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?

We choose where our attention is - taken from Other Perspectives

Woo hoo!
Finally, a comment !

Keep posting your thoughts. I feel privileged for being able to see what's going on in your life. It's amazing how you are able to stay so positive despite everything. Believe in yourself and keep fighting!
Ivan from Croatia

Photograph of Lee Kuan Yew’s study, taken by Shengwu on the day of his grandfather’s funeral.

The carpet hung over my father’s desk for decades and was of sentimental value to him.- Lee Hsien Yang

With my eyes still fixed to the computer screen, I reached out my hand, ready to take the book from a student.
The soft-touch surprised my palm.
I turned to look.

The little girl held my hand.
She thought that I reached out my hand for hers !
She didn't realised I wanted her book.
So endearing !
The innocence, the purity... such bliss.

I finally have my own place.
I have finally detached myself from the toxicity of my family both

physically, mentally and emotionally.

You know that scene in "Good Will Hunting" where Robin Williams kept repeating to Matt Damon, "It's not your fault..."

I'm finally allowing myself to agree with that statement.

It's time to heal...

I'm healing.

Trauma Is Not Your Fault, But Healing Is Your Responsibility

By Brianna Wiest

What happened to you was not your fault.

It was not something you asked for, it was not something you deserved.

What happened to you was not fair.

You were merely collateral damage on someone else’s warpath, an innocent bystander who got wrecked out of proximity.

We are all traumatized by life, some of us from egregious wrongdoings, others by unprocessed pain and sidelined emotions. No matter the source, we are all handed a play of cards, and sometimes, they are not a winning hand.

Healing is our responsibility because if it isn’t, an unfair circumstance becomes an unlived life.

Healing is our responsibility because unprocessed pain gets transferred to everyone around us, and we are not going to allow what someone else did to us to become what we do to those we love.

Healing is our responsibility because we have this one life, this single shot to do something important.

Healing is our responsibility because if we want our lives to be different, sitting and waiting for someone else to make them so will not actually change them. It will only make us dependent and bitter.

Healing is our responsibility because “healing” is actually not returning to how and who we were before, it is becoming someone we have never been — someone stronger, someone wiser, someone kinder.

When we heal, we step into the people we have always wanted to be. We are not only able to metabolize the pain, we are able to affect real change in our lives, in our families, and in our communities. We are able to pursue our dreams more freely. We are able to handle whatever life throws at us, because we are self-efficient and assured. We are more willing to dare, risk, and dream of broader horizons, ones we never thought we’d reach.

The thing is that when someone else does something wrong and it affects us, we often sit around waiting for them to take the pain away, as though they could come along and undo what has been done.

We fail to realize that in that hurt are the most important lessons of our lives, the fertile breeding ground upon which we can start to build everything we really want.

We are not meant to get through life unscathed.

We are not meant to get to the finish line unscarred, clean and bored.

Life hurts us all in different ways, but it is how we respond — and who we become — that determines whether a trauma becomes a tragedy, or the beginning of the story of how the victim became the hero.

By Brianna Wiest

Taken from Humans of Bombay

..I started seeing a Navy officer. He loved how bold I was, but when he proposed to me, he wanted me to leave my job. But I got the opportunity to direct my first T- series video -- I couldn’t let go of that, so we broke up.
I went into depression, but I’d left him to grow my career, so I wanted it to be worth it. I yanked myself out and decided to move to Mumbai and start my Ad agency in 2012.
I grew it from nothing to an agency with 2+ crore turnover within a couple of years!

I live alone now in my dream house! I wouldn’t have been here had I let my experiences weigh me down -- but I just want the beautiful women around me to understand that life is more than men. Before anything else, we must give the love, loyalty and respect that we so often crave in others… to ourselves.

After all, the relationship you’ve been in the longest is with yourself

… so why not make that the best one?”

Taken from Humans of Bombay

He’s always looking out for Rishabh and if someone is mean to either of them, he’ll go and hug that person! He has the biggest heart. If I’ve had a long day at work and haven’t eaten, he’s the only one who knows. I don’t know how he does it! But he’ll go to the kitchen, grab a plate, some food, and stay beside me until I eat! He makes everyone around him feel so loved and happy.
And he’s doing things himself that no coach thought possible -- he’s an ace swimmer who’s won so many local competitions that he wants to compete in the Paralympics! He also runs races and loves them so much that even after crossing the finish line… he keeps running with the biggest smile on his face!
Whether it’s running to dad because he forgot his tiffin or giving his granddad his medicine box every night, he has so much love to give! He looks after us far more than we look after him.
Still, I’ve seen kids in the neighbourhood ask their parents why Bhargav behaves the way he does. It makes me really sad when they say, ‘Because he’s sick.’ He isn’t sick...he’s just himself and so happy with the world around him.

Honestly, we could all be a little more like Bhargava– 

who loves the world, and accepts it far better than it’s accepted him.”

Brazilian artist Tatiane Freitas blends classic and contemporary design for her MyNew Old Chair series. In a twist on kintsugi—a Japanese tradition where fractured pottery is repaired with gold—broken furniture is revitalized through the addition of acrylic resin. The resulting contemporary, yet vintage, pieces demonstrate a harmony of opposing forces. In fact, it’s this push and pull that interests the artist. By harnessing the memory of what was, and adding to the empty space, she at once honors the past, yet leaves room for future memories.

Her mixing of materials demonstrates a “clear wish to create pieces which will endure the harshness of time, and therefore bring to their new owners the memories evoked in her, many lost in history.” Freitas, who recently showed work at Guy Hepner in New York, succeeds in highlighting the original wood material. This is owed to her creative selection of translucent acrylic, which renders the pieces functional and modern, yet melts away visually. Thus, old and new coexist harmoniously, proving that these opposing themes are not mutually exclusive—causing viewers to ruminate on what the word “broken” truly signifies.

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

CNY celebration

Taken from Humans of New York

“My mother came to New York from Alabama at the age of nineteen. She had nothing but a high school diploma. She almost didn’t make it. There was so much pressure because she was all alone. Later in life she came clean.
She told me that she’d gotten so depressed that she turned on the gas one night. But my brother and I started crying in the crib. And she was so touched that she decided to keep going. She became a nurse at Lenox Hill hospital. She was married three times. Three sets of children. Each time her husband claimed she wouldn’t make it without him. Each time she said ‘Go on ahead.’

She taught us all the proverbs. She taught us to love ourselves. The punishments could be harsh. Sometimes she’d go at us with the extension cord. But I always knew there was a steak dinner waiting for me at the end. She was only hard on me because she wanted me to succeed, which I never did. Thirty years on the street. Twenty years addicted to crack. But she never gave up on me. Even during the darkest times, whenever I showed up, she’d open the door. She’d cook me a meal. She’d let me get warm. She’d let me shower. But she’d never give me a dime. And I always had to leave.

But on the way out, she’d always say: ‘I love you Freddy, no matter what you do.’ We had ten good years together after I got clean. She’d come to some of my programs. She’d tell me how proud she was that I turned my life around. The last time I saw her, when she was lying in the hospital, with one hundred percent cancer, I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her.
And she said: ‘I love you Freddy.’ Those were her last words.
Two days later she passed. She didn’t wheeze, or sigh, or scream, or grunt.
She just went to sleep.”

“Drugs are ‘cunning, baffling, and powerful.’ They teach us that in NA.
Drugs can change your soul. I’ve seen it happen to so many people. But through twenty years of crack addiction, I always maintained my sense of self. I took so many beatings from drug dealers.
I had my skull fractured, my nose broken, I lost an eye. I was shot twice with a 44 magnum at point blank range.
But despite all these afflictions, despite all that darkness, I was able to maintain my sanity and self-respect. I’d never rape anyone. Wouldn’t attack anyone. Would never rob with a gun or a knife. Wouldn’t yell, or scream, or frighten people. That’s not who I was. I never forgot my name. I never forgot my birthday.
I used to go to the library, and open the encyclopedia, and memorize all the muscles and nerves and organs. I wanted to document myself. I could always locate my sternohyoid. And my thyrohyoid. I’ve always known my human worth. I think so much of that came from my mother. There’s a word called ‘superego,’ and it means how you’re trained by your parents and stuff like that.
It’s the thing that guides you.
I can still hear my mother’s voice talking to me today. Telling me to take care of myself. And to respect myself.
Saying: ‘You’re a good person, Frederick.’ That’s one thing she always did.
She always called me by my name. Even when I let her down. Even when I stole from her. Even when the whole world was ignoring me.
She never called me ‘son.’ Never ‘boy.’ Never ‘idiot.’ She always called me Frederick.
And she told me that I'd always been a good person.”