Losing it / Losing grip

Waking up at 11.47 p.m – dread was the siren wails to the alarm; the wave of realisation that struck the head, hard. Albeit imaginary, the feelings were mostly raw; they were real.

i have lost count of the days; lost myself in differentiating reality from dreams. Weaving in and out; Not being able to tell if time is passing too fast, or too slow.

Getting out of bed each day without a solid sort of purpose for the day, auto-piloting throughout and repeat this sequence. To busy oneself with nothing specific may be numbing, but pain-killers wear off. And when the pain kicks in, it hits you twice as hard, in every possible aspect it can. So per se, if you were moving forward, it makes you take a step back from where you left off before you made any sort of progress. Does that make sense to you? Perhaps not. Imagine time froze the past month. An almost perfect mental state, but when it defrosts, the cold burns the sensory neurones. Pain is amplified, alongside all other feelings one could feel.

With the series of events over the course of three months, i might be driving on the road to insanity.

Exams / meet-ups / almost immediately taking off for Hong Kong / immediately heading to Australia / back to Singapore / driving lessons once again / fail driving again, for the fifth time / auto-piloting through life since then:

Feels like some sort of paralysis thus far, really. Being so hopeless, so helpless. In such a sorry state. And I am truly sorry i disappoint (without fail, ironically) those around me whom i dearly love. So blessed, too blessed in fact, for everything that i have.

But for all these “too-blessed”-ings, something seems to be gravely lacking. The tradeoff seemed to be that she was a little too un-blessed in the factor of luck. Having to go through it again and again, each time being so close to passing – only to miss the mark by an error or two; is breeding terror in her. So stagnant. While everyone else around her is moving forward, not just forward, but it seems so easy to them, she wonders to herself why was she stuck. So much of a failure, so cumbersome, so pathetic. The word burns her deeper than skin-deep,leaving a scar or two on her heart, and on the train tracks of her thoughts. Each time she thinks and hopes for it to be the last, but the hope can only reach so far out, no further than within herself.

It is terrible not doing anything, and even more in not being able to do something.

I don’t know what I’ve done to have been blessed with such loving and doting parents – but things have been going a little more than smooth-flowing recently. Papa booked me a flight to the Philippines to accompany him on his business trip in July. That morning I had a dream that was foreboding, and it seemed like the answer was a firm ‘no’, with regard to whether or not to tag along with him. In all efforts to offer his daughter an experience and a first, along with tons of love, he went ahead to buy the ticket.

It was only after the realisation of what she were to miss hit her and rang profusely in her head that she saw the fate that was sealed: Missing a reunion with a close circle of friends she had grown up with, and miss one of her best friend’s departure to return to Australia after a good two years here. And it broke her heart, again. By now, if you were to sketch her heart out, the outer surface is no longer a healthy flush of red; perhaps one with countless plasters, plastered over plaster. Some parts where blood might be leaking from some cracks; running over raw wounds and old scars. Peculiar and creepy, obviously. What could she do? Nothing, but to blame herself for being disappointed that she will be away that week with her father. Condemning her feelings, for being such an ungrateful, unappreciative, overly-spoilt brat. What more to hold in such a broken heart, but a little more dread for herself, because this was what she brought upon on herself.

None could see the frown she was sending to the sealed fate: as if this were all a game and she were the joke. It is not the first time that she was the fool, in fate’s clutch. Because it seemed like she had been blinded to that part of memory on purpose, although she knew she was missing out on something – only to have her sight returned to her after everything has happened.

Thus far, she has no/little reason to be sad/unhappy/discontent with everything she want/had/received, for it was way more than what she deserved. But there were so many questions, spreading like tumours invading the body, that were unanswered. That needed to be solved (or dissolved). That needed to be addressed. Waking up to everything was overwhelming: not really sure how to feel about it, and somewhat the equivalent to an immense fear of having to conquer all the uncertainties that loomed, as her heart continues to bleed, over the open wounds, over the dry scars, and over the cracked surface. Truth is, beneath the mask she wears, she was caving in. Disintegrating worse than granite transiting into gruss. But while the cracks carry on cracking, who could see through? Was there anything anyone could even do about it?

The uncle in the ward, albeit having his movement restricted, tries even harder than before to raise his hand, and show everyone a thumbs up. That he was a fighter. He was a champion. And he was nowhere near giving life up. Each day he lies in bed, but he strives to do more than what he could achieve the day before. And here i am, hopeless. Not restricted to movement in any way; in fact, very mobile. But her heart seems to be in a ward of its own, more paralysed than paralysis.

How do you send one’s heart to rehab?



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