, i accepted their suicides as something brave, something peaceful and even beautiful, for life seemed so painful. But after getting back on my feet because of God, suddenly I saw it all so clearly.

Because their rock wasn’t the real Rock.

they looked to music as the ultimate salvation. they fed their hatred with more poison and channelled it towards their songwriting. they waited in vain for something, someone, to save them. at the end of the day, reclining in a posh Hilton hotel suite with an assortment of booze, drugs and women at their disposal, they saw only emptiness. it was all nothing. but they couldn’t find out was missing, and they took the easy way out.

For a while i thought rock music held it all too. I was wrong. for i was looking for the wrong rock. I failed to see God and his open arms, a father waiting for the prodigal child’s return. For it is written: “The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, My God, my rock, in whom I take refuge; My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.” (Psalm 18:2).

Maybe Kurt could have found peace at last if he read this:

“Come to me, all of you who are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke and put it on you, and learn from me, because I am gentle and humble in Spirit, and you will find rest. For the yoke I will give you is easy, and the load I will put on you is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)

His life was meaningless, because at the centre of it all, he chose to put worldly things like music at the top. He forgot that living for the world wasn’t enough; he forgot live for himself, for his soul. And once again, maybe he could have identified with:

“Then, brothers, let us leave the flesh (i.e worldly wants) and no longer live according to it. If not, we will die. Rather, walking in the Spirit, let us put to death the body’s deeds do we may live.” (Romans 8:13)

Now, if only someone could’ve shared these with him.

If you’re also going through hard times and you think, “Hey, If God’s do good, why is all this shit happening to me?” ,well, fret not. I was once like you too. But always remember: Life is fleeting. It doesn’t last forever. The world is not a place where you put your faith and belief in, because I can guarantee you you’re gonna be disappointed. people change, friends cheat, and as Murphy says: “If anything can go wrong, it will.”

However, there’s one person you can put your faith in, and that’s God. He doesn’t fade away like some rock tune. Live your life in the quiet confidence that He will work things out in the end, somehow, even in ways we don’t understand. Stop trying to understand stuff for a while; you’ll realise life is alot easier if you stop analysing, rationalising and arguing. Be still and trust Him in simple, childlike belief.

And then life gets alot simpler. And peaceful.

Rest in peace, dear Kurt Cobain.

Another Year, Another Chapter

Love it or hate it, 2008 is slipping away faster than you know it. Here I am, spending the first few waking hours of New Year’s Eve churning out yet another long essay on my blog. It’s been a while since I came here, but now I’m back, and very much alive, thank you.

It’s ironic how much a person can change by 360 degrees in 365 days. looking back at my New Year’s Eve post exactly a year ago, i laugh out loud in disbelief at my attitude then. Go ahead and read that post. I was so negative, pessimistic and brooding, it was as if i was suicidal and actually slashing my wrists in misery as i blogged. I saw the glass as half empty (or nearly empty, in my case) and mulled over the lacerations, magnifying it in the microscope of my mind.

this year was no less shitty, too. my mother’s depression became almost manic, fights became more severe, ugly truths surfaced, and the O levels whammed me from all sides. and there was the problem of  My “Beautiful” Mind, which was the disease that resided within myself. it wasn’t outright depression, but it was a hollow sickness, a vacuum that reduced me to a walking puppet. life was locomotion and i moved along mechanically. well, if you lived with a depressive, you’d be like me too.

but this year, i’ve learnt something finally, something that school couldn’t teach me, that no one else could possibly communicate to me.

LIFE’S LIKE THAT.

you fall and you hurt yourself, but you don’t lie there on the kerb forever and whine about it. you get up and walk, after a little healing. the problem with me was that whenever i fell, i would brood about my wounds, and then i’d decide that a walk outside wasn’t worth it. then i’d shrink back home, slam the door shut, stay indoors and ponder over the wound that was. in my ill temper, i’d look out the window and regard the other people outside with disdain, preferring my misery to company, relishing my isolation.

but i forgot that as long as you were walking on your two feet, you were bound to fall. and those falls were meant to teach you and build you up. like how once, a little boy was leading his sister up a mountain path that wasn’t too easy. “why, this isn’t a path at all,” the little girl complained. “It’s all rocky and bumpy.” Her little brother replied, “Sure, the bumps are what you climb on.” We can’t prevent the crisis hours of our life, but we can deal successfully with them, and turn bad things into good things.

So this year, I’ve finally stepped out of my dark house to enjoy the sunshine on the sidewalk. I’ve made new, lasting friendships. I’ve done crazy things, like terrorising little children at theme parks and shaking hands with random people on the street on Christmas. I’ve (finally) come clean with an old crush, and it wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined. I (finally) spent Christmas with my mum. I fell, for the first time in my life, for a complete geek who laughed at the word “boob” everytime. I never thought I’d allow myself to commit that sin, but I have.

I’ve done something the Old Jenny would’ve laughed at: I’ve moved on from Green Day and related punk bands, and have since broadened my musical horizons to include alternative and indie bands which make much more sense to me than George Bush and his oddities. I picked up Bible reading, which previously was as boring as hell to me, and I now meditate on Christian books daily.  Best of all, I started attending church again. I know that the Old Jenny would’ve crucified me for that.

Thank you, 2008, for everything you’ve thrown at me. I’ll say yes to any challenge that will befall me next year. what about you? will you exit the year with a flourish or a whimper?

Putting the Junk back in the Trunk.

Looking back at my initial posts such as this one, that one, and even the one about my previous battle with bulimia, i’m really thankful that i started my blog. firstly, it has let me talk about stuff i’ll never be able to tell someone face-to-face. in addition, it has helped me show a different side of myself to people who know me. on the surface, i may seem like a shiny happy individual leading my shiny happy life. but no, everyone has their fair share of ups and downs. i don’t want to fool people; i want them to know who i really am inside. and i’d like to thank everyone who didn’t shirk away from me even after knowing my imperfections and morbid-ness, but instead still accepted me and treated me normally.

i spent my weekend at church camp, which always helps me shake off my ghosts. i entered camp with a sense of dreading. i wanted to just give it all up, this whole “church” shit, and just go back to the meandering lifestyle i had. i didn’t know my role and purpose in church. hell, i didn’t know what “purpose” meant. i was just living for the moment. the wheels of my existence got caught in fine sand, and i was just spinning around energetically, making lots of noise and splattering brown slush all over.

suddenly, on the 6th of december, towards midnight, i knew. i realised. it was time to put the junk back in the trunk. it was time to give up the fake, to throw out the hate, to give and not to take. at one point i questioned myself: why me? why was i the child of the broken family, the one with the pain, the immense hate inside? why did i yearn for the fake glossy lifestyle that was not meant for me? and why couldn’t i let go of it all? instead i held it all inside, brooding, cynical.

that night, i let go of it all. yes, i had been bulimic, possibly bipolar, depressive, neurotic, morbid, (or ‘emo’ as you may call it), hateful, angry, restless. but these experiences were totally worth it. i had been through alot of shit, that was true, and i’ve had my fair share of sleepless nights on wet pillows. but it was all meant to mould me, to shape me, to build me up. it was like emotional and mental exercise, testing me, pushing me to the limits, stretching the muscle of my courage. and i pulled through. i’m proud to say that, despite all the shit i faced, i’ve never once contemplated suicide, never imagined cutting my wrist, nor other similar stuff. i always thought of it as yet another experience. during the camp, someone came up to me and said, “You know, you’re a brave girl.” i never thought of myself as brave, but on hindsight, i probably am.

but there was one more step to go, and that was letting go of the bitterness as a result of all the “experiences” and “adventures” of my wee life insofar. on the 6th if december, i made a choice to do just that. i’ve deleted the phone numbers of people in my foggy past, i’m kissing my depression good-bye. i’m throwing my dad, my past, my pain and all the junk, back into the trunk. i’m still searching for stuff to throw away.

it’s not gonna be easy. i might just find myself digging the trunk one day, taking back all the garbage that i once threw out. but i know that when that day comes, i’ll be a different person. no longer stuck in fine sand, but charging at full speed, cos God’s my engine now, and His Word is my fuel.