Category: General

I divide my life up into chapters, extremely uninteresting and unoriginal. In each chapter lies a theme I glean from this session and is sealed with the wax of “you have learned everything there is to know about so-and-so”.

It’s probably started from when I was in Park View Primary and I’d walk home under an orange sky, past the massive, adulty, sinister and foreboding multi-storey carparks and mutter to myself:

“today was a lucky day, I got 99 marks.” or

“today I lost twenty cents, it is an unlucky day.” or most likely,

“today good and bad things happened. It’s a ‘both’ kind of day.”

A fervent classification of my luck was my religion, and the evening recaps were ideas I had borrowed from karma and retribution, promising that eventually a bad week would turn good.

The other chapters have been marked with “separation”, “existential crises”, “broken families”, “abusive fathers” etc. Mostly sobering stuff.

This chapter’s stamped with ANXIETY, bold, gold lettered and all caps.

For years, I thought the “D” (laugh all you want, I can’t bring myself to label myself with this word) was the only issue to afflict me. It’s cool. It’s nice to be the guy who’s laughing but mysteriously hiding deep, dark secrets! Like a Robin Williams, a Bojack Horseman, a detective noir’s noir detective, a sad clown!

Anxiety is much less indulgent. It’s the All Hands On Deck of ailments, it’s the Rookie, the uninitiated. It’s pathetic, it’s an excuse, it’s pity. It’s PATHETIC. It’s an illness, but it’s also your fault, with the lack of experience and confidence.

It starts with a thought, a trigger (yuck) or a comment out of the blue. Your skin feels dry, you think “here we go again” and your acid reflux begins. For the next hour or so, your breaths feel shallow, your heart feels tired and you wanna get out of there, wherever there may be, through the door, window or wall.

---

“I’ve been better”

“so what happened?”

When I like someone, I beat myself up too much, I talk myself down with, “she’s too good for you” and other stories. A hit on the esteem, and ammunition for loathing. And an obsession with blue ticks, and conversation that every sentence I make is somehow calculated but also regretful?

Coffee. Caffeine worsens anxiety. That day I staved off coffee? I was tired as hell, yes. But the bliss of being able to let go of toxic thoughts.

There was once I was supposed to get laptop brochures during the IT fair for my brother. I immediately hesitated on the show floor, to realise that the salesmen were there to help and I was literally thinking that they would hate me for no reason at all.

And the whole romanticising sadness thing which made me revisit writing about all these but made me view my mental illnesses as my own fault that I couldn’t stand up to and my problems that other people could shrug off, but I was too weak to handle?

And the other time, when I met with a friend and we talked the morning away and that was an anomaly because I didn’t worry about whether she thought I was gross and it made me happy that it happened but really really scared because that was what normal felt like, like that time I took diazepam for the first time.

And there’s this weird thing where when you read stories, you kind of lose track, not just about time, but about yourself and the surroundings. You’re not even understanding the words on the book, but everything loses focus and once you bring yourself out of it, you need at least 5 minutes to remember who you were and why you’re backstage and that it’s not a dream and oh my god it’s your time to go on stage.

And everything I write here is a list, I’m a fraud, I don’t write well, it’s all lists and vague metaphors and I’m talking to her too much and lists symbolise anxiety don’t they and she’s not replying which doesn’t matter you don’t reply too? And you’ve been better and what if your entire life in the future is just anxiety and depression?

I’ll be fine again, but for how long?

On New Year’s Eve, I was texting Sophie, a petite girl from Seattle whom I had known through a stray Halloween party.

Through a chain of events, she lost her hostel booking and came to stay with me for two nights.

On New Year’s Day I took her around the neighbourhood, to the roof of the tall tall HDBs to look at the foggy skyline, and in the afternoon we walked from Aljuined to Stadium before cycling to the Anderson Bridge and walking to City Hall.

In the evening, we ran my usual route. It was odd to run the same route that I was used to bounding along with a tiny set of legs in front of me. I was shit out of breath.

She left me a note when I came back from work the next day and I was warm inside.

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.

During Stage today (The City Remembers is coming up next week) I felt kind of cheeky and clambered around while the others didn’t respond much.

I’d say something or prod others for a neat reaction and immediately feel shame for engaging in such a childish desire for attention. I’d not hear a single instruction and end up being lost the next moment… Not exactly foreign.

I felt alone as hell, and my rationality spat, “This doesn’t fucking make sense. They love you. What are you after?”

There’s been a recent “thing” where I’ve suspected that… I’ve some form of hyperactivity. I’m afraid of slapping a sign onto what was a natural path. Labelling your own problems and self-handicapping are way easier solutions than confronting the fact that you’re imperfect and that it is alright to be.

It doesn’t come easy if you’ve no sense of normalcy to compare it with; I’ve understood my life to be fairly alright. But I get distracted easily. I yearn for engagement. I overthink to a tremendous degree. I realise I’ve always been the one talking in class. I realise.

I’m afraid to even get it tested, because it feels like yet another check in a checklist of excuses.

Where’s the line between a personality issue and a mental issue?

---

Things are buzzing. Word vomit ahead.

I’ve my third date later on today. Like waiting for maturity to hit the ripe old age of twenty-one, nothing changes. The drought of a relationship is a desert all the way to the barbed-wire fence… And there’s still more desert beyond.

I’m aware we’re both probably thinking the other is too good for the self. We’re both our first dating partners. I’m keeping things “open”. I’m not wondering if she hates me, which, by God is the most refreshing feeling on Earth.

She’s small and quiet, though, which makes it really hard to hear her at times.

I’ve been feeling more confident in reaching out and dating ever since the Get Juiced incident. That one with the women-loving-women. The confidence had grown to an unruly thicket shortly after, a real fun bit of “will she won’t she like me” with anyone remotely attractive (and, thinking about it, anyone who even gives me attention), which ends up in disappointment since I rarely do anything about these yearnings.

I’m still learning.

I’m playing a grief-stricken husband in Grief is the Thing with Feathers. I know sadness. I don’t know grief that much. I’m afraid of overacting. I’m humbled.

I’m tired. She’s been initiating the last 2 dates (the second one was a hilarious triple date), I should do something too.

“I’m sorry.

I shouldn’t have told you to go away when you… Rubbed my hair to check if I actually blowdried it.

Our house isn’t that small. I was in the corner, I blowdried my hair and I told you I did.

I was angry too because I felt like it was a bit excessive.

I want… I want our relationship to be of two brothers you know? I don’t need another fuckin Mom or Dad, they ask me enough about my grades, my life.

I want a friend and not a second dad.

And I get that you’re still angry. This is probably how you care for me. And that’s OK.

Just know that this talk is long overdue and it was my fault for hiding it.

I’m sorry.”

Rooftop, Science

Yeah, it’s a double bill! Old draft which I dredged up.

After we’d watched Permanence, Gina’s play, we headed over to a nearby capsule hotel to indulge in $5 beers.

I can’t hold my liquor well (makes things that much cheaper really) and started ruminating after 2 bottles.

Guys, don’t you love the feeling when you’ve just stayed the night at a place unfamiliar and it’s the next morning – it’s still dark outside – the irregular sound of bedsheets glide over each other and ruffle their way into your thoughts, while hushed voices and an occasional chuckle echo from somewhere else. People scour through their packs and duffles and messily stuff plastic bags back into whichever compartments they could make out with the torchlight between their teeth.

When I got my own room in a Scottish Airbnb with unfinished flooring, with floor mats literally placed as a makeshift footpath from the bed to the door. The window outside was grey, like every building is. The trees are barren and dusty cars peep from distant roads.

You slide the balcony door open; your breath is a cloud and the air throttles your lungs.

Or how about Amsterdam, when you got a roof apartment that ascended from stairs that are half as wide but twice as steep as you’re used to? When in your excitement in taboo you took several deep drags of the stuff to your disappointment (and to everyone else’s annoyance when you coughed like a fucking amateur) before it hit you all at once fifteen minutes later and you had to be escorted to the doorstep of the coffeeshop with a cup of sugar water?

“Not sure about that. ” They look at you curiously, but you’re smiling to yourself; you’re somewhere else.