Sunday 25 May 2014

It may have just been a moment for you

In 2008, just after I graduated and begun my days as a doctor, I had the fortunate opportunity to spend some time in the United States of America with my cousin's family. Also in 2008, I started getting really close to this friend that I met during one of the brief working stint I had with a company in down town Sydney. She invited me over her place and I gladly went over, and ended up hanging out with her family on a very regular basis. She pretty much regarded me as part of the family: we celebrate our birthdays every year together ever since.

If any of my previous posts were any indication of my life to date, you would have deduced correctly that I never had much of a family life. Life works in a rather mysterious way. I find it rather ironic that other people's families tend to 'adopt' me; they are so so kind, far more than words can ever describe. If I was ever angry at God for depriving me of some sort of loving familial connection, then He more than makes up for it through all of the wonderful people in my life. I am talking about the people who cut up fruits for me - like a lot of fruits, the kinds that are difficult to cut, like pineapples, jackfruits and durian.

Last week these two mothers passed away.

***

I am currently in a painful state of mind; no matter what it is I think about, it always reverts to the events in 2008. A lot of good things happened in 2008, and equally painful things happened at the same time. I am not going to lie, it was perhaps one of the most difficult years I've ever had to go through to date. These terrible ones, I block in my mind so that I don't think about them constantly.

I want to analyse grief, because that is my coping mechanism - analysing everything I could get my hands on. This emotion is nothing like any other emotions that have ever come my way. I have failed, I have loss, but not to this degree. In fact, if I could make a comparison (which I really shouldn't), this makes everything else falls pale in comparison. This pain is unpleasant and uncomfortable, and I want to short-circuit my grieving process so that I can stop feeling so debilitated. I can't.

Dare I even say that I am scared of my own emotions, of not being able to control them, of being controlled by them, to the extent that I start showing them physically? I have been avoiding people's eyes a lot more these days because I do not want them to notice the sadness in mine, but there are those who still notice because they care. I have been avoiding talking about this in real life because I know I would not be able to control the flow of tears despite not wanting to cry about this any more. But there are those who still care, there are those who are pained when they see me in pain. There are still a lot of good things in this life.

It crossed my mind, on how differently it would be if these two events did not happen round about the same time. Would I have felt differently, and if yes, how differently. I guess I will never know the answer to that. In one corner of my mind, I can't stop thinking of why these happened at the same time. There must be a reason, and I wonder what that reason is.

Some time ago, I whined to a friend about something (which I can't remember), and she said that it is a test - we get tested on the things in life to ensure that we have learned from them, and then we can advance to the next round. What is this lesson that I am supposed to learn?

I don't want to sort to any of the clichés there is, not withstanding that none comes up to my mind right now. There are two words that do - good enough. Being a perfectionist, I spend the majority of my life overlooking how powerful these concepts can be. I would very much like to be the best, and I often forget that I am good enough.

Once upon a time, I was good enough.

Thank you for your love.

“It may have just been a moment for you, but it changed every single one that followed for me.” – I Wrote This for You (Flourish in Progress

Tuesday 20 May 2014

She and I: the writing of

I would like to begin by saying thank you – thank you so so much to all of you who bothered reading She and I and then sharing your thoughts with me. This was something I was not expecting at all, so this has taken me by surprise, and makes me all the more happy that I decided to write that piece.

It was not an easy exercise, it was hard, it was difficult like it was the most difficult thing there was. I wanted to write a piece about my step mother for a year before it finally happened. I locked myself down for the whole weekend and managed to hit publish on Sunday afternoon. So you can imagine how it was rather awkward this morning when I was randomly asked by a familiar stranger: how was your mothers’ day – because I don’t know if she was under the impression that I was a mother (I am not) or that she knew about what really happened during the mother’s day weekend (the writing of She and I). I very nearly blurted out “have you read my blog” but didn’t because, I don’t know, it would make the conversation more awkward?

I think it is rather presumptuous of our society to assume that every person in this planet looks forward to mothers’ day, simply because that assumption conveniently disregards the painful fact that there are people in this planet who do not get on well with their mothers and do the mothers’ day thing out of obligation. If we can all write about all of our experiences, both the good and the bad, then hopefully we can all learn from each other, most importantly, learning from ourselves, about ourselves, what makes us click as individuals. I make a decision, a long time ago, to only publish pieces on this blog that are of a positive nature. I do write about painful stuff, and I do not want anyone in this planet to ever see those, so I just burn them straight away. (Actually, it is more like delete.)

It goes without saying that I have lost count of the drafts that I had written prior to the weekend of writing She and I. But let me just say this: the end result as you see it is nothing like the prior drafts. I don’t wish to ever publish them, and I don’t see them as a waste either; rather, I see them as the necessary steps into creating the final piece, the whole process counts because I get to know myself better. For the longest time I struggle to write it for I always ended up comparing the two mothers that I have, despite my strong refusal to do so a priori. I understand that the concept of relativity can be powerful like that, which is all the more reason for me not to fall into that particular ‘trap’ because my step mother is a remarkable woman to me independent of how my mother is. I do not believe that it is fair to compare the two women in their capacities as mothers because their roles are fundamentally different, and neither one of them can replace the other.

I acknowledge that there are people who do not get on well with their step-mothers (and step parents), and I do not wish to trivialise this issue at all. All that I want to say (and I hope this comes across well in the original piece) is that my step mother means a lot to me; to her, I am good enough. The concept of good enough was a foreign concept to me until I met her, because I am more the perfectionist, which makes me somewhat rather negative because I tend to focus on the things for improvement, which I want to improve on, to fix, to make better, just because I think I can. Truth of the matter is that, it is not about whether I can fix it or not, it is about focusing on what I do already have, right here in front of me, all the good stuff, so that I can start appreciating them, and giving thanks for how lucky I am. If there is any lesson that I can learn in terms of how to live, then this would be it. Because oddly enough, it is when we give that we actually receive.

When the going gets tough as they often do, I try to be this person that my step mother thinks I am. It is not about being remarkable, nor extra ordinary, just simply good enough. Because I don't have to be perfect to be good enough. And when you're good enough, well, you're good enough, for love.

Sunday 11 May 2014

She and I

She and I met through fate. Her presence in my life is a constant reminder to believe that things happen for a reason, and this reason is a good reason, even when it is not always obvious to me at the time. On our very first meeting, our worlds did not collide; I was too sceptical for that. I don't think I liked her straight away. This is not to say that she is not immediately likeable, because she is, but more that I was not easily relate-able. What can I say - I am like that. But I had to admit that I was intrigued by her. My curiosity got the better of me, as it always does, and perhaps to a certain degree, it was desperation, on my part, for something, anything that could be ... better.  When you are pushed against an invisible wall, and you feel like you are slowly and surely being crushed, the helplessness makes you want out, just like that. It wasn't apparent to me at the time, but she ended up being my way out.

Our worlds merge, slowly. In the first few days of spending time with each other, we bonded through food. Obviously nothing has changed over the years: I wanted to eat a lot of things, I was rather incapable of feeding myself, so she kindly fed me (as in provided food for me, as opposed to spoon-feeding me). That became my first impression of her: that she was a giving person. Over the years, I witness an increasing willingness on her part to invest in this relationship where there is no guarantee of positive return: she continues to give, sincerely.

I got to know her and she got to know me. Prior to meeting me (as I later found out), she had heard a lot of things about me, mostly unpleasant, unfortunately, because what can I say, people are like that. Or perhaps, I should have put it as, I was famous like that, but I doubt that I was. I did little to undo that initial knowledge and I am also pretty sure that the first impression I gave her only served to provide evidentiary support of those things people said. Le sigh. I wasn't out to impress her. But I was aching to know if this person was willing to know me despite my shortcomings, my flaws and my weaknesses – and boy, there were (and still are) plenty. Besides, if this thing were to be something that I wanted ever so terribly (and would never admit to in a thousand years) then it only made sense to me that whatever it is that we were about to establish was built on the foundation of trust. Trust is not given freely, my friend, it is earned over time, through hard work and a lot of effort, with constant sprinklings of this thing called love.

The underlying characteristic of a lot of my relationships is that we are separated by distance, the Pacific Ocean to be precise. Needless to say, the physical moments that we shared are limited, and subsequently, physical proximity did (and still does) make everything better. Yet most of the time, it is non-physical. These other moments are equally as compelling, that moment when you close your eyes and you listen to the person's voice on the other end of the line. The moment whereby you know that you have to have this difficult conversation - and we have had a lot of difficult conversations over the years. She finds time for me and in the process made me feel not just important, but more importantly, wanted. I didn't even realise I had all of these issues until I had the opportunity to experience the healing through her kindness.

Because she listens, she teaches me that the mere act of listening can change someone's life for the better. It is almost ironic that the communication that changes people is the ones that involve very little words. A TED talk is almost always inspiring; but when you truly listen, at least for that moment in time, you can make someone feel heard and accepted. She empathises with me; and by doing so, she manages to influence my thoughts and emotions in a positive way. Her simple act of listening is so powerful.  She is a great communicator, she is honest and she is transparent.

She is the person who has shown me how to live. She doesn't have to love me but I feel that she does, constantly, all the time. And as a result, I feel as if I belong. And if anyone of you out there has ever felt the opposite, i.e. not belonged, then you would understand how important it is to feel this way, if only for one moment in time. Because in that moment, everything makes sense, that everything happens as they are supposed to, and that everything is going to be alright.

It was, and still is, a simultaneously emotionally exhausting and fulfilling journey, and has been, by far, one of the most rewarding things I have done in my life. I am so glad that I met her, that I had the chance to establish and grow this relationship with her. She is the one thing that changed my life. Without her, I would not be the person that I am today. She has been my rock, my strength, my counsel.

She is my step mother.

Preamble:

This mothers’ day, I would like to write something about a special someone that has largely been left out on the mothers’ day celebrations: the step mothers.

My parents' divorce still remains, to this day, a subject that is taboo to discuss in the dinner table, although to be completely honest, it depends on who is at the dinner table and what is being eaten, and more importantly, where the dinner is taking place. This is the norm in my family - we just do not talk about the things that are hurtful like this, we do not engage in these kinds of interactions. I personally feel I am somewhat stunted in this department as a result, and for the longest time, I harboured a personal anger that I wasn't able to attribute to anything. When you have been deprived of a family connection that you so much yearned for, it is only normal that you become fucked-up as a result, even when you would not want to admit to it in a thousand years. It is not about a personal denial, or about blaming your parents; it is just a deep refusal to accept that this is what you've got; this is what you've been given, because you were so desperate for something else.

I have always viewed myself as someone who is incredibly lucky, I don't know how I got so lucky, but I realise that in I have been blessed in a lot of ways that I can't even begin to describe. When I think about the moments that change my life, or specifically, the people that change my life, I would list my step mother as the top person on that list.

I had the idea of writing this during last year’s mothers’ day. This is one of those things that I have always wanted to write, and have never been able to, for a myriad of reasons mostly rooted in my fear of other people's reaction. Granted by taking this risk, I acknowledge that there is an impending possibility that unfavourable reactions may occur. All I can say is, to be sceptical of a meaningful step-mother-step-daughter relationship is to entirely misunderstand and undermine the power of love.

Let yourself be known and love with your whole heart, even though there is no guarantee that you’ll be accepted. -fiftycoffees.com

Thursday 8 May 2014

Everybody deserves clean water

 “It's a funny thing about the modern world. You hear girls in the toilets of clubs saying, "Yeah, he fucked off and left me. He didn't love me. He just couldn't deal with love. He was too fucked up to know how to love me." Now, how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century that convinced us we were, despite everything, eminently lovable as a people, as a species? What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking, malfunctioning in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a god, or a weeping madonna, or the face of Christ in a ciabatta roll---then we call them crazy. Deluded. Regressive. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something more worthy of love than us, more worthy of worship. Greeting cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. Not everybody deserves love all the time.” - Zadie Smith

And the opposite version:

It's a funny thing about the modern world. You hear men everywhere saying, "Yeah, she fucked off and left me. She didn't love me. She just couldn't deal with love. She was too fucked up to know how to love me." Now, how did that happen? What was it about this unlovable century that convinced us we were, despite everything, eminently lovable as people, as a species? What made us think that anyone who fails to love us is damaged, lacking, malfunctioning in some way? And particularly if they replace us with a blog, a seemingly rich guy or god forbid, a 'bad' boy who can fuck them like there's no tomorrow---then we call them crazy. Deluded. Regressive. We are so convinced of the goodness of ourselves, and the goodness of our love, we cannot bear to believe that there might be something easier to love than us, something easier to develop. Hollywood, Disney and greeting cards routinely tell us everybody deserves love. No. Everybody deserves clean water. And good sex, yeah, that's pretty high on the list. 

Thursday 1 May 2014

I am done with eating: I want to eat dessert first

I am adapting to a new life, one that started a few weeks ago (at the time of writing). In this relatively new life, I have been cramming more things into my schedule. This is something that I would not recommend under any circumstances, so the mere fact that I did it to myself is somewhat rather baffling to me. The biggest take away from all of these is that time is a precious commodity, but I have not been valuing it like so. Perhaps because I take pleasure in doing something productive with my time. The resultant effect is that I am always running out of time, and I hate running out of time because I feel like I am always rushing. I hate rushing because it takes enjoyment out of whatever it is I am doing. I am not busy. I am just constantly tired and flat out and hungry. Ok, perhaps hungry is not so much attributed to this, since I am hungry all the time, irrespective of how much food I eat. Seriously. I am starting to give up on this whole eating thing. Whether I eat or I don't eat, I am still hungry. No more. I am done.

KIDDING. I love eating. Given that I am often short on time, I just wish that I get to eat what I want to eat when I want it. Every time we go out to a restaurant, I always wish we would just order dessert and skip everything else. Because that's what I really want to eat. But because of some societal acceptability reasons, I have to go through the whole entree and main sequence, before I can get to dessert. This is such a waste of time and not to mention, stomach space. By the time I get the chance to order dessert, I would be so full that I would not feel like eating dessert. It's like, the moment has been lost, the appetite is gone. Because of this, I rarely eat dessert these days. But I love it nonetheless. Perhaps a lot more now than I've ever done before. I have no self control when dessert is around.

Why we put dessert as the last course is one of the things that baffles me to no end. Who decided that the order of things should be entree, main and then dessert. Why can't dessert be first, for once? At least for the people with sweet tooth. Seriously. If we allow ourselves the chance to eat dessert first, then perhaps the world wouldn't be so fat. 

For this reason, sometimes I find it easier to sit down and eat meals with people I actually like. Because the chance of me eating the food I like with these people are higher. It's not so much that we like the same things, but it's more that we are more tolerant of what each other likes. In my younger days, I agreed to a quick catch up with some old acquaintances, with one of them insisting that we ate Thai food. I am allergic to coconut, they ordered curry. It was one of the worst tortures of my life. Never again.

Why is it so hard to just stay true to ourselves, pick one course of action and then leave it to other people to accept that? Especially if our chosen course of action somewhat deviates from societal expectations, like eating dessert first. Or like you gotta get married once you reach a certain age, and once you're married, you have to have children; or something that's more prevalent in Asian society: you have to earn this much money, do this kind of job, amass this much wealth - never mind that it is actually good enough that you do an honest, legit job for a living, or that you are doing something remarkable like saving the world from itself and/or fighting poverty (or at least try to). 

Why do we have to keep on apologising for wanting to do something that is outside of this 'norm'? 
 
We know that we should just life life; make no apology and just bloody own it: this is your life. This is a concept that sounds so simple on paper yet rather difficult to implement in life. How many times do we make decisions because someone else wants us to make that decision? How many times do we do things that we otherwise would not have done just to keep someone (we may or may not love) happy? How often do we do things for this thing called "image", or as some people would put it, "what would other people thing?". Why do we place so much importance on what others think? It is so self-absorbed to assume that others think that much about you, because chance is that they don't. How much do you think about others? You think about yourself all the time because it is human tendency to think about oneself, which is why we are taught to be selfless, you see, as there is a good chance that it doesn't come naturally (yet it can be learned). 

Because sometimes, all that I ever wanted, is to eat dessert first. And it kills me that I can't.

***
I am on Twitter, instagram and another blog. This is probably why I perpetually feel like I am always running out of time.