Unease in the Head

I picked at my nails.

My head throbbing and my mind running.

So, let’s start with a little documentation because there is just no other way to cope.

I find it difficult to write because affairs of the heart are complicated, messy and in my case, private.

Writing used to feel cathartic but now, it feels like a sin.

Why would writing even be considered a sin? Why does it feel like I have to tip toe with my words?

Why is it that my feelings and pleas of help have to be diluted and swirled into words that are vague and artificial?

I cannot write about how I feel. I cannot pen down my thoughts.

I cannot tell you, dear reader.

I cannot tell you the source of my unhappiness and duress.

I’ve gotten a bad case of frozen fingers over the keyboard again.

I’ve got an avalanche coming my way.

There is no light at the end of this musty, sweaty, and dark hallway.

So here’s my feeble attempt at documenting my emotions.

Banana Thoughts

Flannel keeps me warm but I think there’s something subtle behind it. Something that spurs my decision to wear flannel.

And, the thing about reading less, not having touched anything of Murakami’s for the longest time ever, your grammar competency starts to decay, little iity bit by bit.

It’s funny too or should I say sad, that I can feel the tinge of ethnocentrism in the way you describe my horrible grammar.

I wonder if you saw my name, if you could see its Eastern ‘Oriental’ origin and immediately go ah, I see.

The very standards that I live up to are the standards that I direct my resentment towards.

So how do you translate it into something positive? How do I develop my personal narrative without feeling that deep ass heavy weight of internalized racism?

This semester has been a choke full of surprises and shocks.

It has not been sweet serendipity.

It has taught me a few lessons of labels. Of labels that do not fit me and labels that do.

I’m your belligerent drunkard coping.

I’m your depressed individual trying to find ways to get through the day.

So thank you for being there for me. Thank you for not being there for me.

Thank you for always wondering if I was going down another drunken spiral because yes, I’m your girl.

I’m that girl.


What’s in a voice?

I really should not be frolicking with my writing. I really should not be procrastinating.

But I do not anyway because my heart pumps hard and I do not want to shut up.

Care-giving is one of the most challenging things that one can do.

And I often find myself thinking, how do I give myself that care? Where do I find time to care for myself, if I ever do have the time?

When we take it upon ourselves to give care, to give love, to nurture, to support, we find it difficult to take a step back, to breathe, to collect ourselves.

And so we give. We give care, we give love, we nurture, and we support.

We do not expect anything back. Well, the noble person in us would hold on fervently on that belief of selflessness.

Although really, true altruism is a mythical myth at heart (a wise person told me so).

We do not seek enlightenment when we abstain from all earthly desires.

We seek enlightenment through our earthly desires. We give ourselves to them.

We take out the poison from our earthly desires and we create something whole, both good and bad, both pure and evil because the truth lies in that middle ground, in thriving when you think that you are damaged beyond repair, when your despair is all you have of your identity.

I see the manifestations of both good and evil in my life. They tear me down, they toss me around, they leave me feeling weak and absolutely limp, They suck the life out of me but that is the beauty of change.

Because what happens is this creation of an environment that makes you uncomfortable enough to fight for something beyond yourself.

And it hurts. And I cannot deny it.

You cannot just say ‘oh, fuck it.’ You simply cannot because there is a lesson to be learnt here.

My lesson, my learning curve.

One thing is for certain, I have never felt such a strong sense of conviction that no matter where I will fall, I will fall whole, all the dead weight.

There will be no war. No tragic death.

Only the resolution that you tried. That you gave it your all.

That you are whole, bruised, battered, complete, and at peace with thy self.

True versus Relative Happiness

What does a weathered soul like? What does pain look like?

It looks like strength, to tell you the truth.

I love to romanticise my flaws. It is so intoxicating, it is so easy.

My legs are propped up on my rented book. My toes are sweating and probably smell like the worst.

I have the strong desire to poop. I do not wear my contacts because the tears I have shed have made my eyes feel salty, taste very salty too.

I think you will always have your critics. I think you cannot please everyone.

Because the ‘self’ in selflessness is something we must pay attention to.

That is, to love thy self. To believe that the ‘self’ is all you have and what you can do with the ‘self’ is to accept it.

I think you can tell from my writings that I have always struggled with that aspect of myself.

And that no matter how happy I thought I could be, I could never be truly happy unless I accepted thy self for all my raunchiness, for all my crankiness, for all my mehs and incessant need to dump.

Oh my god I really need to shit.

Anyway, I am still a work in progress but I think the most significant thing that you have helped me realise is that our lives are just not big balls of cognitive dissonance.

What more could I ask for?

It is when I least expect it that happiness cums to me. That happiness is fleeting and that if I give up, there is nothing that I could ask for.

So I’ll fight the good fight.

I’ll be all yours as I have always been. Broken, battered, bruised, used but still standing, still accepting, still living, still striving for true happiness.

Unshaved Legs, Hideous Camel Toes

My shorts don’t quite fit me. It’s too snug.

There are knots in my shoulders. Knots that will not go anywhere anytime soon.

In many ways, I have never been this tested. Sticks and stones won’t break my bones but there are other things that can shatter your confidence, your sense of self-worth, your ability to give love and receive love.

I despise worrying about what the future holds to me. I am so jaded, so tired, so exhausted and I am not even 21, not even hitting the quarter life crisis period.

I am always tired. Always stressed out. And I take it out on the ones that I love the most.

I don’t have an ambition, my vision is blurry. There is no one thing that really sticks out to me.

It feels like a cop out. To do what I do, to go home.

There’s no baby-ing anymore. No more safety net.

There’s only me. My too snug shorts suffocating my waist, my unshaved legs getting the vitamin D they deserve, my spirit fluttering to the depths of the deep dark hellish hole, taking a dive and swimming against the currents to get stay afloat.

It’s sunny today. It will probably be very hot and dry.

My throat is parched, my spirit is so weathered down but only 2 weeks of classes left, 3 weeks to my sweet union, 4 weeks to home.

It’s the last stretch and I’ll take it all.

I’ll take it all.

Getting Basic with Sustenance

Where do I even begin?

I have not written in a while. The act of divulging my innermost emotions seems like a chore.

To tell you the truth, there were days where I could not even bring myself to write even when I knew that I desperately needed to. Like food, like joy, like contentment, it’s been a hullaballoo of tossing, turning and wrestling with my own self.

How do we talk about mental anguish? How do we talk about the cyclical nature of pain and loneliness?

How do I create my own happiness?

How do I let me just be me?

I miss Murakami. I miss the physical presence of my partner. I miss the intimacy, I miss…a lot a lot.

It has not been this difficult to be in Madison for quite a bit.

Someone once said, ‘When you change, you change your environment.’

What is it like to be in sync with the Universe?

It is solemn. It is deep. It is mystical.

Lace your fingers through mine. Sneak glances at me while I fall into a deep slumber. Meet my intense gaze and see through my superficial eye membranes and read my human psyche.

Emotional bonds we create can either nourish or destroy us. Emotional bonds are something that I believe I must cultivate with my environment, especially with you.

This is just the molehill of the littlest of molehills.

I think, it is one of my best intentions to bring out the best in me albeit many, many fall backs but watch me fly, falter, crack and pick myself, broken piece by broken piece.

Lace your fingers through mine. No matter how feeble my grasp, I will hold on tight.

That’s how we both like it.

To Love Love

If you really want to talk about love, you have to talk about struggle.

Because beneath the sexual parlay is(are?) the bad days, the crippling feeling of loneliness, the burden you carry on your shoulders as you walk on, breathe, inhale, exhale, and smile.

It’s when your partner lets you lean on them as you wallow in self-pity, when you are knee-deep in the cycle and getting out seems quite impossible.

It’s when your partner loves you for your ups and downs, for your erratic emotions, for your childishness.

I never thought about it but unconditional romantic love is hard to accept. For me, it is at least.

It is hard to accept because you are forced to see your self through your partner’s eyes, you are forced to examine your sense of self-worth, you are coaxed to break the cycle.

I think I have always had a public battle with depression. I just never labelled it. I think I am beyond the point of hiding it any longer, I mean, I cannot stop it.

Really though, I am not so much concerned with how obvious it had becumed. Like, it is there and it might be here to stay for a little while but that’s life, I have accepted it as something that is me.

I don’t think it’s anything more sickening than having to suffer in your little own, little public of hell and to be subtly made a little spectacle.

Maybe, this is just me overthinking the perceptions of people of me.

I had set out with wanting to understand myself but it slowly changed to understanding other people.

What makes me vehemently angry is the indifference, the ignorance, the selfishness and downright apathy that drives ambition.

If there is one thing that I have learnt about my depression and seeking out help is that you don’t know how to that sometimes even if you really wanted too.

I think I was fourteen. There was you. You were nice. Or so I thought you were.

I am thinking about you now because something you said really stuck out with me.

‘So what, you’re just waiting?’

I understand why I am in this hell hole when I think of Madison. To be able to learn the lesson is to experience it yourself.

It is to experience the resentment of all things white, it is to internalise institutionalised discrimination and it is to learn to see beyond that.

It is to experience the disconnect from your ‘own’ people, it is to understand that no matter how much you want to celebrate your Malaysian identity, you just don’t know how to express it because sameness doesn’t allow for a breath of fresh air, sameness will not take your atypical identity and embrace it, sameness will just look at you with judgmental eyes and take nothing you say seriously. And sameness, sameness will not see beyond sameness.

Like how, sometimes I am unable to see beyond my depression.

So that’s why it is important to talk about love, it’s important to talk about struggle.

That the struggle is long, it is tiring but hey, the struggle is fucking real and we’re not running away from it.

For that, I love love. I love love with you.