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.

My Partner

My partner and I are not perfect.

My partner has his imperfections as I have mine.

He has his flaws as I do myself.

My partner has yet to lace his fingers through mine. My partner has yet to taste my tears. My partner has yet to smell my potent, silent farts.

Am I happy every day? No. Is he happy every day? No.

Do we take out our frustrations on each other? Yes.

We never snap back at each other. Or at least, we have yet to.

My partner and I will play the heteronormative couple in public. We will joyously engage in PDA, we will relish in the cis privilege we recognise internally.

Am I aware that we both cum with emotional baggage, emotional trauma, pain and anguish?

Am I aware that we can destroy ourselves in the process of destroying us?

Am I aware that we lose ourselves in the process of loving each other?

Yes, yes and yes.

My partner and I or at least, I know that we have the potential to be a recipe for disaster.

Why am I so morbid, so jaded, so cynical?

I recognise that my partner and I are a work in progress. There is no end to our woes.

There will be moments of contentment between us that we will savour and appreciate with teary eyes and knowing smiles.

My partner and I are not settling, I am beginning to realise.

My partner and I will have hard times, happy moments but most of all, I have my partner as he does me.

Even if we exists in different time zones. Even if our post-coital conversations take place over text.

My partner and I have resolved to grow with our shared struggles and for that, I am most grateful for.

The Fear In Love

Does your reflection scare you? Take a really good look at yourself, beyond the scars, beyond your contacts, beyond the facial products you put on your face. Does it make you wince a little?

See, the thing about love for me at least, is that it is so raw, so penetrative, so real, so intense, you get disorientated.

We question love because we cannot believe love. That love can be that powerful, that faith is a real thing.

Oftentimes too, when we begin to dismantle the emotions behind ‘I love you’, when you attempt to trace your emotions, when you attempt to trace why you have such beliefs, when you attempt to trace your life course all the way back to your childhood, do you ever get the feeling that love is about seeing that side of you and still wanting to listen to you?

I understand that we all have friendships we can count on but what are the reasons why we choose to surrender ourselves to our romantic partners?

For me, I’ve begun to realise how shitty of a friend I have been or how shitty some people in your life can be.

They say that true friends are there with you to help you through your struggles, but what about the true friends that are there to celebrate your happiness with you?

I can attribute my ability to reflect on my own thoughts on my sufferings primarily. Sometimes, I feel very plain without my sufferings, like I don’t have a story, like my life has amounted to nothing.

Tonight, I reflect on my friendships, both past and present.

I reflect on my childhood.

I reflect on my cultural identity.

I reflect on the love we constantly nurture and challenge, the love that I desperately want to share.

Tonight, I reflect on my kinship ties, my romantic ties, my familial ties.

How have the people in your life made you you, dear reader?

An Ode to Happiness/Suffering

It is difficult to talk about.

The thing is, I’ve always dealt with that constant questioning of my religious beliefs.

To be honest, of all things, I just have never developed that vernacular to talk about my religious beliefs.

My past is peppered with resistance, my past is peppered with angst, rebellion, anger, you name it.

I grew up angry, very angry. A lot of my hatred stemmed from being different, from being singled out.

At nine, ten, eleven and twelve, I wanted, yearned, and became that sameness.

Who I am today to you, my friend is this identity that I have cultivated ever since I was a little child.

No matter how hard I tried to run away from the reality of things, my past catches up with me. My past is forever in my face, I fucked my past.

There were the good times, the thing about the sense of belonging is that it is addicting and when done right, you get a nice little refined reputation to carry on and in some ways, you enjoy that sense of security when your cultivated identity is validated.

But it’s a little lie. I mean that is what it started out as. When you live that long with a lie, you begin to believe it.

Any resistance to fight the lie is futile. Look at my relapses, look at my breakdowns, the lie is strong and it will fight the fight as much you do.

10 years, baby. 10 years of loneliness, anguish, low self-esteem.

It still exists today but it gets better.

The thing about the realisation that you will be okay is that it is both sad and so empowering.

It is both private and in some ways, public because you know you are not the only one.

You piss the motherfucking shit out of me. You really do. Your presence brings me to this low life condition and I am so consumed by my hatred and anger of you that I cannot see beyond it.

It is nice to get away from you. That is why I cut ties, ties that I can cut (maybe) because they are toxic and I don’t want your fucking toxic seeping through my bones.

The thing about that divorcing yourself from the situation is that you realise you can be better than that, you empathise, you get off your high horse and you just become okay. Maybe the hatred will dissipate but for the time being, just let it be, just live in blissful ignorance until you can take on that hatred of yours.

My heart is full with emotions. I cannot begin to describe to you what courses through me as I take things in.

Thing is, I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry because it was release. I could see my suffering in you and I could see you overcome that suffering of yours and I wanted to scream, “hey, i’m in the fucking same boat as you.’

So today, I cum to you bearing sum good news.

I’ve hit at the chunk of developing my own vernacular to talk about my religious beliefs. It is a work in progress but it is progress nonetheless.

I write with my heart full of hope, pain, love, anguish but I just wanted you to know, that hey, maybe i have a shot at being happy.

So thank you, thank you for taking on the role of suffering in my life, of love in my life because I really needed it. I really you needed to be a part of my 20 something life.

Like-Minded Lovers

It is no coincidence that I found you, that you found me.

I have struggled a lot with trying to write about you and I in a way that encapsulates who we truly are without revealing too much about our true selves.

I met you over winter break. I met you amongst the many horny fish. I met you amongst the depression and the loneliness.

The sexual parlay back and forth. The check ups once in a while. We didn’t have to ask why, we didn’t need prompts.

Truthfully, I would like to believe that you and I would have eventually found our own ways back to each other when we felt like it, when it felt like it was right.

And we did, did we not?

This is going to be a sappy post. This is going to be a feel good post. It is probably going to be pretty generic too.

Thing is, I know my writing when it cums to happy thoughts is at best, half-baked.

I do not really write when I am happy. I tend to bask in my happiness. I would take mental pictures. I will keep them in my memory and I don’t usually put my happy thoughts into words.

You complement me.

I give you my all.

You are my like-minded lover.

You are mine (for eternity, I loftily hope).


My biggest fear is losing you.

My unease has taken a toll on me lately. You have watched the waves engulf me, you have watched the waves spit me out.

You coax me out of it. You soothe my wounds. You guide me with love, care and compassion.

Spring is in the air. I am closer to seeing you. But sometimes I cannot help but think ahead. Of the unease that will follow because then I will know what it will be like to touch you, to be touched by you and but I would not have those moments with me in the flesh.

It is torture sometimes. The anguish that follows because of the absence of you in the flesh with me.

I know there is a reason why distance keeps us a part, why I have to be here and you on the other side of the continent.

I wish my emotional state would not vary so much in one day. I really wish my emotional state could stay at a constant, consistent pace.

My biggest fear is losing you. To my unease, to my unhappiness.

My biggest fear is being unable to care for you when you need the care.

My biggest fear is that we will never amount to anything and we will watch ourselves suffer in our confined, solitary states.

My biggest fear is my beacon of hope.

I guard my beacon of hope most fiercely and most importantly, with love.

What’s in a vernacular?

I had my blood drawn today, dear reader. It was beautiful to see the blood drawer communicate with me, how did she such a good job of distracting me and I was grateful for the care, I was the grateful for the vernacular she had and used efficiently.

I do not know if it is just the clash of the cultures. I suppose where I come from, it would be assumed that we do not have the vernacular.

Maybe my views on the having the appropriate vernacular are Americanised views.

I am at a crossroads, dear reader.

On one end, I acknowledge the bluntness that is the epitome of Malaysian culture. That it is socially acceptable to hold such beliefs within the Malaysian culture.

On the other end, I want to challenge the bluntness because I believe it continues to perpetuate the stigma, the shame, the wrapped idea of an abject mind.

It is moments like this that draw me to what I had set out to do in the beginning.

I begin to realise through my reflections that the implantation of stigma is so pervasive. The roots sink deep into the ground.

Try as you might to pull at the roots. They will not budge, dear reader. If you succeed to get them to tweak a little, it would either be a mirage or the foreshadowing of challenging times ahead.

I had this elusive dream. Maybe I still have it.

I know society is quick to dismiss the idea of discourse and the need to have the appropriate vernacular in discussing sensitive topics.

I mean, your Average Joe/Jane/Jorge/Jacinta will tell you look lady, we already have problems talking about it and now you want to bring up the problems you have with how we talk about said problems?

Mother will say, let it go. It is no use getting all worked up over this.

Actually, mother probably would not say that.

Mother would probably say.

That’s the struggle, the very definition of it.

That’s why you need to fight the hegemony or maybe, meet the hegemony where it is at.

I will continue to fight for the vernacular.

I will continue to fight for the de-stigmatiztion of all things perceived to be abject, broken, abnormal, atypical.