Haven't written in here for 7 months. Haven't looked at my own tblog page for almost as long.
This blue and white page, similar to the diary I'm currently writing in, and yet, so different.
The pictures of the 13 pigs and Taco on the right column, of which only 4 pigs are left.
Remember, yes I do.
I still like this place, where I hid away from people who knew me, where I wrote about our friendship, about depression, about the pain.
And then she died. Just like that. It has been more than 9 months since her accident. I visit her at the columbarium once a week, if I can. A little excessive, it might seem. But, it gives me peace, somehow.
I don't know why I'm writing in here again, but it's gonna be just a once off thing. Just a little nostalgia.
I'm not writing in here anymore. The few friends whom I've made here, if you'd like to know my other diary's address, leave me a note(with your email) or mail.
Feelings change very quickly. Sometimes, it happens various times in a single day. For a moment, unfeeling and cold. The next, laughter could be illicited just by a single one-liner, or an adorable picture. Then, a sad melody could make the heart ache for no apparent reason. Sometimes I wonder if I'm being too real a person, or if all these are illusions of my own being.
Regarding the previous entry, I remember that I had written an angry entry the time it happened. And I went to search for it, and found it. In that entry, I called him a bastard, and her, a bitch. Yes, I was very angry and upset.
And I found out that all which happened, was sparked off when I brought a stray cat upstairs for a night. Queenie, whom I named so due to her disposition. Distinctively dignified. I'd seen her one or two times after that, and then never again. I brought her home that one time, and she threw my brother's stuffs away, and accused us of trying to break the family apart further. One of the things which I replied to her drafted letter, was 'might as well nv had us right?', which she replied to with a 'yes, I regretted having you 2.'
Something about the entry doesn't make sense, somewhere. But I don't really know what. It's just like the train of thoughts is all wrong, like my emotions at that time weren't justified. They were, somehow. But then, weren't. Oh well. I just can't stop contradicting myself. Perhaps it has something to do with the name-calling, which ain't a very nice thing to do, even if I was angry.
Anyway, the entry brought back various other memories, and evoked certain emotions. That entry, and various others following that one.
Weiling, the best friend I once had, whom I loved so dearly, and whom I was so thankful for. It felt so ironic to read what I had once written, about loving her cheeriness, and then a year later, renouncing her as my best friend, also because of her cheeriness. How stupid. But I guess it was a gradual change. A weird friendship, which I don't know how it began and bloomed, or how it got to that bitter state. Bitter, only on my end, I guess. But I should be glad that the bitterness in me didn't remain. At least we're fine now, and meet up once in a while. Maybe in a long while, but well, we're still keeping in touch.
And then there was Daphne. Going to church and her cell group meetings with her. Getting to know the 3 guys, Art, John and Zen, through her. The great 2 days I spent with the 4 of them, which had everything to do with lifting my then depressed mood. The guys, I had expected the friendship to die down, no doubt. But for Daphne, I wished we hadn't stopped keeping in touch.
For me, somehow, when friends get too occupied with their current lives and friends, I shy away, and always think that they're doing fine without me, they're happy, and I needn't go butting into their lives again. I have to say that it's hard maintaining a friendship with me, for I'd never be proactive in keeping in touch.
One of the times I was at church with her, and I remembered a few things from the pastor during the sermon. And this was what I wrote:
And there was something he said that was very right. Something to do about ‘entitlements&rsquo ;. Many people have the believe that parents gave birth to us, we are entitled to food and shelter and happiness from them. I still can’t get it out of my head that this is right, but somewhere in my heart, I know it is not that right after all. Happiness, is something I have to fight for myself. Another thing was about blaming others. For so long, I have blamed my parents for everything. Then that time I wasn’t speaking to my mother after the Queenie incident, we were communicating through pieces of paper, writing to each other. The one thing that made tears wet my cheeks immediately was when she wrote that all along I had blamed her for the divorce, but I had to shoulder the blame too because I was the one who climbed into their bed between them at night sometimes and caused them to drift apart and a decrease of sex life. I really couldn’t believe my eyes then. She was blaming their young child at that time for their drifting apart. I wrote back that I didn’t know it was so wrong of a young child to seek for the protection and assurance of her parents at night especially when she was hounded by nightmares. I guess it’s just part of nature. We just blame each other and would continue to. But who’s really at fault after all. I would accept all the responsibility now if it would make things any better, really. Still, I have to take responsibility of my own life. I have the responsibility of making myself happy, not anyone else.
Yes, the responsibility of making myself happy, lies on no one but myself. I'm tired of blame shifting, and I don't want to keep these unhappy stuffs revolving around me anymore. I shan't even blame them all for making me the person even I myself detest, though I'd sure love to. Surely, it'd forever be a part of me, scars which I'd never be able to remove. But I don't have to keep digging them up to make myself see how wrong they had been, or I had been. They can be hidden in obscurity, and be part of some distant memories.
Hey, I'm improving, at least I know I'm not hurting because of it anymore. Though on the other hand, it could be seen as myself become distant, rather than the memories. When you're not hurting anymore, is it because the wound is gone already? Or is it because you're already dead? I'm not very sure. I can never differentiate between being 'not unhappy', and simply being 'satisfied', or if there's any difference at all. Oh yes oh yes, make myself happy. It is, right, after all, something which I have to fight for myself. The battle had been long and hard. But I realise I've been making some headway after all.
A lesson which had to be learnt over a long period of 8 years, which had pretty much sucked most of the time. But I'm getting somewhere. And I'm somebody. Even if the lesson hadn't been totally absorbed, even if the moral of the lesson is still elusive to me. But I'm a stronger person than I would have been if without it, I believe. I'm 20, going on 21. It's time to walk out of these shadows.
This few words have been ringing in my ears recently. Actually, it's really amusing, now that I think back.
During one of the meet-the-parents session, in either secondary 3 or 4, Mr Chng, my form teacher, commented to my mother that I appeared sad most of the time. I don't really remember if "Joyce is a sad, sad girl" was really what he said. I doubt so, as it would have sounded so weird. But I think I mentioned it to 3S and weeseng about how incredulous it was, and weeseng, being the clown that he has always been, impersonated Mr Chng, pretty successfully I would say, and uttered those words. Whenever I think of it now, I chuckle to myself. It's really hilarious.
But I also wonder, what my mother thought, when Mr Chng made that comment. You know what? I hope she felt guilty. But really, I doubt so. She has always been an blamer. It's the father's fault, it's the mother-in-law's fault, it's our aunt's fault, and even more ironically, MY fault. Never hers.
How did it become to be my fault? I remember clearly, a couple of years back when we were having a cold war, and instead of shouting and screaming at each other verbally as usual, we were doing so in words, writing to each other in big, ugly letters, expressing our anger and such. It was sparked off after a quarrel, and I found a draft of a letter she was writing for the father, to ask him to fetch us to live with him. She said that we'd be happier with a big family, that we felt lonely living with her. I was livid. She didn't know what we thought, it was either her own assumptions, or it was her excuses for wanting us to leave.
I replied, on the same notebook, writing about how they were kicking us around like balls, claiming that we'd be better off living with the other party, but never once seeking our opinions. And how they'd never sat down and spoke to us about the whole issue before, letting us, as children, deal with it by ourselves, not knowing how things really were. So, she wrote back to me, speaking of what grievances she had suffered when we were still one 'happy' family, living under one roof, in Serangoon Central. And she wrote about some of the stuffs that led to the divorce in the end. She also left the divorce files there for my perusal.
And now, the best part. One of the reasons, which ultimately led to the divorce, was that because, I, their child, as a kid, had often squeezed in between them in their bedroom to sleep with them, which had caused their passion and sex life to decrease. And it was my fault. How incredulous, isn't it?
And the irony of it... I read the divorce files, which mentioned in various parts, that the father had complained that the mother often refused to have sex, usually citing the reason of fatigue. So now, she, who refused to have sex with the father, was blaming me, cause I interfered with their sexual life? Furthermore, I distinctly remember the father often returning home only late in the night, and how I would always sleep with the mother in his place, simply because I had wanted him to carry me back to my room when he returned. And I'd always pretend to be asleep even if I wasn't, so that he had no choice but to carry me. The point is, he returned home so late in the night, when the mother was already sound asleep. What sexual life was there in the first place for me to interfere with?
I forgot how the saga ended. But somehow, the letter that she drafted, was never sent.
If you want to know, it hurt a damn lot, when you are being kicked around like an unwanted ball, by your own parents. And then, having the blame put on you, for wanting to sleep with your parents as a young kid. So next time, all kids should know better than to disturb their parents, even when they're afraid of sleeping alone, even when the thunder and lightning on a stormy night scares them. It is their responsibility to know afterall. Right?
I would have gotten upset and cried while writing this entry a few years back. But not anymore. Other than disgust, there's not much other feelings about this whole thing.
I have not had words flowing out my fingertips this naturally for a long time, it's refreshing. =)
Something less depressing. Just before I was ready to leave home, I tried to clear the messy sets of newspapers from the table. I put them into a stack by the side, and when I lifted a set, there sat an orange bowl beneath it, and in the bowl, was a strange looking pebble.
I studied it for awhile, looking at the patterns and markings on it. I don't know why, but instead of picking it up, I poked it. And got a shock when what came into contact with my fingers was not a hard smooth surface, but soft and cold to the touch. I retracted my fingers, alarmed, and studied the pebble again. Actually, I didn't just poke the thing. I had flicked it a little too hard. It landed a few centimetres away, and this time, I could see legs. And I realised it wasn't a pebble, but a little frog. And it looked dead.
Suddenly feeling disgusted that I had touched a dead frog, I rushed to the kitchen and washed my hands with soap. Then once again, I returned to the bowl, and studied the supposedly dead frog. Then I saw it move. Damn. How many times did I have to get it wrong. Are you wondering how a little frog got into the flat, 11 storeys high nonetheless. And into a bowl on the table? I was too.
At that moment, I innocently believed that it would really die if the bowl stays that dry, and I got a bit of water and poured it into the bowl.(I later found out that it was a garden frog, and could do without water for a long while.) I poked the little thing somemore, feeling more assured that it wasn't dead, lightly of course. The sensation of the cold and soft skin was queer. It stared at me, moving its throat in and out. Then, it leapt. Out of the bowl on the table, and onto the floor. It was pretty high, considering how small it was. It landed, and suddenly water seeped out from nowhere, and there was a little puddle around it. Had it just peed in fright? I picked it up gingerly, and returned him into the bowl.
At this time, my brother came out. "Oh right! I forgot about it." He had found the little one leaping around the living room with Tatche staring at it curiously. The toes on its hind feet were tangles together by hair, thread, and other similar debris, and my brother had helped him to untangle them, and left it in the bowl with a few drops of water.
As usual, I got very interested in the new little thing, and wondered if I should keep it. Went online to find out what species it was, and to read more about taking care of frogs. My brother said I was crazy, but still tried to help me feed a small fly to the froggy. I caught the fly from my pigs' beddings. There's always some even after I just cleaned the cages thoroughly. He himself, caught an ant from the table to feed the froggy. And he said I was crazy... Anyway the frog did not eat the preys, though we saw him flicking out his tongue.
Some of the things I found out from the internet: The little thing is a Banded Bullfrog, also known as Asian Painted Bullfrog, Rice Frog, Bubble Frog, and Chubby Frog. This species are burrowers and spends most of it's time underground. Some frogs tend to play dead when they are in danger of a predator. Frogs hibernate under logs and loose barks, and also in soil.
From these few pieces of information, I concluded that the little one had been hibernating in the soil of one of my mum's flower pots at home which she had recently bought, and finally woke up at our place that day. And that it was playing dead when I first saw it, cause it really looked dead. Not only was it sitting unmoving, it looked like a stiffened corpse which had died on it's back but had been flipped over again. Erm. Whatever. It just looked dead.
After awhile, I decided that it wouldn't be right to keep it as a pet. Buying domesticated animals as pets is one thing, keeping wild animals as pets is another. I let it go on the grass patches downstairs when I left home. But not before playing with it and taking pictures of it. At one point, when I was taking pictures of it sitting on my palm, it suddenly leapt, right into my face and gave me such a huge shock. haha.. It's adorable, really.
Here's some of the pictures...
And here's some pictures of Tatche, the cat which my brother rescued a couple of months ago.
These were taken pretty long ago. He's grown much fatter now, with a large, buldging tummy. Lol. He's such a darling.
(Actually, this is cut-and-paste from my OD. I don't know why I bother to maintain 2 diaries, when the contents aren't too different. The first part was written on 27th October, and the second in the wee hours of the morning on 2nd November.)
Last Friday till today. Exactly 7 days since I've updated on my days. 10 days since the beginning of the crazy schedule. By the end of it, I was feeling terribly exhausted, frustrated, and a little unappreciated and disappointed.
Exhausted, because of the morning to night lessons everyday of course. Unappreciated and disappointed, because I had the last lessons with most of the kids for this year, or until a couple of weeks before school reopens next year, and it wasn't exactly an issue for them. I would have been glad if they had said a proper goodbye before running off to play even before I had stepped out of the door. And disappointed also because they still weren't interested in learning during the last lesson we were having before their exams. Well, not all. But any one of them doing that is indeed disappointing. And so far, none of them had the confidence to say that their papers were at least alright. The most they could give me was an "Uh.. Ok lor," with a frown. It's scary. I'm not sure if I really want to know their results.
And finally, frustrated, because of phonecalls I had decided not to pick up anymore. Just because of my brother's refusal to communicate with them, they keep my normally silent hanphone ringing, trying to bombard me with questions about him, asking me to tell him to contact them, asking me what's wrong with him, and the granny still went to the extent of asking for the mum's number so that they could talk about it and 'discuss' what to do about her grandson. What the fuck. First off, the mum hates those people, and what would become of me if I gave them her number. Secondly, What exactly do they want to do about my brother's state of unemployment and life as a hermit(and eating off his sister, should I add)? What the fuck could they do if he doesn't want to go out and look for a job himself, doesn't want to see or speak to any of them? It is his problem if he chooses to live that way, not mine, and definitely not theirs, as I doubt he sees them as family.
It isn't a matter of selfishness. Everyone is selfish. My brother chooses to ignore them, even though he knows that they would bug me relentlessly. I hate him for that. Those people only want to find out what they want to find out, even though they are making my life miserable unecessarily, because they wouldn't get anything out of it actually. And I hate them for that. Even for the mum, who knows nothing about this matter, for some unfathomable reasons, perhaps still on the issue of bringing me to the world, my mind labels her as another selfish being, causing misery to me. And I hate her for that. They are selfish. And I hate them all. And because I hate them, I am selfish to them. I don't care if I'm only concerned about my misery, and unmoved by his desire to keep himself free from them, by their desire to 'help' their grandson/son.
If it means I have to support my brother for all these time he doesn't go get a job, I'm fine with it, for money is never an issue to be selfish about for me. I don't care if it's giving, or if it's a loan, as long as he keeps me free from all his own troubles, I'm fine with it. But he doesn't. And I really do hate him to the core for that. But I'm still being his ATM, talkiing to him as his sister. Because he's my brother. And those are only the family. I don't care if it doesn't make sense, if it's unfair. Because they're being unfair to me, and their actions don't make sense to me. Why should I be fair to them or to make any sense.
From Friday, the father called 3 times. Once more on Saturday. Once or twice every day or every couple of days after that. I refused to pick up the phone. He left a few voice messages telling me to call back as well. Enough is enough, I thought. I've had enough of all that rubbish. If my brother can ignore their calls for something which has everything to do with himself, why could I not ignore their calls which had absolutely nothing to do with me, and when their phonecalls make me miserable. But actually, just seeing the missed calls when I end a lesson, or feeling the vibration of the phone but ignoring it blatantly, is just as miserable. Because he's still bugging me, disturbing my already exhausting life at the moment.
And as I sit on the bus before and after each lesson, I stare into nothingness and my eyes glaze over, wondering when would it all end. And my very imaginative mind never fails to cook up some sort of fantasies, where I scream at him to get out of my life. It all happens on the phone, when I finally am not able to take the incessant ringing and pick it up, releasing a pent-up outburst, sometimes in front of friends, sometimes in front of jinyee and family(who are the father's friends). They would all be shocked, staring at me, sometimes not daring to say a thing, sometimes telling me not to be rude to the father, or something along that fucking line. I would shout at them to mind their business, with something about them not knowing a single fucking thing. And then, storm off. In yesterday's fantasy, I stormed off and flagged down a cab, and went to East Coast Park. It was raining when I got there, but I got off anyway, and walked in the heavy rain, to one of the breakwaters, and sat there, letting the water soak me through and through, wash the pain away, rinse my soul. Must be the wet weather lately.
That was after Jinyee's lesson last evening. My handphone had gone flat (due to his incessant calling), the lesson had ended, and I was in the living room, getting my fees from her mum, and then Jinyee came to me with her father's handphone, saying that it's the father, and wagging a finger at me, saying "Hor hor.. ni bu guai." I don't blame her. She doesn't know better. At that time, I was already running late for my next lesson, and wanted to get the fees and go on my way as fast as possible. With Jinyee holding the phone out to me hesitantly as I held my hands out to say "no, I've got to run", I began to hate him more for involving jinyee and family in it, making use of them to get to me. In the end, I still took the phone. "Hello. What," I said hostilely into it. "What is wrong," he asked. "Nothing," I said, "I'm late, I need to go." He insisted on asking me to tell him what was wrong, why I didn't pick up his calls or call him back. "Nothing! I need to go!" I answered with increased exasperation, and hastily passed the phone to Jinyee, but not before hearing him asking me to call him back again. I got out of the open door, slipped on my slippers, and shuffled quickly to the lift. I didn't mean to be a bad example to Jinyee, really. But if it causes her to lose the respect and adoration for me, I can only say, so be it. It was his fault, for making use of her. And on our last lesson, making it her last impression of me in the coming 2 months. Selfishly making use of everyone to get what he wants. Hate him. But I was also slightly relieved that because it'd be the last lesson with Jinyee, he wouldn't be able to find me through them.
The next day, today. I had finished Sanjeev's lesson, and after buying some stuffs, I was home some time after noon. Next lesson was at 2.30, and I had to leave at 1.45. I ate, surfed net, and then at about 1.30, I went into the masterbedroom, well, to pluck unsightly hair from my underarms, while my brother was back at the computer, watching his movies. Halfway through, I heard my phone ringing outside, and ignored it. It stopped, and then rang again. And this continued for two more times. But on the last time, the house phone began ringing as well. We never do pick that up, except for the mum. Then, the door was banged on loudly. I stayed in the room. Finished my hair-plucking business, and went into the toilet for a leak. As I was about to come out from the bathroom, I heard the door to room's door open and then close again. After I tied my hair and came out, my brother was gone from the computer, into his room. My phone rang again, and I walked over to see who was it. It was 'Dad' alright. Then he started banging on the door again. I walked over and peeped out the peephole. That bastard brother of mine, had hidden himself and left me to face all the shit myself, once again. I walked around the house, contemplating what to do. The banging stopped, the house phone rang. The banging started up again, he shouted something I couldn't catch through the thick wooden door. Would he leave in the next few minutes, I wondered. I had to go for tuition. "That bastard brother", I thought again and again. What a show of brotherly love ain't it. Then I started to hate myself. I shouldn't have came home. Should have went to JP to have lunch or something. Idiot. Or I should have left home earlier. Big fool. Not that I would have known.
I couldn't wait anymore, had to go, if not I'd be late. I got my bag, slipped on the footwear, and tried to brace myself for what would happen next. But I guess, he was the one who should have braced himself. For I've not had such an outburst for a long while.
It's 2nd November, and I've finally found the chance and energy to continue with this. So, after five days, there's not much details of it all left in my head. Everything is vague, like it happened, but did not really. Dream-like. But well, he's not calling nor looking me up anymore.
I don't remember what I said to him the first thing I pulled open the wooden door, nor if I had stood inside and 'talked' to him a bit before opening the door, or if I had unlocked the gate, and stood half-in, half-out of the door and argued with him.
I figured the 'conversation' went something like that, in Mandarin though. Just before I pulled the door open, he was still knocking on it, and shouting for us to open up(both the door, and our mouths to talk to him).
Me: What lah! (Frowning at him)
Him: Why didn't you pick up the call? What's wrong with the two of you? If anything's the matter, tell daddy. How can just don't answer all my calls?
Me: I was in the toilet lah! I need to go for tuition now.
Him: No! Tell daddy what's wrong. Why is it that you're unhappy with me? You must tell me, then I'd know!
Me: (Voice level rising) Can you all stop bugging me! You all always call me to find bro! What can I do if he doesn't want to talk to you! No matter how many times you call me it's also useless!
Him: Still got who called you? You tell me. Don't need to shout at me.
Me: Who else!? You! Ah Ma! Da Gu! Xiao Gu! Always call me to look for bro! I'm already very busy and tired! You think I'm very free huh? (After I said it, I regretted almost immediately. I shouldn't have said my aunts called. Their calls were one or two months ago. It didn't feel fair to implicate them in it.)
Him: Okok. You don't want them to call you, could have just told them to stop calling you, don't have to avoid all our calls like that. You tell daddy, I will tell them not to disturb you ok.
Me: (Thinking if he was deaf and had a memory loss. He called me the greatest number of times, despite me telling him not to bother about bro's state of unemployment, and his disappearance, that I did not know why he is avoiding them, that I did not know what the grandmother had told him. Is that not enough to mean 'Stop bothering me about his business because I do not know anything'? I was hyperventilating. I did not say all that, but instead just simply...) I have to go for tuition.
I opened gate and stepped out, locked it behind me, and he stopped me again.
Him: Is your bro inside? Open the door, I want to talk to him.
Me: He has gone hiding into his room already lah!
He insisted. Him: Open the door. Let me at least talk to him to see what's wrong.
Me: (Totally exasperated, shouting at the top of my voice) No way! Don't you get me into trouble with the mother! (I don't know since when exactly, angry tears had been escaping my eyes. They always do, when I'm having arguments, trying to air my grievances.)
Him: (Giving up, and came up to me at the lift instead) I have not done you any wrong. Don't throw your temper at me. You don't cry. If anything's the matter, say it nicely. No need to throw your temper at me.
I swept my tears away furiously with the back of my hand, and ignored him as I waited for the lift. He's so great at pushing the blame off himself. Now he was the saint, he was going to tell all the people who disturbed me to leave me alone. Oh, how great. When he's the one who had been doing the most damage all these while.
He got into the lift with me, still continuing with all his crap shit, basically repeating that he had done nothing wrong, and that if I didn't want to be disturbed I should have just said so. Haven't I just said it, then why was he still bothering me, I wondered.
Him: Where are you going? I'd send you there.
Me: Don't need. I can go myself.
Him: No, I'd send you there.
See. What's the use of saying anything at all? I ignored him once more.
We got to the void deck, and I walked towards the carpark, where I had to pass before I got to the busstop. He got out some cash, and gave it to me.
Me: I don't want your money.
Him: Take it lah. For your birthday. I called you not to ask about your brother, but to give you the money, but you didn't want to pick up the phone... etc etc.
Me: I don't need your money, I can earn my own.
By that time, we were in the carpark, and his cab was just right there. He grabbed me when I tried to walk past. I shook his hands off me and stood there with my arms folded against my chest, looking away from him. An auntie walked past, staring at us, my tear-stained face, as I stared back at her with my red and moist eyes.
Him: I know you can earn money already, but it's my present for you, my sincerity. Like that can? Come, where are you going? I'd send you there.
Me: I don't want it! I don't even take money from mummy anymore, why should I take your money! (I didn't try to remind him that my birthday was a month ago, in September, not in October.)
Him: Because daddy's not living with you, don't get to see you. Just want to give you something for your birthday, like that can?
Me: I don't want!!!! (And I began to stalk off.)
He pulled me back again, losing his patience.
Him: Tsk! Hurry up get into the car! (At the same time, still thrusting the money in my face.)
Me: I said I don't want you understand! I can go myself!
Him: (Giving up) Okok, you go yourself, but take this money.
I rolled my eyes at him, snatched the notes out of his hands, and stalked away.
Later, I kept the $90 in another compartment in my wallet. I took it not because I wanted it, or cared for it. I merely wanted him off my back. It's going to charity.
As I walked to the busstop, I seemed to feel people looking at me. My red, watery eyes must have betrayed me. Hate myself for being weak, for letting him see my tears.
The saga ended thus. I guess there was a lot more repetition than this, which only made me more exasperated and frustrated with what he was saying at that time. I was shouting the whole time, other than the times when I was gritting my teeth in anger/exasperation. I have not shouted at somebody this loud and this much for quite some time. The previous victim must be the mother, but it has been awhile, because now I prefer to ignore. He was trying to keep his voice down, trying to soothe me, but far from that did his words do.
People never do listen. They ask you tell them things, but they don't hear it when it is said. And they expect everyone to be like them, to be deaf to what they don't want to hear, or are not interested to hear.
When I got home that day, after tuition, my brother did not say a thing about it. And surprisingly, I still talked to him like normal. I was angry with him, very much, but I guess it didn't show. I don't understand how he could do that. I'm sure he heard us shouting outside the house, or heard me shouting. And he didn't bother, always only looking out for himself. What about me? The one who shouldn't have been part of all these in the first place. Their selfishness, self-centred-ness. So abhorring.
But yet, he's still the only one whom I call my family. The rest are just the family.
I'm writing here now because OD is down at the moment. I just found one of the younger hamsters acting unusually, like life's been drained out of her. She's only 2 months old. I held her for a while and patted her, stroking her soft fur. I could feel her going further and further, yet unable to realise what was wrong with her. There's no wounds, she doesn't seem to have diarrhea, she has food and water, she hadn't lost weight suddenly, what could be wrong? I left her in the tank, and she's asleep. Hopefully after a good sleep she'd be back to normal, but, I kind of know that she'd just gradually slip away in her sleep.
I needed to write, so I went to OD, but it refused to load up. I came here, and the first time, it told me that tblog was fixing some issues. Just when I need to write, both diaries are abandoning me? I opened my MSwords, and reloaded this page for a couple of times. And it appeared, thankfully. Writing in MSwords is never the same as writing in a diary, even if it's online. It's illogical, but somehow it just works that way.
How long will she last, I don't want to think, but can't help thinking.
During this time, 2 of my pigs had passed away, one after the other in a duration of 2 days. Oreo went first, then Rain. I'm not sure why, but perhaps it had something to do with the food, though the other 2 of their cagemates are well. The deaths were not hard to deal with, the dying was. The part when I had to force-feed Rain, when he was weak and unresponsive. When he refused to, or couldn't swallow a thing, when the mushed up food dribbled down his chin. When he couldn't lift up his head, when he lay limp in my arms, breathing shallowly, when his eyes slowly glazed over and lost their lustre. After subjecting him and myself to such torture, he didn't make it through still.
It's been about a week, but it feels much longer. I don't know why, but everything that had happened, no matter if it's the deaths, or any other happenings, they just slip far far away after it ends, buried somewhere deep, where I can't feel it. Kind of like dreams which you can't grasp, like sand slipping through your fingers the harder you try.
It erases the pain, but strips away the reality, such that I don't know what's real anymore, such that I sometimes think of a thing which had happened, and wonder if it was a dream, or if it was part of reality.
Below is an entry from OD I wrote before this, a normal rambling lengthy entry. People reading me here should be glad I don't do that here usually.
I haven't been writing for 3 days already, and I don't really remember what I had done or what had happened. My brain's not functioning like I would want it to, and I seriously think I should probably cut a hole in my skull. Other than making more of my brain work, it can cure headaches and depression too! How brilliant.
"Trepanation is the act of drilling, cutting, or scraping a hole into the skull. It is the oldest surgery known to man and has been used to treat head injuries, brain tumors, chronic headaches, insanity, and most recently, touted as a cure for chronic depression and/or chronic fatigue syndrome. It has been theorized that by cutting a hole into the skull and leaving it open permanently, you would allow a permanent increase in brain blood volume, or that the brain would adjust itself to a new equilibrium, a new 'brain blood volume to cerebro-spinal fluid' ratio. The idea is that by re-opening the skull you would allow more blood to flow to the brain, on a permanent basis, and that you would restore the brain pulsation level to that of infancy, when the skull had not yet sealed itself shut and forced much of the brain blood out of the head. The increased blood to the brain would mean more oxygen to the brain, and the theory is that it would again function at the levels of youth. The recent resurgence of interest in trepanation, largely due to websites on the internet and the continuing popularity of body modifications of all kinds, has been largely due to the idea that trepanation brings with it a permanent high. Smoking pot, drinking caffeine, dropping acid, all these things, along with any other effect they have, increase blood to the brain. Many think that this would restore the energy level and mental stamina of youth, that having more blood to the brain would make more of it work and enable to function at a higher level."
Sigh. It's so hard to backtrack my days, so hard to remember. You see why I want to record my daily happenings in so much details? Because I forget. And I don't want to. I've already forgotten too much, way too much.
Then I read back, and realised that it had only been 2 days since I last wrote, not 3. And that I had said I wanted to write about NIE. But I don't remember what about NIE anymore. And I had said I would post pictures. That I remember, just that it'd have to wait till I get to use my own laptop again. So, it'd be another lengthy entry for now.
I vaguely remember that I had some dreams last night, and the previous night. In one of it, I was with my father, and in the other, my mother. The settings were at different places, and we were doing different things, but I don't remember what. Relation, emotions, were normal. I mean, normal normal. Not hostile normal. But I don't like it, not because it was normal, but because of what implications the dreams have on me. Why was it that even in that simple happiness, there was no completion. And how could you possibly know what I mean.
I'm trying to remember, remember what I did on Sunday. Did I go out at all? I remember I slept a lot, and did not clean any tanks nor my room at all, as I had said I would. Was that all there was to it? Sleeping?
Minutes have passed, and I really don't remember a thing. That day, had disappeared, without a trace.
Monday, there was tuition. 4 lessons. From 1pm, right to 9pm. I know, not because I remember, but because it's in my schedule. Did anything interesting worrth mentioning happened? I don't know. Not that I remember, but of course. The one thing I remembered was that I was very tired, and because the next day's tuition started at 9.30am, I went to sleep very early.
(edited: I suddenly remembered, Michael called me twice on Monday. Yes, Michael, that jerk I once liked who tried to hit on me even though he was married. I did not pick up his calls.Should I say, I was curious to hear what he wanted to say, but I didn't dare to. I was afraid, afraid that the foolishness in me would act up, and I'd begin to like that jerk. A deprived woman (from cuddles, not sex), can be very foolish, and I might very well end up getting both if I get stupid enough. And this, I definitely do not want.)
And yes, today's happenings, I should be able to remember, no? Yes I woke up early for Qing's lesson. Got there late, and wasted loads of time playing with her hamsters and trying to fix that hamster potty I got for her, which should have been compatible with her cage, but just wouldn't fit properly. We then got to the room, and she gave me a present. It was my birthday present, 20 days in advance. It was a mug, with the words 'Happy Birthday!" printed on it. She included a card too. And she thought I become 21 this year, which made the fact that I'm not even 20 yet sink into me. I feel so terribly immature. We started our lesson proper at 10.30am, an hour later than what we had planned, and ended an hour later too.
I then got to Clementi for Haoyang's lesson. I had half an hour on my hands before that, and I went to McDonald's again. Ordered a double cheeseburger and fries for takeaway, and went to Haoyang's void deck, because Mc was too packed, and I ate my burger there. The fries were meant for the boy, hoping that some bribing would make him more hardworking and less hyperactive, but I ate some too. By the way, the bribing did not work, though the fries (and additional sweets) were swiped clean by him. He lent me Roald Dahl's 'Fantastic Mr Fox".
Walked back to the interchange, and passed by the Clementi Bookshop again. I browsed the books on sale, and bought 2. Then I got to the interchange, and saw bus 99. I ran after it, it started moving, I was right outside the door, but the driver did not see, or ignored me. You know the feeling of embarrassment when you chase after a bus but miss it still? So I walked away from the stand, and window-shopped. I turned back round and walked back to the stand, and saw another 99 leaving. Damn it. This time I walked in the other direction, and came back within 2 minutes to queue, afraid that I'd miss a third bus. It arrived not long after, and I settled on the bus, reading 'Fantastic Mr Fox'. Yes, I'm very aware that it's a very simple book, a children's book, but I just wanted to read can? I finished it in 20 minutes, and proceeded to catch a snooze when I looked up from my book and found my head beginning to hurt. I can't read on the road, but somehow, I managed to finish the book before I felt the splitting headache.
Got home, ate something, and slept again till the next tuition in the evening.
When I reached his place, he was still having dinner, so I went into his room first. His mother came in, and I asked her if the boy had shown her his exam scripts and if she had signed them. On Saturday I wrote this: 'Anyway Weijie said that the teachers had returned them their papers on Wednesday but after letting his parents sign them, they had to be returned to the school on Friday." His mum told me that she had only seen his Chinese paper. He had been lying again. What did he say then? That he was tricking me, and that the papers were returned on Friday, but he had left them under his desk and had forgotten to bring them home. You think I still can believe what he says? I'm suspecting that the good grades he had said he had gotten were all 'tricks' he was playing on me.
Phew. At least I remembered today. That's not so bad huh.
Oh, the cat at home has had his bandage removed. Pus is seeping from his wound, and it's disgusting. My brother has been very irritated and frustrated, because his sleep has been disturbed by the cat, and because the cat has gotten to jumping and laying on his bed that his comforter is stained with the bloodied pus. I keep hearing him tsk-ing and going 'urgh!' at the cat.
I think I should give it a name, and stop calling him 'the cat'. Anyway, I took some more photos of the cat, and his wound too. There's pictures of my pigs also, and some of the hamsters as well. I'd also take pictures of the gifts. When I begin posting the pictures, you'd be begging for me to stop.
I transferred a hundred bucks to my brother, to share the costs of the cat. And I transferred another hundred bucks to weeseng, for him to help me donate to the Katrina relief. My plans to save ain't going too well. But it's all in the name of kindness. So all's well.
I want to write, but I don't know why, thinking that I should write now makes me sigh instead. Makes no sense, does it?
I wonder if I'd one day grow bored with this diary thing. But I'm glad I had written for all these years. My memory keepsakes. I actually wish that I could have started writing earlier, if not, I wouldn't have to hate myself for forgetting the beautiful moments I had when I was younger. They are all lost. The years of innocence, of frivolity, of.. freedom. Most people think that freedom is when they grow older, and can do the things they want to, the way they want to, without restrictions from their elders. Not that I do not think the same way, but there's another kind of freedom. The freedom from ugliness, from unhappiness, from pain and hurt which comes from deep inside. The kind that most of us do not have anymore.
Many times I wonder how could things be different, if we did things a little differently. Perhaps a little more effort put in here and there, would have changed the course of everything. But then, what has happened has already happened. What a lousy cliche, I know. But sometimes we just can't help wondering, then realise that it serves no purpose, really. Still, can't blame someone for wanting to indulge in some joyful fantasies, can you?
Is life a circle, or is it a straight line? Would we be able to go back to where we once were? I like circles, because they're complete, harmonious. Even hearts have sharp edges. Dangerous.
Go back to where I belong. And where is that exactly.
I had a thought just now - to leave this blog. Maybe permanently, maybe not.
But well, I'm always indecisive and quick to change my mind.
I was at this blog, trying to find some entries from earlier in the year, and felt my heart sink when I couldn't find this year's archives. I thought it was all gone.
Then I changed the number of entries per page, increasing the number, and phew, the posts came up. Scared me, really. Having had entries deleted from my OD account before due to some inconsiderate prank hackers, I know losing my writings is really a painful thing. They're not just words, they're part of me. Or perhaps, my writings are even more 'me', than I am.
Stupid tblog.
I haven't been saving my archives for a long while already. There's lots of things I haven't been doing lately. Things which I should really be.
Oh, and slipstream, you're the first friend I've invited to this place. You should feel honoured. *cough* Erm, and should I strangle you for saying in your blog that you found mine by searching for my nick? haha~ Still, thanks for dropping by, and praising my pigs. =p You seemed to have read a lot of my entries? Too much time on your hands huh? *chuckles* You take care too.
Sigh. I don't really feel like writing. Actually not that I don't want to write, but I don't know what to write. In the afternoon, I came in, looked at the blank page, wrote a sentence, deleted it, and signed out again.
I could write that I cleaned the cages, and am going to bathe the pigs soon. I could write about my various students, how much I really like some of them, how some of them irritates me and makes me fume, about the increase in the number of lessons due to their exams next week. I could write about Wee calling me this morning. I could write about my aunt calling me the other day. Or I could write about how my right feet hurts these days when I'm walking.
But, it seems that there's something I want to write about more. Something locked in my heart, but I can't see it and I'm not really sure what it is. I want to write about that. But what is that exactly? I can't pinpoint it. It's like the itch you never seem to be able to scratch, you know?
Sometimes one of my feet itches, but I can't pinpoint which toe it is, the top or the bottom. It just evades me. I try to scratch it, but is never able to reach it. It gets so irritating, but there's really nothing you can do to alleviate the itch.
But I know one thing, that however uncomfortable it is, it will still pass after some time. That, I know. The itch always passes. And it's always when you get too tired to even get bothered about it, then you realise that it isn't there any more.
Now, I'm trying to not be bothered by it. But, that's the hardest part, the part where it itches the most.
Just now I spent a lot of time reading this blog, singadventure.blogspot.com, written by an expat couple who just moved to Singapore last month. Pretty interesting, the way foreigners see our home, coupled with the wittiness in their writings. Some of the food and fruits they've tried, I suppose many Singaporeans haven't even tried ourselves, including me.
I had wanted to talk about people taking for granted what they have, because of the that blog, and the death of friends' friend's dad. Well, I do know that friends' friend, just that we're mere acquaintances, or perhaps even less than that. But then again, that's not exactly on my mind.
It definitely is not good news, the death of somebody. We would feel sad and sorry for the loved ones of the deceased. But sometimes, 'I'm so sorry to hear that' doesn't exactly come straight from the heart. Not that it takes a bend round your lungs and abdomen, then comes out through your mouth, but well, more often than not, people speak without thinking, and just say the 'right thing' at the 'right time', because we're supposed to. I suppose that's better than saying the wrong things. I don't know, but I guess there are reasons I find myself dumbstruck most of the time, other than being incapable of speaking.
Nah, that's a lie. I'm simple incapable of speaking, no other reasons. But to console myself, perhaps the above - not wanting to be a progammed person, trained to say what I'm supposed to at specific circumstances - had instilled themselves into my mind, and had indirectly caused myself to be this quiet mule all the time.
I'm going too far from the point. But then again, I have no absolute point. I'm just writing, as I please. My writing requires no specific topic or point. I excel at rambling all over. Well, at least it seems to be so, to myself, that is.
Anyway, a thought hit me when I was reading two of my good friends' entries about the death of that friend's father, and how we should try to appreciated those around us more. Don't take it to heart, I hold no grudges, really, even though our plans for dinner was dashed because of that. I was just thinking, that if I passed away tomorrow, or before the next time we would meet again, would they regret not meeting me for the last time and went to attend a dead person's funeral wake instead. Ok ok, it was just a thought. And I'm pretty sure they went not because of the deceased, but for the friend.
Well, whatever. I'm sure I'd still be alive to meet them some other day. But should I say, nothing can be absolute though. Accidents happen all the time. Oh well.
Actually, it kind of reminds me of the time when my second uncle passed away, and the funeral which I never attended. It reminds me of how my mum and her siblings were devastated over his death, when I dare say they never really cared about him when he was alive and kicking. Oh, and how she reprimanded me for not going to pay my last respect. Last respect? When there was no respect in the first place? He was just another human being I didn't know. Respect as a human being, of course there was, but not respect as an uncle. I don't see how they respected him either. They didn't like him, and wasn't interested in his life, until his death.
It might be disrespectful to speak of the dead in this way, but this is not against him, it's against them. He was a lonely poor soul, yes he was.
My grandfather's funeral was the only one I had attended, from what I remember. And I hope it would remain that way. As an escapist, I'd gladly accept if the next one was my own. Not that I'd be able to know then.
I apologise if my words ain't nice to the ears, or eyes, if you'd rather. For I'm feeling, well, pretty cynical right now. Hmm. Throw in "detached" too.
I've been having some dreams recently, yeah, again. Human touch is so awesome and healing, in the dreams. Although one of my tutees has been very clingy and has been giving me hugs often, the dreams seem to be more real than reality itself. It was so wonderfully saccharine sweet in the dream, yet scrunches the heart so at the same time. Reality is such a far cry. I can never be satisfied, can I?
I watched Black Beauty on Channel 5 just now. I liked it. It made me want to love my pets, go and hug each and every one of them little things, even if they nip me. Then after the show, I promptly forgot. Now that I remember, I want to love them, but I feel that I don't. How do you force love?
I told you I'm feeling detached. Really am.
I don't like this piece of ramble. It makes me feel rotten. But well, I'm detached, ain't I?
May 2004. I was in depression, and was withdrawing from friends.
8th May 2004. I went out with the friends, and came home to see newborn Speranza and Forza. But I was heartbroken that day, because another one of them died, and the both of them weren't in good shape. The next day, Forza passed away too, in my arms. It was so painful.
20th May 2004. I was still in depression. And I wrote "Roses' thorns" and hurt an ex-best friend. Things between us went downhill from then on, at least for her. For me, it had been going down a long time before that.
Depression came on and off for months. Everything was dreadful.
Two months later, 27th July. Arnie passed away. It was a big blow. That anguish. Then after some little episodes which happened, which I guess only I was aware of, I realised that some people were only friends-in-name. And did it hurt.
Another two months later, it was my birthday. I refused to celebrate my birthday, and fell very sick on that day, feeling miserable all the way. The worst birthday I had.
That was 2004. 2003, was one of the best birthdays I have had. Celebrations with various different groups of friends. And the number of mango cakes. And Cinder. I was happy then.
It had been almost 2 years since that joy. 1 year since the great D. And 0 moments to the undead - emotionless.
When I saw Speranza's unmoving body, lying by the hayrack, I thought he was asleep. But somehow, something didn't feel right. When I reached out to touch him, my heart dropped at his lack of warmth. But it wasn't a feeling of upset. My brain was churning, but I felt nothing. Almost robotic, I was. I cleared his body, and cleaned the cage. All the while, I was blaming myself, in my head. I had been too careless, too uninvolved with them. How long has it been since I last played with them. It's always just feed and go, feed and go. I didn't even know he wasn't feeling well or anything. I knew it might have been preventable. But my lack of concern killed him. In my mind, I knew how I would be feeling, if I weren't emotionless. But it was all in my mind. None of it was anything I felt. No pain, no lost, no guilt, no sorrow. There was just nothing.
Why, I don't know why. If this was happening a year ago, I would have been crushed. Even if it wasn't my own pet, I would at least feel a tinge of sadness for a death. Any death. I thought perhaps it wasn't nothing, but just numbness. Then, I know it wasn't. It was nothing, nothing indeed.
All the things which once meant the world to me, they're nothing no more. What am I? An empty shell?
As I grow older and older, I keep losing myself, losing more and more of myself, part of me stripped off chunks by chunks. I don't even have a heart anymore, do I?
And I'm not even upset. No, just empty. Total hollowness. I'm not human. How could I be?
I ought to be damned. I'm sorry darling. Be good wherever you are.
I've always been used to write upsetting entries here, or to copy and paste such entries from my opendiary account here, and leave all the cheerier postings, together with other mundane ramblings in there. It makes this place so sad, too sorrowful, makes it seem like I'm so depressed all year long.
Perhaps, I have to admit that, yes, I feel hurt and sorrowful much more often than I'm not. But there are times too, when I feel light-hearted and smiley, and feel that the world is beautiful, and a wonderful place to be in. Sometimes.
The recent happenings had been hurtful, and left me feeling more lost than I had ever been. And I guess it happened at a bad time. After what happened, which mostly revolved around the family which wasn't exactly family, the feelings spread out to other aspects of my life. When you're upset, you get upset over everything happening, and everything not happening. Hence, the previous whiney entry. The most used excuse for women - PMS.
One day I was totally dejected and wrecked inside after a few days of inner turmoil blasted upon me. Then the next, I woke up, with blood flowing out of me, and the bad feelings were purged. It did that, really. I was happy again, sincerely joyful. I smiled at the world at large, and walked in long, confident strides, feeling the cool breeze upon my face. At home, I skipped and pranced, silly, like a little girl. I was happy. The people who brought about those negative feelings were still around, physically, and telephonically(I checked dictionary.com, and was surprised that this word exist), but my mind stopped hovering around them.
I felt free, liberated. It's such a wonderful feeling. I half-wished that it could happen more often. But yet again, more often than not, people who are happy, take this happiness for granted. I'd rather be upset most of the time, and feel the wonderment of true joy once in a blue moon, than to be free from incessant emotional roller coasters, and be unable to feel the exhilaration of being happy.
Haven't taken any photos with them for quite some time. Nothing to update my photobucket with.
Haven't done anything for my friends for a long time. Things like making little things for them, or buying presents for them out of the blue. What have I been doing? But then again, I always wonder if what I did were ever appreciated. The time I spent doing the cross-stitch, puzzles, bottles of stars, the money I spent on the materials, on framing, were they really worth it? I'm not such a miser, but I don't remember any time when I gave someone something, and see thier faces really lit up, because they really liked it, appreciated my effort and thoughts. Perhaps all my presents were too bothersome and took up unnecessary space in their homes. At the very least, I know that the puzzle and cross-stitch I did for wl for two of her birthdays are stacked together with some other framed puzzles that she doesn't even look at.
Haven't heard an encouraging word from any friends whom I know in person. What I get are virtual hugs and words of encouragement from people I know online. And those are few and far between. I used to leave notes for them, even write whole entries dedicated to them, but I never got back the same concern when I need them. Perhaps I'm just too calculative, or I look over what they have done for me, always feeling that I've done more, till I don't want to do anything anymore. Maybe to them I haven't done anything either. Perhaps I really haven't. All done for myself. Perhaps because I'm unhappy all the time it gets tiring for anyone to be concerned everytime I whine. Afterall, when I choose to be alone and reclusive, they can't force me out of my hidey hole, can they. How could I fault them for wanting to be alone myself.
Haven't had a hug since... I don't even remember when was the last time. Nobody ever gives me a hug knowing that I'm in need of one. The need has been there for so long it isn't a need anymore. It's just an empty space waiting to be filled, futilely.
Because I never break down in front of you, doesn't mean I'm not already broken.
But it's ok. It's been so long, I've been living it so long, I can go on.
Something is broken, then something is shattered. Something is missing, then something is lost.
As the anger gradually dissipated, what set in was a pain which kept the moisture in my eyes.
It felt like my already broken world, was further torn apart into even more minuscule bits. The shards of glass break into pieces under the skin, embedded in the raw flesh. A constant throbbing pain.
The feeling of being lost in my own world, since sometime I don't remember. Then, came the feeling of being lost in an unknown world.
No, it wasn't ok for us to just begin treating each other nicer, and then having it suddenly taken away from me again. It wasn't ok, even if it's just back to square one.
I blame them, for taking it away. They could have led their own lives, away from us, left us alone. It would have been fine.
You'd think I had just broke up with a boyfriend I didn't have to be feeling like that.
There was still an ounce of indignance, when it appeared that he was angry with me for something. It was supposed to be the other way round wasn't it? Or perhaps it was my fault that I picked up the calls for me, which weren't in fact meant for me. Perhaps it became an issue of poking my nose into his business when I found myself having to pick up my phone and pass it to him when I was asked to. It was my fault that after ignoring their calls, he still had to take my phone from me and talk to someone he didn't want to speak to, because he couldn't ignore me when I handed him the phone. And so it was my fault, wasn't it?
It was my fault that I was born into this family, that he is my brother, that he, my father, that she, my grandmother. It was my fault that they had my phone number. Or no, it was my fault that I even had a handphone at all. I'm sorry. It was all my fault.
He packed up his PC - monitor, CPU, speakers and all - and took them to his room, leaving a big empty space on this table where his things were. Has it come to the point that sitting beside me at the computer table, each using our own coms, became a chore he couldn't stand?
In a show, someone just said, I don't think anyone is meant to be alone by themselves. I think I am.
Yesterday, dad called again when I was home. Of course, it was about my brother not picking up his calls again. My brother was sitting right in front of me, at the computer, but I hadn't heard his phone ring too. Dad asked to speak to him, so I passed my phone to him.
He took it. I went back to the sofa and tried to concentrate on the newspapers which I had been reading. He didn't say much to him. Then he said something. "Why must I pick up your calls. I have nothing to say to you." A few moments later, he flipped the phone close, ending the conversation. Obviously it was not a mutual decision.
Dread filled up in the pits of my stomach. The phone rang again, as expected. Helpless as I was, I could only pick up the phone meekly, with a hint of exasperation and irritation. I already knew what he was going to say. "What's wrong with your brother? How could he hang up on me like that? Is he angry with me? Don't pick up my calls, hang up on me... If he's angry with me, at least tell me what for! Do you know what he is angry with me about? What is he angry about? You know?" Expected, it was. "I don't know. I don't know! I said I don't know! No matter how many times you ask me, I still don't know! What do you want me to do??" My voice was raising, and shaking.
He went on and on, about everything, and I kept silent, futilely trying to control the tears coming from nowhere. He went on and on, about how brother shoudn't just listen to my grandma's side of the story and get angry with him just like that, that aunt had already talked to him before, and he's still like that. For fuck's sake. I don't even know what it was about. From that time grandma spoke to brother, when aunt called and talked to him, he didn't tell me a fucking thing. Grandma didn't tell me a fucking thing. You didn't tell me a fucking thing. Then just keep me out of it all if you don't want to tell me! What's the point of asking me about something I have no fucking idea about, again and again, after I've told you clearly that I know not a single fucking thing?
There was something unexpected in what he said. "After bringing you two up for so many years, and this is what I get from you?" Brought us up? You mean just by providing us with the alimony fees you had to by law? I kept silent, frowned, and rolled my already wet eyes.
Then he asked me something. Was I angry with him over anything. I don't know if what I said was a lie. If it was, it wasn't because I didn't dare to tell him. It would be a lie to myself, for I only want myself to hold nonchalance towards him, not anger or hatred.
Obviously I still wasn't nonchalent, no matter how much I wanted myself to be. If not, tears would not be streaming down my face hearing him nag about something which wasn't my business in the first place. And the person whom business it should have been, was sitting coolly facing his moniter, hearing my choked voice, yet doing nothing, leaving me with the shit he'd left behind.
After it ended, I jumped back on the sofa, staring at the page the papers were open to. I stared, and couldn't make out a word. There was only a blurry flurry of words. And yet, I sat there and stared, refusing to even wipe away the wetness and blurness with my hands. And that brother of mine never did turn back once to look at me.
Finally, I got up, went to the kitchen to wash my face and clear my nose. Then I retreated to my mum's room and closed the door, just wanting to go to sleep. Only that anger rose within me, and turned me into a wreck again, crying harder than before.
I was angry with myself, for that I was still affected by it all. How many years had it been already, should't I have put it down, far far behind me. Somehow, it seemed beneath myself that I'm still affected by the things he says, that he still makes me cry. I should be past that already, a long time ago.
I was angry with all of them. It's already hard enough without them making it worse for me. But they refuse to let me off, even with their own shit which ain't my fault, somehow or other, they are able to push it to me, such that I have to face all the shit, their shit. They only make it more difficult for me, why make it more difficult for me than it already was. What was it that I have done? What fucking shit?
I'm not so strong you know? You know, you know. Yet you can't be bothered a single bit. You pile it all upon me, without me knowing why, knowing what it was, then you walk away.
In fact, I can't say that I was angry with my brother. I wasn't. I was upset, and sorely disappointed. He was supposed to be protective of me, as brothers are. Even if he didn't want to be, he didn't have to be the one to put the misery upon me. The only one person whom I still regard as family.
Retribution, perhaps. I fell asleep, finally, after a whole lot of tears. You wouldn't know how much I wanted to disappear. You wouldn't.
I went to sleep last night, curled on the sofa and feeling miserable because my brother blatantly ignored me when I tried to speak to him. What the fuck did I do? Yes, I did realise that the both of us pretty much ignore our mum the same way. And it wasn't the first time that he had ignored me too. But, I don't know, I just.. I don't know, it must have been the previous dreams where he stood by me and protected me, which made me subconsciously more attached to him somehow.
I woke up in the morning, at about 8am, from a painful dream. In the dream, he had been ignoring me, and then he kept shouting at me. I don't know about what, but I know I was feeling indignant and hurt. I began shouting back at him as I held back my tears. That was when I woke up. I was breathing heavily, again. I was surprised to see him still at the computer desk the moment I opened my eyes. Trying to control the heaving, I hurriedly rolled over to backface him, and the tears just streamed down as I stifled my sobs.
Unable to stop, I rushed off to the master bedroom and washed my face in the toilet. Then I went back to sleep on my mum's bed.
Yet another dream. I was to be sent off to live with an aunt for an unknown reason. Everybody was there to see me go. I was packing my things into a large backpack. I was walking around the house, picking up things that I needed, and stuffing them into the bag. It was then time to go, but I was reluctant, I went back to my room and talked with the pigs, stroking them, promising that I'd be back to see them, wondering who'd be looking after them. Everyone else just waited patiently, understandingly. There were no tears, but I was broken inside. So broken.
Now, I have this feeling, that I want to go home.. But am I not already at home? What's a home to you.. what's a home to me.
The dreams keep me going back, partly because I subconciously want them to continue, and partly because they keep me tired.
The varying emotions which I have to feel, really really doesn't do anything but elevate the fatigue. They're so real they make me cringe in pain waking up with a wound which never was there in the first place. They're so real they make me wake up feeling that I just had a very bad emotional day and want to go to bed. And then I have more dreams, and it just goes on and on.
And my brother has been appearing in these dreams often. I wonder why. Because he's the only person I really consider as 'family' right now? And yet wish that this very shallow brotherly and sisterly relationship could go a notch deeper?
The dream that night, of us standing up to our mum together, was really reassuring. All along, even though we've been on the same side, had never been 'together' in that sense. The dream made me feel that we were battling it together, something which I had always been alone in. Very reassuring it is, to have him stand in front of me to protect me when I get yelled at. In the dream, that is. In the real world, when it still happened, during quarrels with mum, I often wished that he would say something, but he only minds his own business although I can see that he would like us to shut up very much.
Not that I don't do the same. Almost. His quarrels with mum goes a longer way back. He doesn't even seem to know of her presence anymore. But there's something in the house which leaves evidence of their differences. A hole in the door of my mum's bedroom. Not exactly a hole, but a large crack on one side of the door. Ouch, that must have hurt. But I guess he was seething in anger so much that he didn't notice the pain, or it was one of the egoistic thing people do - after inflicting damage on something, and on themselves, they proudly stalk away to behind a closed door to nurse their injuries.
Anyway, I was saying that I do the same as he does - minding our own business when either of us was quarrelling with mum. Everytime I witness a quarrel, I do try to mind my own business. Key word here being 'try'. Try as I might, all their words seemed to swarm into my consciousness, every single one of the hurting words they could hiss to each other. Try as I might, my heart wouldn't be with the tv anymore.
There was once they were in a heated argument. I was, unfortunately, sitting around watching tv when it happened. Mum picked up something, a container of some sort if I remember right, and hurled it at my brother's back. That must have been the only time I found my small voice. I was startled, of course, and as that thing was in mid-air, I let out a little yelp. Not much help it was, of course. I don't remember much of what happened, don't remember what the argument was about, don't remember how the whole saga ended, or if perhaps that was the time my brother ended up kicking that hole in the door, or what did I do after that. I believe I said something,like 'stop it,' or something similar. And I believe my voice wasn't heard at all. Being the weakling that I am, I couldn't possibly have done anything more. I bet I must have gone and hidden somewhere to cry.
I really shouldn't be reliving these bad memories. I'm not trying to make my life sound so pathetic and pitiful. In fact, violence is extremely rare in the house. Other than that, the only time I remember, was when she threw a hanger at me. But that's two isolated cases. No more, I think.
I don't know why, perhaps replaying these experiences bit by bit would help me to overcome them, you know, come to terms with them and move on. Maybe it'd make everything worse. But everyone knows that 'letting go' is not as easy as it sounds. If we could let go so easily, who would still be troubled and haunted by their past?
Mine's nothing big, really, but it's personal, and the pain is of course very real. And I know I do need to get past all these, and stand tall knowing that I had been there and is over with it, no matter how much tears I had shed, how many scars I had obtained in the process of it all.
I'm beginning to believe, that the beginning of the recovery, is not to insist that you had been fine throughout, but be able to admit that you had fallen and hurt yourself, and realise that it's time to get on with the healing process.
I read this the other day. I was touched and moved, and felt admiration for her strength, and I felt everything anyone else would have felt reading it. Then I felt an emotion I know I shouldn't have, an emotion which left me laden with guilt, and yet, it didn't leave my senses. I felt a strong envy.
People might be disgusted with me, for feeling envious of someone who lost her entire family on a holiday trip 10 years ago, to a terrible road accident, and being the sole survivor of the family. But I couldn't help it. I was so envious it made me cry.
I was envious not for the fact that she lost her family, of course, but for the fact that she would grow old, continuing to love and miss them dearly. I selfishly wished that something had happened to my family 10 years ago, and I wouldn't have grown to abhor this family now; that memories of the family would have ceased at that time, so that there'd only be love and warmth I'd remember. And I'd grow old and die, bringing with me only sweet memories of a 'perfect' family I had lost. I wished I would experience the pain of losing someone dear, instead of experiencing an unexplanable pain of losing someone I do not love, but should have.
That evilness. If that's too much, then I'd rather I died 10 years ago, and they'd have loving memories of me. Mum would never have felt that she regretted giving birth to me, I'd always be that sweet young girl they always had. Always, if I had died. Not anymore.
No, it's not right comparing. There's nothing worth comparing, and there's nothing to be compared fairly. But they were real, uncontrollable thoughts elicited from within myself when I finished reading that post. Evil? Then evil I shall be. Why shall I hide it anyway.
I retreated into the comfort of the sofa. Lying there in the near darkness, staring at the bluring shadow of the window grills cast upon the white, blank walls, I found this house so unfamiliar. This house, which I had lived in for more than 7 years. It felt so terribly unfamiliar. I could still picture our old flat, I could still see it behind the tears, the dark hallway, the storeroom, the bedroom I shared with my brother, the master bedroom I slept beside my mum in on certain nights, the same room all four of us squeezed in on some other nights, the large balcony, the living room, the dining space, the kitchen I loved to prance around in, my grandparents' room where I always watched the videos in. And I remembered the nightmare I had once, that nightmare where monsters climbed up our balcony, and chased the 4 of us around our house, and the four of us, huddled close together, just like a family would. That house. Our house.
The next day, I was close to tears when mum bought back my dinner, as she always would. It makes me guilty, and yet, I know so well that any amount of guilt would not bring back the love, respect and admiration I once held for her. Never again. And it just makes it all the more awfully hard to bear.
The tainted memories would never be free of the stains again.
For more than 14 hours, I slept. I did wake up a few times in between, but the soothing wind, and the dreams, kept me falling back. Speaking of the wind, I was awoken at 6.40am, with the strong winds displacing stuffs from their positions. Things were dropping off tables, not only in my house. You could hear the evil rasping of the wind, then several bangs and booms, from around the neighbourhood, then lights flickered on in various houses outside. "Piang!" Something broke somewhere out there. I figured the wind finally had enough fun then, as it slowly subsided, and turned into the slight whoo-ing noise which became my lullaby.
Throughout the 14 hours and more, my sleep was disturbed by various dreams. Dreams of strong emotions. Yeah, they're back again, with a vengeance.
There was one where my brother hovered around me protectively, as we stood up against our mum, stood up against all those who labelled us as unfillial. We ran away together, we hid away from thugs. People were chasing us, with knives, with guns, we ran, we hid. He protected me.
There were the ones which left me smiling sweetly, and also the ones which made me laugh till I became breathless, then in just a minute, I was howling like a baby, tears spilling freely, wailing till my stomach hurt. I woke up then, my chest heaving heavily, like how I was, crying in my dreams. I didn't remember what it was about, and my face was dry in reality. But I was heaving, out of breath, and my stomach was hurting. Like when you laughed too hard. I had cried too hard.
They kept coming each time I fell asleep again. I shivered, I shouted, I laughed, I cried, I felt loved, I was unloved, I was surrounded, I was alone. Everything happened. In one night. In many dreams.
And they drained away my energy, even after being in bed for 14 hours.
And they were all unreal, those emotions. Or were they.
I don't remember where I got this from, but it had been noted down in one of my virtual notebooks in my laptop. From a book, or a TV programme I suppose.
Life promises us nothing, except for it's direct opposite, when it comes to an end. It promises us no happiness nor grieve, no enjoyment nor pain, no knowledge and wisdom nor stupidity, no wealth nor poverty. It is by luck and circumstances, coupled with hardwork, or the lack of it, to achieve what each of us does.
One can choose death, but who can escape from it? Maybe once, maybe twice, but it's got to have you sooner or later.
Life whispered to me, as I emerged from the warmth of a safety haven, bloody and naked. The raspy voice said, "I promise you. Some day, everything would be over."
Some day.
You could have just been created not so long ago, and feel some monstrous arms ripping and sucking you apart. You could have been a young toddler, being suffocated by a careless mother. You could have been a playful kid, falling off a monkey's bar and breaking your head. You could have been a stressed and depressed student, attempting to find an easy way out(of the window). You could have been an innocent man walking the streets, unfortunately getting in the way of a speeding BMW. You could have been an unfaithful wife, incurring the wrath and fury of a knife-wielding husband. You could have been a fortunate 80-year-old, passing away peacefully on your own king-sized bed. You could have been that sickly and pale patient in the hospital bed, finally letting go after a 10-year struggle with an incurable disease. You could have been many things.
Was that a comforting word, or was it a threat? I'm not afraid of being claimed. I'm more afraid now, of living.
At the end of the day, an optimist would say in delight, "I've conquered another day against death!" At the end of the day, I would say, "I'm one day closer to that 'some day'. "
