Rising, then down, rising, then down
I’m at the columbarium now for Qing Ming. Praying to my grandparents, for ourselves.
I’ve seen myself go down a spiral of desiring attention through the past two stage sessions, almost watching my parade of childish impulses in a out-of-body fashion.
stop
shut up you fucking bitch
I go around tossing my hands everywhere, teasing others wryly, chuckling.
It always starts as such, the rational self-staring in horror as I say stupid things and yet being unable to stop myself, on autopilot the whole time with arms behind my back.
I think I pissed Edith off; I was laughing childishly at someone else and she thought it was directed at her.
My blood ran cold then and it runs cold now.
I put on a jittery, smiley front on the bus back, and hopped off alone at the stop at RVRC.
Later on, I saw an Instastory of the other guys having supper, and felt desolate for the first time in days.
Dad and I broke off to light candles and joss sticks.
Walking to the burning point, waves of smoke sting my eyes and nose and I briefly reconsider my self-imposed social smoking ban.
The candles take some coaxing to light. The wax drips onto my fingernail and I wince even though it’s cool.
Last night, despite knowing that I had to wake up in four hours, I googled “bpd test”. Both kinds.
Some form of explanation to label a childish action away. Mania, I’d think. Mania’s convenient.
That’s self-handicapping, though. You know, you’ve lived decades without ever thinking about it and now once it’s convenient you’re humping that explanation to death?
Yeah, but it took me a few years to diagnose… That other thing.
So you’re collecting statuses.
Yes.
Pathetic.
Nothing came up but buzzfeed-esque quizzes, but the remainder seems to dissuade any false diagnoses.
You have to be energetic a lot of the time, they say. You have to have “episodes”.
I’m mildly relieved.
I only crash, I thought. There’s no rise.
We knuckle the joss paper into spirals, and my skin tears.
A family comes into our aisle and I imagine a grieving family fight club. “Their helper has an arm tattoo.” Mom whispers to me in disgust.
I decide against telling her off. “Eh, it’s cool what.” My mind conjures images of a badass helper, fighting with spatulas and cleavers. Later, I see the man of the house with another bicep tattoo and I think “oh of course”.
I look away, and glimpse at grandpa’s portrait. My round face and small eyes stare back at me.
How about ADD?
It makes sense, I tell myself. I’ve always been the talkative kid in classes. Bubbly, was a word the report card taught me.
Does it matter? What good does a label do?
I lose focus from time to time. I go off tangent a lot. I lose track of conversations.
My mind races to find logical connections. Jokes. They call it wit.
The fear of inappropriateness is lightning-fast. I say the right things (except for yesterday), and chide myself for thinking the wrong ones.
I’ve never properly sat in class. I don’t recall. In fact, memorisation was never my strong suit. I have had moments of clarity, but those are few and far between.
I speed read but I don’t absorb anything I read. I misread questions and jump to conclusions.
There was once I sat for an Econs paper, and I wrote nothing. I remember my eyes welling up. I do not know if it was because I knew nothing or if it was because I was devastated from something else.
But those are all things normal people do. And I might just be born normal. I’ve been surviving on mild interest in everything, although I’m losing my grasp on that too. Perhaps it’s a lack of discipline. Nobody does well because of “mild interest”. These are extremely common issues, right?
We stopped at a McDonald’s for breakfast.
Dad used his phone and refused to eat. He wanted to eat hawker food.
I tried to lighten the mood.
“If I had a helper,” I quoted through bites, “I’d have one with an arm tattoo. She’d be such a boss and be able to defend my children.”
Dad didn’t stir. “Stop being so stubborn, we’ve gotten the food already. We don’t eat here often.” Mom grumbled. Dad left the table, eyes on his phone.
“Obstinate old man.” Mom muttered.
I felt a trickle through my heart and bones. I doubt it was the food. Grief’s the cleaner explanation.
Even when discounting all of the ADD talk, I realise Mom’s constant accusations of “you were so smart then, what happened” makes no sense; I was never a good student.
I wish it was solace. I wish I snapped out of something.
On a date a few days ago, I recalled to her that I realise I was never good at studying. Primary school was just recounting shit from The Young Scientist. Secondary school was when studying stopped making sense. Learning stopped becoming fun. I got B’s which fell to C’s. I’ve been barely getting by ever since.
I have never been good. I’ve never been good at all. I was never a good student. The guilt of becoming shit, therefore, makes no fucking sense. It’s all a fluke.
We burn paper and the large box it came with.
The flames lick green and my brother points out that it could be trace metals in its paint. I eye the embers and prod the fire awake with the tail end of a broom.
“These are the most genuine interactions we have nowadays.” I prod the fires again.
Kor’s face flickers.
There’s only room in here for me, Crow whispers.
I wish that were true.
Crow cackles.
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