I just hung up my telecommunication provider assistance helpline.
The helpline operator sounded old, a retiree who chose to return to the workforce perhaps?
Very patient.
Or subdued to the inevitable in his work?
Why I say so?
Coz there's no joy in his voice, nor any hint of agitation.
Resigned to life?
Numb?

I'm not sure if his current state is 'matured' or 'blistered'.
Oddly, I sense something worthy of envy from it.

The sight of visitors coming into the neighbourhood compound now brings me joy beyond reason.
Especially deliveries.
Even when they're not mine.
Sigh.
MCO.
Movement Control Order.

Earlier this afternoon, I thought I'd do something nice for my father, after learning that he hasn't had his lunch. (we don't live together)
I ordered food delivery service for him.
His favourite - Bak Kut Teh.

Later, I called him again to check the order, "Was it as advertised?"
He said all is fine.
But he asked me about the relief money that the government is giving out.
Turns out, my mother had accused me of taking the "Household"s money. (they live together)

This accusation is so insane that I don't even know how to explain it here.
I'll try.
Like the rest of the world affected by CoVid, the country's government is helping its citizens by offering monetary funds.
Citizens can apply for these funds by households - meaning the main income earner is entitled to some money.

Yup, this is the money my mother is accusing me of.

Again, this accusation is so INSANE that I already feel sucked into my mother's delusional bitterness even trying to explain that it is absolutely NOT plausible for me to apply for the "household''.

I hung up the phone hours ago.
I have long known that my mother is one crazy, narcissistic woman who isn't even capable of loving her own children.
So, why am I still being affected?

I guess it stirred up all the traumatic memories of her abuse towards me all these years.
And how my father and siblings enabled her.
How they gaslighted and manipulated and made me a convenient scapegoat for all their miseries.
All that abuse that resulted in my several breakdowns.
Oh God, the amount of therapy I need to reorganise my life.

My father wasn't always good to me, but I still want to be kind to him especially now that he's vulnerable.
Just one kind thought.
I had a terrible afternoon, because of ONE kind thought.
One kind thought to have my father's favourite lunch delivered to him, knowing that nobody else in the house would bother with him.
I give food to strangers all the time, why not to my own father?

Inhale.
Exhale.
It really doesn't pay to be kind sometimes.

Screw this shit.
I'm going out to buy a VERY NICE meal for MYSELF.
I Godammn deserve it.
******* update
I called home on 21st May to remind Father of his appointment the next day.
Same shit happened again.
Mother insisted I return the money she had imagined.
Brother fed her some lies.
I told him I've had enough of this shit.
I'm done being the scapegoat.
Screw all you.

I have no recollection of the events below.
Even reading my own handwritten words doesn't make it any more 'real' to me.

I found these notes in deeply buried in my old magazines.

2004,  May 07   - Sitting here in the KTM station, anticipating a good time with Mel. My crazy mother hid the car keys. Mother's Day is approaching and I have no reason to celebrate at all. Yesterday she called 姨妈 Aunty and complained to her in my presence. I tried to snatch the phone but Mother hit me. I should feel comfortable hating her.

Today's first day of work in the kindergarten brought back many memories of my unhappy childhood. The confusion and constant fear. I never knew where I stood in society.

***********************

I wrote the above on route visit to my friend's hometown in Ipoh.

I was ill for about two weeks.
I suspected that it was CoVid, as the fatigue and headaches were highly unusual.
I slept through the days, getting up only to eat and bathe.
I have never experienced this before.

But the doctors didn't want to test me as I'm not in the high-risk category.
The test-kits are limited, hence I can understand their constraints.
I didn't care if I'm infected nor that I may die.
I worry more about infecting others.

Death has always been the desired last page of this long unfulfilling book of mine.
The author is exhausted.
More than exhaustion.
It's yielding.

Today, I'm feeling better.
There's an odd taste of disappointment.
Sigh.
I'm cleaning, washing, tidying...cooking...back to work preparation.
Back to my usual again.
Living again.
Moving forward again.

Sigh.
Dare I hope?