Dear 21-year-old Me

 Dear 21-year-old Me, 

It feels a bit weird, writing to a me that I've once known but don't remember. You being nine years away. Nine years sounds like such a pathetically meagre amount of time, yet so much has happened since. 

You probably won't believe most of what I'm to tell you anyway; we both know I have a tendency towards exaggeration and drama. Not much have changed; I'm still prone to dramatic explosions, still binge eating away, still the foolish swooning anglophilic logophile you are. Still pretentious, and somewhat still in love with arabesques and pas de deux like you are; I miss those ballet trips the most, lounging in the steps of the National Museum, eating sandwiches at the foot of those lions and the blue rooster in Trafalgar Square, drenched in rain in the artsy Covent Garden atmosphere eating Ben's cookies. 

So, no, not much have changed. Benedict Cumberbatch and Tom Hiddleston still gives me headgasms; Ed Sheeran in my ear still makes me feel like autumn. Christmas still feels like a magical warm hug in the midst of winter, despite the four-summers-per-year here back in Malaysia.

Yet almost everything have changed. You've known the touch of despair and depression, felt the suffocating embrace of anxiety. You've spent nights and nights wishing you could cry wishing something would hurt enough to make you feel alive. You've learnt that pain, instead of joy, is what makes us feel alive, and being able to feel pain is such a blessing. You've learnt that most words are deceitful, and that action speaks louder than words, especially those tiny seemingly insignificant actions that flits away like an afterthought. You've learnt that most everyone cannot be trusted or relied upon, and blood runs infinitely stronger than the tempestuous tenuous ties of friendship that the world lauds so frequently. And then you've learnt to be so self sufficient that you became hyperindependant and spiky and misanthropic and generally spends every iota of free time with fictional characters who can't inflict more pain than the sympathetic heartache. 

You've spent so much time being groomed subconsciously into thinking yourself undesirable and never worthy enough. You've learnt to emphasize your feminine side, learnt to flaunt and use it, learnt that you possess the ability to cripple common sense and induce jealousy, and that you have to be careful with it. And then, discovered that it still wasn't enough to hold the person you want.  You've learnt that you could become quite the contortionist in the face of possible romance, so willfully blind to red flags of inconsistency and commitment issues, for the sake of deceptive compatibility. You learnt the awkwardness of unrequited love, the absolute trainwreck of a rekindled infatuation that went down the same destructive road, and again and again, you learnt the ache of being placed secondary to everything else. 

And then you learnt the touch of love. You've known infatuation, but now you know love. Not how love felt; I think we've always known what love felt like, how it looked like. But now, you've learnt how to love. You learnt that love could be letting go, that unselfish love wasn't a thing of myth, even if it came at the price of trudging through every single day with a weird sort of empty within. You've learnt what love songs mean--heartache isn't another strange concept you read in books anymore, but something that once replaced the blood that flow within your veins. You've debated so many times and still can't make up your mind if it's better 'to have loved and lost, or to have never loved at all'. You've learnt that you are capable of loving someone, and that realisation will soothe you in the nights when regrets try to drown you in waves. Through all of these, you will have learnt who you are, what you love, what you weren't willing to part with, what you would never compromise. You will finally learn what it means to be yourself, and come to terms with the price of being true to yourself. 



I know you've suspected that this career wasn't what you had in mind--we've always been annoyingly intrigued by the creative arts, but terrified with the rigidity of our mind to actually make it our living. But work is crucial to the sustainability of life, and I hope it will be of relief to know that you will find something to love about your job. You will go through housemanship with the weariness of a person at wits' end, pondering the point of going through the endless cycle of going to work before sunrise and coming home past midnight. In your fatigue, you will become numbed to the suffering of the sick and diseased, and then suffused with guilt at your heartlessness. But you will grow efficient, and open your eyes to what you are capable of in your position--to ease and to provide relief, to help and to give aid, and in certain cases, to walk with a person till the end of their lives with dignity. Being able to help? That would be the basis of what you will learn to love about your job. 

You'd go through a pandemic, through days of being suffocated within the confines of Personal Protective Equipment, witness countless deaths every single day because of a single virus. You'd  basically go through what is movie material, trudging on as an active fighter in the medical battleground while the rest of the world slows down and shuts down in quarantine. You'd watch everyone else work from home, finally noticing their kids and their family and their own health for the first time, while you are still dragging yourself to work every single day, not daring to go home in fear that you bring death and disease upon the feet of your loved ones. 

You will learn that you definitely dread going to work, yet work is the only thing that can release you from the ails of your body. You will learn that you're more than passable at what you do, generally, but demand so much out of yourself that stress and anxiety became synonymous with work. And then you will be sent over a tiny piece of sea to a land called Sarawak, where you rediscover the joy of working in a non-toxic environment, and the simple pleasures of a simple life. You will rediscover a forgotten interest, and start your journey in the fifty shades of grey and darkness, and start to work with words again. But you will get so stressed with the steep learning curve, and so annoyed with yourself for the slow progress that you cry at work regularly; but eventually, you'll learn to love the challenge of recognising patterns in greyscale, putting pieces together and then constructing the big picture with nothing but words. 

And in the midst of all these, your skeptical soul found someone. Yes. We found someone. Someone who, despite all the others before him who'd proved your skepticism necessary, despite all the others who had allowed you to feel unworthy and unlovable, despite your well-built solid walls-- someone had made it into your fortress and built a garden. He is sweet and thoughtful and considerate, and ultimately careful with your heart. Anxious and overthinking like you are, which, sometimes makes things very very difficult but also makes you feel like, yes, exactly, this is why I'm worried, thank you for getting it. He is pessimistic where you are optimistic, and bright when you are dimmed. I don't know why he loves me, but god, I can feel it in my very pores that he does.  

You'd have lived in closed confined quarters together for nearly a year and haven't felt like you need to take a breather, or like you need to insert a knife into his back. And then you'd have to suffer the absolute heartache of leaving him behind while you flew across the sea for work, and start the arduous journey of a long-distance relationship. You will learn that all your failed almost-relationships taught you something that worked in your favour now, and that a relationship needs hard elbow-grease work. You will learn that compatibility doesn't mean it will be easy, and that communication is not just talking. Being the wordsmith that you are, you will learn how capable words are of hurting and soothing, and yet as you learn to be careful with words, you will also learn that sometimes things need to be said face to face as soon as possible and not have the luxury of 2976349 edits. 

Love is a choice, and a verb, instead of a feeling. It is learning what love looks like and sounds like to each person, and learning to speak it and show it. It is waking up every morning and choosing to stay in love. Happiness is the same. True contentment stems from the mind instead of whatever trivial goals or milestones in life we've arbitrarily set for ourselves.  You will learn that. You will etch it in your very being. You will fail, from time to time, more times than you like. And you will learn that you are more resilient and stronger than you think you are, and climb back up to your feet again. 

Ultimately, you will learn that you need nothing and no one but your self and your own two hands.  You will learn that even though you're okay alone because it's safe and cozy and doesn't expose your trust issues, you don't actually want to be alone. But wanting is dangerous. Wanting makes you vulnerable, and doesn't that make wanting so much more precious than needing? But vulnerability means opening your doors and showing where it hurts, and trusting that people will not laugh at it or poke at it. It is treacherous and potentially fatal, yet, to misquote Brene Brown, vulnerability is where bravery starts. It is where all the most precious things in life are. We can't love without vulnerability. You will learn that, and it will take so much work to consciously let down your guard and let yourself be vulnerable.

Dearest 21-year-old Me, 

We are at the brink of middle age now, you and me. One foot into the big three, one foot left behind nostalgically in the edges of your twenties. Time runs so fast now; yet we are still caught up in the middle of it, strangulated by our indecisiveness, frozen by our fear. So many things are different now, and yet, it still reeks of that youthful outlook where everything is so vast and possible. Still so many things to work on--on work, on our lives, on our selves. But that is the beauty of it all, isn't it?

You have so much to go through, as do I. I wish you all the courage in the world, and remember, it's all going to be okay. We're going to be just fine. 


Love,
Your 30-year-old Self

To Write Is To Be In Distress

I once read somewhere, that strife and mental turmoil is the food for the artistic soul.

I remember nodding along as I read, because while strife isn’t a frequent visitor, mental turmoil was my constant companion. Yes, turmoil, mainly of my own making, constantly picking at a healing scab and refusing to let things heal, but still turmoil. Turmoil that had generated various forms of the written word, in poetry and essays and short-ish Instagram/Facebook posts.

But this, now?  

This is proof. I can barely string a sentence together nowadays, much less create. Words are my enemy now; I love them with a passion that I cannot describe, but they don’t come to me now like they used to. Now, words are a means of income, and a means of mediating relationships that I cannot bear without. Words are now clinical, calculated and chosen with a sharpness and just the right amount of detachment for maximum efficacy.

I still read. I still love the way how words don’t just tell a story or a narrative, but brings with it an uncanny ability to penetrate through the thickest barriers and reach down to the soul that defines us as human. They flow with a simple yet complex cadence that bubbles with merriment and content, brimming with overflowing emotions, and yet, maintain that stillness characteristic of deep water beneath, quiet and anchoring. The depth that can be contained within a few simple words… Absolutely breathtaking. Terrifying too, if you consider the power it wields.

But I digress.

Despite my attempts, paltry as they may be, I simply cannot write when it’s not required. Not anymore. Now, every single word that I attempt to write is an archaeological excavation, a dig for the ruins that once stood proud and glorious, and now has fallen in disrepair. All that’s left is a magnificence that was left behind, forgotten. As I read through my previous writings with the beautiful words I cannot attain anymore—diaries, blog posts, even Twitter with its character limits—I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps, I am no longer in turmoil.

I cannot lie, will not lie. I am content. My heart is no longer the empty gaping wound that likes to throb in the silence of night, yearning for something it cannot have. It has most things it needs and want, nowadays, the lucky greedy little bugger. My anxious mind is relatively quiet nowadays, buoyed by the knowledge that no matter what happens, I will still be me, and being me means sometimes surprising myself with a capability that only surfaces when needed. My career is... well, it's not going anywhere for the moment, but I've long since learnt that that wasn't essential to my happiness. I don't have to be ambitious, or have a productive successful career to be happy; no, I've learnt that that was a byproduct of being a people-pleaser, and what truly makes me happy is to have a safe place to breathe and be no one but myself. And having him to share things with, without fear of judgement or retaliatory comments?

God, I might even go so far to say that I'm happy.

And therein lies the dilemma.

 I used to fancy myself a writer. I would read my own creations with both stale and fresh eyes, and be amazed by how words seem to flow when my fingers hit the keyboard, or when my pen hits the paper. My words would flow, faster than my fingers or my pen can keep up, some inevitably lost to the drifting currents of flyaway thoughts. Muses came and went, and made my brain their rest stop. I would write for hours, and still, be brimming with ideas and words. Words came together as though alive, and of their own mind, without much direction from me. As I slowly learnt that words didn't matter so much as the story they're trying to tell, words still surprise me constantly, with the stories they tell me on accident with intent. 

 I used to be able to write.  I used to absolutely love writing. I love how they would come together and tell a story better than I thought I could’ve told, surprising me. I love how sometimes they veer off course and bring me to places I never knew existed. Words helped me piece together the pieces of myself lost to the demands of others, and I am who I am now because I had my words. They were my closest confidant, a friend who I could trust to never leave.

But I’ve left them behind.

Ah, I’m going around and around, biting my own tail like the ouroboros of creation and destruction. Perhaps it’s not turmoil that sparks creation. Perhaps it’s recognition of the minor tripping stones and the tiny flecks of blood. Perhaps it’s sheer force, pushing fire and water together until they co-exist as steam. Perhaps it’s repetition, waves eroding the shore. Perhaps everything helps creation, but in such different forms that we sometimes cannot recognise them.

 Perhaps I need to learn a new vocabulary, that tells the simple joys and contentment of being in my own skin, rather than the turmoil that roils about unearthing the same words again and again.

 Perhaps I just need to learn to hold a pen, and start again.

 

P.S. As much as I love words, when it comes to real life, actions do speak louder than words. I simply refuse to accept words as proof, when so many misuse them. Ah, such is the duality of man. To not trust the very thing you love.

Reminder

 Just a tiny reminder, that so many people loves you. 

For the days where you feel so unloved, or forgotten, or worthless, impossible to love, remember this. 

So many people love you, enough to put down everything to run towards you. To abandon their posts, their work, their plans, just to make sure you're okay. 

You're lucky. You're loved. 

I Love You

 I’d once wondered

What does love feels like 

Is it soft like the pillow of a newborn child

Or harsh like the spray of angry waves 

Is it loud like the blaring sirens

Or tender like whisper of rustling leaves

Who can tell me what it feels like? 

One said, ‘It’s when your hands touch,

And refuses to let go,’

One said, ‘it’s when you buy flowers,

And see the smile on her face.’

Another said, ‘well, it feels like everything,

And also nothing.’

I searched the skies for answers

The seas for their wisdom

‘It’s beyond words,’ they said,

‘your heart will know it when it loves.’

It is still beyond words, my heart says

And sometimes you drown in the confusion 

Is it love? Is it not? 

Does he love me? Do I love him? 

Still? 

I’ve known the touch of his lips 

The sound of his words

The breadth of his kindness 

The height of his passions 

It’s the smallest moments - 

The soft rustle of laundry being folded

The harsh pants of his breaths 

The loud arguments that we have

The soft clinking of him doing dishes

It’s not what you feel, Love. 

Love is not a noun nor adjective

Love is a verb

We feel love because we chose love 

To love, and to be loved

It is what you choose. 

How does love feel? 

Well, it feels like a choice. 

Death

 Sometimes I feel like we don’t talk about death enough. I’ve been in the medical field for long enough to know that that isn’t really something you can ever be ready for, and that it’d be a good idea to leave something behind before you get suddenly robbed away from the ones you love.

I admit, I thought about death a lot more times than I should. I was never a fighter, so naturally, when things got hard in the past, one of the easier way out was death. And so, I’ve actually given a lot of thought to what I want to happen in the event that- well, if I am made to suddenly depart the mortal world. 

But don’t worry, I’m much better now. Much more insight into who I am and how I want to live this life, so hopefully these thoughts about death will change directions. 

But I digress. 

If I were to conduct and plan my own funeral, I’d rather it be happy and light, rather than the traditional dark somber tones. Don’t mourn my passing; celebrate my life. Isn’t it better to remember one’s last moments in a lighter picture, rather than veiled in the heavy shroud of black? Grief is a given in any event of death, why amplify it? Temper it with light tunes and happy images, colour it with bright reds and yellows and oranges. 

But it’s not nice to think about death too much; I do believe that every thought is magnetic, and whatever it is you think of will attract the very thing of your thoughts. So let’s not linger; I’ve made my point. 

We celebrate New Years and birthdays, the birth of a new year; but at the same time we celebrate the passage of the old year, of times lost. What’s the difference eh? 

Finally, You

I thought tears were part of growing up

And getting told No

No, I’m choosing me

No, I’m choosing her

No, I’m choosing my future

No, you don’t fit in here 

No,

It’s not you. 

(it's me)

It always seem so easy, falling in love

My friends do it all the time 

One touch, one smile

They’ve got it

But all I get is still a smile,

Then a shake of the head 

You’re too picky, they said. 

Settle, they sighed. 

We compromise in every relationship, their eyes seem to say. 

Maybe you’re just too different, they say as they cradled their newfound loves. 

(maybe you're just too difficult, is what I hear)

I wrapped myself up in a steel cloth woven of tears

Barged ahead in huge mammoth steps

What is hurt? What is rejection? 

What is love? 

Stomped questions under my feet until they trembled 

Crumpled

(crumbled) 

And then, 

You. 

Took up my steel woven cloth like the softest silk

And wrapped it around us

Cradled my questions and my fears in your hands

And slowly, gently, held them above me where I no longer can reach them

(they no longer can reach me)

When everyone else, everything else is breaking apart

You held my hand (always held my hand)

When the world tries to break us apart

You held my hand (still holding my hand)

And when the noises grow too loud and the lights too bright

And our heads are crawling with locusts and thunderstorms of fire and hail,

You held my hand 

(never let go)

Finally, you. 

Finally. 

You. 

You

 I found my person. Finally. 

And he’s the Best Thing Ever. 

Even better than mint chocolate chip ice cream. 

How To Be A Romantic Realist

How to be a romantic when you're also a realist :

1. read a lot of fanfiction. 

2. be very very VERY spontaneous

3. lose your rationality

4. deprive yourself of sleep so your brain doesn't catch up with your heart

5. find romance in every single tiny little thing. 

6. wear sunglasses. A lot. 

7. don't keep a diary. 

8. or rather, keep a diary, but write about stupid romantic notions that excite you

9. read a lot of chick lit

10. watch chick flicks

11. practice giggling before you sleep

12. look in the mirror every night and tell yourself three girlish romantic things before going to sleep

13. try not to get your heart broken. 

14. try not to let it overcome you when your heart gets broken

15. don't wait 

16. just jump into it

17. pray a lot

18. cry a lot

19. keep emergency stashes of ice cream, preferably chocolate flavoured

20. don't drink your sorrows away; they just come back two fold

To be honest, you don't need 20 how-tos to be a romantic when you're also a realist. 

You only need one. 

One person. 

Romance can be reality, but how many of us are that lucky?

My First Kiss

 It was wet. 

It was heartbreaking. 

It's probably terribly cliched of me to say I can't think of my first kiss without feeling the shadow of that heartbreak, if not the excruciating pain of heartache. 

My first kiss was wet, because I couldn't stop crying. It was something that was doomed from the start, and me trying so hard, flailing to keep whatever I could. I was...not chosen, yet again, yet all I could feel was my heart rending into two when I still turned my head, when I still leaned in. 

People might call me crazy. Stupid. Naive. 

I am, all of the above. 

But I was also hurting, curious, and absolutely devastated. Fully aware of what I was walking into, but torn, nonetheless. 

So, yeah. When people talk about first kisses being sad and painful, it's usually becuase they didn't pan out to be anything. My first kiss was sad and painful, because I was already told nothing will pan out from it. 

But we deserve the love that we accept, and the non-love that we accept too. 

I still don’t regret any of it. If anything, it taught me everything that love can be and shouldn’t be. I never thought I would be strong enough nor mature enough to handle this with grace, not had I thought myself capable of love in such a setting. For if I could love someone in this way, despite being torn and hurt and battered by the waves of back and forth; surely, someday, someone would be capable of loving me the same. 

What I Miss(ed)

 Was watching a few rom coms these past days, aimed at various ages. 

But damn, different age groups have such different experience in dating. And, me, pushing thirties, still find some of the younger boys cuter than should be. Absolutely adore it when they rub the back of their necks when they're awkward or shy---damn thing makes something in me flutter like old ladies' plastic bags. 

And yet, these are the little things that you see only in younger age groups. Even the movies reflect real life. 

I suppose older men tend to lose these little quirks as they grow in confidence and experience. And at my age, most men are already more men than boys. 

But damn, wouldn't it be nice to experience the awkward straightforward passion-driven stupid courage boys have when they're feeling strongly about something, someone? Instead of the baggage-loaded, hesitant, jaded, heavily-debated guarded men of my age?

But then again, I've always been attracted to cute boyish specimens; and then lament the almost inevitable relative immaturity. 

Life's hard. 

I just wish I had the experience. The awkward flex. The shy glances. The super-cliched things in teen romcoms. All those things I missed. 

Instead of all these things I miss.