Call me a hypochondriac, but the minute you start literally losing sleep over how you look, I think that means you have a problem.
I'm afraid of looking at my own photos. I'm afraid of looking in the mirror. I'm constantly thinking of getting plastic surgery.
I'm afraid of looking at other people's photos.
I'm afraid of looking at other people, period. I can step into a bus, instantly see how I'm the ugliest person in the entire vehicle, and freak out internally.
It's bloody funny in a way and bloody sad as well.
I went to look at a nice studio flat in Tiong Bahru last night. Pretty heartlandish location, a brief jaunt from Tiong Bahru Plaza, furniture that didn't induce immediate projectile vomitting. The guy who represented the landlord seemed rather nice and even offered to hand over a dressing table that the previous tenant had left behind. The price seemed right and, in comparison to the other shitholes I'd witnessed in my on-again off-again flat-hunt, the whole place was very tempting.
Problem is, I keep edging towards the move but pulling back. I drew up a mental list of relocation pros and cons.
Move?
- Live in a nice area close to an MRT and in an old-ish HDB estate
- Walking distance from a shopping centre that has everything from banks to pharmacies
- Be with the Smilodon and try to restore the relationship
- Get to cook and eat the stuff I like (which my family doesn't)
- Have some space from parents
Stay?
- Save shitloads of money
- Rabbit runs around in the balcony undisturbed
- No guilt from parents over moving out, or leaving my mother alone at home
- Harder to get to work
Primarily, it's cold hard cash against wishy-washy sentiment. With home life, I get to keep the peace and save up for the eventual Big Escape. Moving out is more like a last hurrah: sampling independent life in Singapore before leaving. I'm caught between the cold hard reason of my bank balance and the flightier dream of living with the Smilodon in our very own Shared Cage.
A good friend of mine told me to beware of home life becoming a comfort zone. I'm not exactly sure if it's a comfort zone for me: More like a way to avoid guilt and recrmination and scenes of an emotionally disturbing nature at home. Throw in the cash as a sweetener and you have a recipe for deep inertia. I want to move out; I fantasise about it often, dream about it at night, look at online rent listings as a kind of drug. Heck, I've even discussed moving-out plans with other compatriots who are also looking for rooms. I'm not exactly comfortable at home - it's more like a Phony War situation, if anything - and I can definitely see how living apart puts a strain on my relationship with the Smilodon. But the fear of loud shouting and future cash-flow bottlenecks makes me stay.
I'm not sure if this is an odd confluence between Coward Me and Miser Me, or if I'm actually being rational and sensible by toughing it out with my family and waiting till England before I start carving out a space of my own.
By the time I've written this, the flat will already have been taken. In fact, it is - I've just got word on that score from the Smilodon. The sense of relief at having the decision taken out of my hands is palpable.
I sometimes wonder if I know what the hell I'm doing.
It's been confirmed. The Smilodon has lupus. His current flare was probably triggered by a boat party we went on; the silly man refused to wear sunscreen despite the blazing beach-heat. The UV promptly did him in even before we got to Laos.
I could have told him that. As we were walking in through the arrival passage in Vientiane, teams on H1N1 alert were scanning visitors with those thermal imaging things. I happened to be ahead of the Smilodon and looked back at his image on the screen. Everyone else was cool blue, tinged here and there with yellow. He was yellow-orange. Something already wasn't right. For the next few days he was tired, had difficulty sleeping. He had developed quite an interesting rash - not your common or garden sunburn rash, but a weird raised thing - and only then thought to apply sunblock. In hindsight, the signs were all there, even before we took to the Hmong hills around Luang Prabang.
It's things like these that really make me wonder whether I can even trust him with looking after himself. If he really did do his disease research, he'd have known that sunlight can trigger a flare and worn sunscreen. All his friends were doing it; heck, at one point I even waved the tube at him. This can only lead to one conclusion: He either didn't know and lied about reading up on the subject, or he didn't care. Neither option is comforting. Then I wonder why it is I'm doing all the researching and Internet hunting. Why it is that he says he knows what he's doing, but doesn't seem to show it. I don't want to be a mother, but it's painful to see someone hurtle headlong into something you know is bad.
Now all the tests have come back and it's pretty much lupus coupled with antiphospholipid syndrome (aka Hughes'). So on top of the existing anticoagulants, we've got to contend with steroids and antacids. Even in the doctor's office, with all the test results in front of him and the words "it was probably the sunlight" coming out of a specialist's mouth, the Smilodon still tried to quibble about sunblock. "How about just wearing long sleeves," he asked.
Seriously. Sometimes I despair.
This answer from the doctor was priceless and made me feel, for a minute, vindicated: "You like to wear black. That absorbs UV. You'd be better off with sunscreen."
It's this odd resistance to things he knows are sensible pieces of advice that really gets to me. All sorts of bullshit about "UV has never affected me before and I'm fine now, so whatever." Or "I don't need to tell you everything; so what, if I pee, do I have to inform you too?" Honestly, it's not like I'm the kind of person who flees at the first sign of a chronic disease. But I don't exactly appreciate it when advice gets thrown off or appeals for transparency crudely denied.
That and I'm secretly terrified that the steroids will turn him into a moon-faced water-retentive weight-gaining mood-swinger. It'll make me want to have sex with him less than I already do, which is already practically nil. The effects of that on the relationship might well be devastating, if his "I refuse to take your advice and will promptly become a skeleton" phase immediately after our return from Laos was anything to go by.
I just hope he gets over this soon.
Happy thought of the day: Might be going to Iran in March after all, fun times ahead!
Annoyed thought of the day: Why is it impossible to get black latex fetish gloves in shops around here?!?
Every time the university year drew to a close, I derived great enjoyment from gradually wrapping up my affairs in anticipation of the next Big Push. Packing my bags. Emptying the larder. Paying the bills. Booking the flight. It gave me something to look towards - whether happily or not being another story altogether - and dispatched successive chapters of my life cleanly with a swift blow to the back of the skull.
One of my biggest problems with life here was this: There's no real, concrete end in sight. The light filtering through the tunnel is kind of hazy, a little diffuse, not enough to pin your hopes on. There was the anticipation that someday, I'd leave my office for the last time, waving goodbye with one finger. Someday, I'd have to apply for a bleed-you-dry bank loan to run away. Someday, my parents and I would have our umpteenth and final Moving Out talk, except this time it would be moving out to another country altogether, just not from Bukit Batok to Chinatown. But there wasn't really anything concrete I could do about it. No acts of closure. Just keeping on keeping on, with amorphous abstract goals stretching out as far as the mind could fathom.
In a way, the braces were a godsend. It gives me a deadline, just about enough time to get my house in order and my teeth straightened. In the time it takes for the bloody feckin gaps in my jaw to close, I'll have saved up, made plans, psyched myself into a fitter happier place. I can do things like try to find more cash, make a proper budget, look at prospectuses, conspire with the Smilodon. There's now a fixed point in the horizon with a sign that says "Pass Go, Collect $200, Now Get the Fuck Out of Here".
In a few years' time I hope to be somewhere else. Hopefully back in university somewhere, crushed under the yoke of postgraduate studies. I'll be sharing my place in the sun with the Smilodon and one or two ex-racing greyhounds. There will be nice food in the kitchen and many books everywhere. On weekends there will be long walks and happy film-watchings and dubious kebab van food.
There's a countdown now and I can't wait. Thanks, irritating metal-and-ceramic-brackets-on-teeth. Although I can't bite properly, have food stuck in my teeth all the time and am in occasional bouts of oral agony, you have a wonderful way of focusing the mind.
I got started on my list and went to see a counsellor. Blinked back tears now and then, tried not to sound too glib or angry. The therapist asked me some tough questions, gave me a couple of exercises to do at home. I left feeling relieved and a bit indignant: old scabs had been picked at, reawakening all that subcutaneous resentment.
"Bad things happen to good people for a reason"
It's made me think about whether I can deal with loving somebody who's chronically ill, who could die on me sometime in the future, who may not be able to fulfil what he wants to do in life. Whether I have the mental resources to juggle both that and a dysfunctional family with their own demands. Who knows what I might have to sacrifice in the future. And if my mother is any example of how people deal with such sacrifice, it's not going to be pretty for anyone involved. Maybe there's a genetic factor behind the phenomenon of "I gave up so much for you so I'm frustrated and bitter so repay me you ingrates" bitchiness. If there is, I'm screwed.
"Find support"
The best support I had was with God and I've let Him go. Despite all my problems with religion there's always been some sort of threadbare bedrock of comfort in Christianity, but in this country, those problems eat away at my faith. I feel ashamed of even carrying this cross. I hate being lumped together with intolerance and petty inhumanity.
The therapist mentioned my parents - I tried not to choke. My parents are the last people I'd turn to for support, not even financial. Already they're bringing the chronic illness up at every convenient juncture, trying to force a break. Telling me to go for plastic surgery in Korea to improve my looks, casually informing me that they've always thought that my job was shit, blithely forgetting how they'd hurt my brother and me in the past. I need support from them, not with them, for goodness' sake. If it weren't for the massive savings I'd have bailed from this house long ago. And sometimes, I'm even willing to forego those savings.
Who else? Join a support group? Would they even talk about sex and intimacy and love, or would it all be about eating healthy and making cloth dolls and chit-chat?
"Make it an ultimatum"
I can't bring myself to unlove him. Even as I feel confused and angry and alone, I can't get over this man. And so it's impossible for me to say "Do X or I will leave you". Because he'd call my bluff. He knows I can't do it, not over something as small as X. If I ever were to leave him, it would be over something big: my inability to support him as a partner, my bad temper and unreasonable behaviour. Not over a task he failed to achieve. Not over a mindset he didn't change. Somehow, right now, I love him crazily despite all of that, all the little Xs piling up. I can't push the red button.
It was the biggest realisation of the evening, I suppose. That I still love him, deeply, too deep for my own good almost. And I have to make this work. I made a vow before God that I had fully intended to keep:
"What God has joined together let no man put asunder."
I will do my human best to repair this. And if that's not enough - well, I'll cross that bridge when I get there.
Having finally decided to Do Something, this year I will:
Finally decide that professional help is a good idea for those pesky godforsaken internal emotional issues and get my head shrunk;
Get over my image issues and strip for an art class;
Actually, really, commit to exercising: yoga, pilates, riding, the whole nine yards;
Not even bother to get the parents to apologise for anything, because they have goldfish memories about past abuse - just let it go, woman, let it go;
Learn to speak Russian, instead of just reading it, and sign up for a bloody Russian class;
Horse - Rides - In - Iran - Save - Money;
Get more money, somehow, money money money money Lawrencian reference money;
Be nice to the Smilo (this may be hard);
Feckin' dye my hair feckin' red;
Move out, if at all possible (vide: money).
I think I can, I think I can. I've got started already. Fuck the fear, the doubt, everything. Think of the horses and the greyhounds and the Sunday roasts and postgrad Russianness and meditating and breathing away the pain. Getting there, getting there. Fuck it all and back into the fray.
'Yes, I do believe in something. I believe in being warmhearted. I believe especially in being warm-hearted in love, in fucking with a warm heart. I believe if men could fuck with warm hearts, and the women take it warm-heartedly, everything would come all right. It's all this cold-hearted fucking that is death and idiocy.'
- D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterly's Lover
Over the past few weeks, I've come to the following self-indulgent conclusion: I'm a bloody coward.
This cowardice manifests itself, on the one hand, in this fundamental fact: That I would welcome death, but am quaking too much in my boots to seek it out.
On the other, it imbues life with this contradiction: That I cannot decide between doing what I want to please myself, and doing what it takes to please others. Or simply NOT doing things, just so I can feel safe.
Whenever I read of another person's love - or even another person's fucking - a small, tired, sorrowful voice located somewhere in my chest goes, "It's been so long, hasn't it? When was the last time you felt wanted? Don't you crave that intimacy, that sublime other-worldly feeling of desired and desiring flesh?" The Bold Me then decides that action must be taken; it's time to get out there, find this love, find this fucking, see living breathing people, vital energy and acquisitve strength. Animate my parched bones with tenderness. But then the Coward Me remembers that I made promises before God a mere six months ago and it would be cruel to abandon the Smilodon who, for all his faults, has been constant and considerate. Besides, love was never mine for the taking. I have never been wanted; I have never had the looks, or the graces, or the wit, or the accomplishments.
So what do I do? Nothing, except sit and wonder what it would be like to love and be loved again; to fuck once more, with feeling. When friends tell me of their conquests and their affections, I tamp down on the rising pangs of regret, but do nothing.
Whenever my parents start their bickering and home life goes from dull to despair, Bold Me decides to jump ship. Damn the cost; it's my peace of mind that matters. Malingering here will only further the insanity and the nagging fear of being infected, through continued exposure, with parentitis. Bold Me strikes out, makes calls, looks at rooms and prices, schemes with friends. But then Coward Me holds up my paltry income and my future plans of escape, reminds me that living with my parents and going slowly mad is cheap. One avenue of escape - that of living with the Smilodon - used to console me. But, present circumstances considered, what once was an attractive prospect is beginning to look like imprisonment.
Once again, I do nothing. Schemes and plans fall through and I cringe, every day, with some new insult my parents think up, or some old fault that hurt me as a child, and hurts me still.
Even the simplest, stupidest things get caught in the dilemma. The way I dress: Should I dress as I wish, or just blend in and not incite comment? Better not stand out too much, I'll just look like the equivalent of lipstick on a pig - blend in. Go out and make new friends and run the risk of looking weird and stupid and square, or stay in with my laptop and Internet and comfortable isolation? Well, surfing alone has never been so absorbing. Confront people about their behaviour, ask questions, or smile and pretend everything's okay and keep the peace? I should have a UN badge by now. On and on it goes; if this is part of growing up, I suppose I should get used to it, but I can't help feeling as if something crucial is being betrayed, as if every step I take in the Coward Me direction is a step towards crazy.
And I'm safe. So incredibly safe that I'm like a corpse in a freezer. I do my job when I'm asked to, go through the motions of a cheerful and dutiful daughter, talk nice to the Smilodon. My heart is insulated and, for all I know, is slowly calcifying. My brain isn't doing too well either, hence the fear of looming craziness.
I wonder at my friends, those who go out and do things, who have encounters both sweet and gentle and erotic, who have wit and beauty and expression enough to turn life into art. I envy those with conviction and ideas and ambition. Most of all, I envy those whose charm can turn their problems into a kind of delicate fragility. They're like birds with a wing down; I'm a three-legged, sickle-hocked donkey.
It's been a long time since I last was in a place where I welcomed the thought of annihilation, or where my self-pity reached this depth. I think my internal narrator is trying to tell me something, beyond the inevitable calls for plastic surgery and "let me just sleep so I can ignore the world". It's probably something along the lines of "man up, you wuss".
On the last day of 2009, my true love gave to me:
An impetus to revive this online journal.
It's been an era since I last spoke coherently here. In the interim I've travelled, embarked on a new kind of hush-hush nudge-nudge research work - through which I gained a renewed and revolted understanding of Singapore society - and stood at the altar, illicitly. My brother up and left for university, bequeathing me a white rabbit named Latimer who now has sore hocks. I've made and lost friends, trucked with Dominicans, had braces put on my teeth. Things are very very different now.
I think the primary reason why I stopped writing here may be summed up in this quote from Jane Eyre:
My future husband was becoming to me my whole world; and more than the world: almost my hope of heaven. He stood between me and every thought of religion, as an eclipse intervenes between man and the broad sun. I could not, in those days, see God for His creature: of whom I had made an idol.
I've been consumed by love, perhaps. It ate into me like a virus, infecting my thoughts, confounding me, making me blind. The flood of words that sustained my writing dried up in its heat. Through all the frustrations of work and life and family, the mirage of love sustained me. When I was angry, it was love that goaded my temper on; when I was in despair, it thrust me down deeper.
I know now that it was a mistake. When love was done with me, there was little left. After I had done speaking of love, I had no words left for myself. How did I know this? Because love is now worn out, faded, used up. Parts of it are dying.
And I know that I need help. There are too many wounds scabbed over, abscesses that fester on, picked-at scars. Seething old anger that makes me flinch at a phrase, a tone. The gnawing pain I get every time I see how plain - no, let me say it, ugly - I am. A creeping fear that says no no no, let me not be like them, let me not become like them, let me not lose my mind. Two and a half years on and I am still trapped, still frustrated, justifying my imprisonment with all sorts of worldly platitudes as I try to smile and chatter over dinner with my parents. My parents. The "them". Twenty four years on and they still find that quick of internal grief so, so easily.
God is not here. For some reason, this country doesn't even fall within His orbit. I'm not entirely surprised, but I am somewhat saddened.
So I've come to recognise that yes, I need help from sources other than the supernatural. I need someone to tell me how deep the wounds go, so I can start bandaging them. To save what I can of love and love more wisely. And perhaps more importantly, to save what I can of myself, before the bile eats away at my heart.
As inspired by Caleb. 100 things, with the ones you've actually accomplished in bold. I thought I'd add a small commentary after each one.
1. Started your own blog
Pretty obvious, this. Unfortunately I no longer write in it on a regular basis because the matters that occupy my mind in real life cannot be blogged about, due in no small part to a book project and an upcoming April event. I do feel like I am neglecting this and will probably start up again soon.
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
I have played in a string quartet, if that counts at all.
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland
8. Climbed a mountain 9. Held a praying mantis
My brother and I caught it in the garden of our old house on Shelford Road. We gazed at it for a bit and then we let it go. 10. Sang a solo
Many times, the most infamous of which was in Secondary school. I still wonder what I was thinking, but at least I made a stab at burlesque before it was "revived".
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris 13. Watched a lightning storm
This scares me shitless. It really does, ever since Cuifen and Esther told me about the bolt of lightning that nearly struck them in RJC.
14. Taught yourself an art form from scratch
15. Adopted a child 16. Had food poisoning
In my childhood, yes. I hope to God it doesn't happen again.
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty 18. Grown your own vegetables
Again, a childhood thing. This involved tomatoes and chillis. The chillis were more successful and I ate them regularly. They were very spicy.
19. Seen the Mona Lisa 20. Slept on an overnight train
Was going from Amsterdam to Rome. I watched the Rhine until it got too dark to see. Kept getting roused by border policemen in search of drugs. 21. Had a pillow fight
Younger brothers are good for this. Not to mention younger cousins and Primary School sleepovers. 22. Hitchhiked
Together with four male friends, in Austria. I'm not sure if this counts as hitchhiking, but we got a lift from some random Schengen when we missed the last bus. That is why learning foreign languages is a very good thing. 23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
Seriously, which 9-to-7-er hasn't? Seriously?
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb 26. Gone skinny dipping
This happened once, with D. It was very cold. It was also not repeated.
27. Run a marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse 30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
At the beach, a long time ago. It seemed like so much work for so little.
31. Hit a home run 32. Been on a cruise
It had nice food and can-can dancers. I was very bored. This resulted in my eating a lot of food and then walking around Malacca - the destination of the cruise - rather listlessly.
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
I'm not sure I want to visit the places where my Hokkien ancestors come from. They sound like fairly brutal towns. Need to brush up on my staring and bottle-smashing first.
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language
I've never taught myself. Too stupid.
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David 41. Sung karaoke
At a K-Box back in the BT days. The music videos were surreal.
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
Strangers have bought me meals, though.
44. Visited Africa 45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
Again, this happened with D in Bali. We'd had a massive, delicious meal and were looking for the club with a bungee jump. It was too early, so we went for a walk.
46. Been transported in an ambulance
Nearly. I was hit by a car in Germany and an ambulance was sent for. I was still all right enough to walk.
47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing 49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
Yes, in Rome. Rome is a very moving place.
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling 52. Kissed in the rain
D and I were walking on the moors. Of course it had to start raining. 53. Played in the mud
Ah, my misspent youth.
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
I keep telling D that we should start a World of Warcraft speculation business or an ethical gold farming firm, but he says it's illegal. I tell him it shouldn't stop any good Cantonese, but he's sceptical. 58. Taken a martial arts class
A self-defence class in Oxford and a beginner's fencing course in Singapore. I was utter shite at both. D is constantly telling me to try martial arts, but my utter shiteness might result in terrible injuries.
59. Visited Russia
I will have to do this someday. 60. Served at a soup kitchen
The Oxford Gatehouse. It's a lovely place with lovely people and the guests were wonderful to talk to. Washing dishes and making sandwiches was never so entertaining.
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62. Gone whale watching 63. Got flowers for no reason
Define "no reason". I have got flowers from friends just because they felt like it.
64. Donated blood, platelets, or plasma
65. Gone skydiving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter 69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
I still have my My Little Ponies somewhere.
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial 71. Eaten caviar
I first ate proper caviar at the Tower Club, during some press conference luncheon thing. One of the few perks of being a journalist, I suppose.
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone 78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
In Thailand. To this day, I'm still surprised that my parents didn't mind.
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book 81. Visited the Vatican
The Vatican on Holy Week, no less. Many attractive priests were in attendance.
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible
I keep getting bogged down in the nether reaches of the Old Testament.
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating 88. Had chickenpox
I used a small wooden bird to pick at the itchy bits.
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury 91. Met someone famous
Oh yes. Indeed. Very famous.
92. Joined a book club 93. Lost a loved one
My grandfather died when I was in Oxford. It still pains me that I didn't get to say goodbye.
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit 98. Owned a mobile phone
It's too smart for its own good. 99. Been stung by a bee
Twice. Once I got stung on my neck and had to wear a scarf for a few days to hide the mark. 100. Read an entire book in one day
This has happened many times. I almost feel guilty.
Rachel Lin.
24.
Has a hankering for History.
Anglo-Catholic by name.
Liberal secularist by reputation.
Pets cats.
Listens to jazz and industrial.
Loves Greene and worships Mary Ann Evans.
Fondly fascinated with kink.
A devotee of ink and metal.
Works for the Mouthpiece.
Oh, and happily entwined with the Intelligent Smilodon.
Palimpsests
You can see all the books I own - and some of the books I've read - here: My Librarything
