- I don’t blame Wayne’s Mother for wanting the best for her son
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None of us has the ability to choose what happens. Someone said to me, “..if shit hits the fan, then so be it. Learn to clean up the mess. No one can foresee when shit hits the fan. Just like we can’t foresee when our faeces will travel down the colon to exit the asshole..” Exact words and I LOL-ed at that.
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And yes, I agree we are judged on the choices we make. And if verbalizing how wretched and broken it leaves me, helps even just 1 person who is contemplating stepping into this line, to know the pain in your soul is crushing every time you turn up for work, and to propel the person to seek other avenues, I think it’s worth writing, even if the general public calls me names like a whore or a good for nothing disappointing slut who only knows how to open wide her legs.
The morning sun.
The morning peak hour traffic.
The hustle and bustle of pedestrians making their way to work or to the market.
A gaggle of young toddlers led my 2 chaperon childcare teachers, at the nearby playground happy just to be out.
Full of people around me, yet never have I felt so alone.
A solitary figure in white shirt and denim capris with a prada brown leather carryall, standing near the zebra crossing. Countless cars slowed down, and then accelerated. The drivers must have thought to themselves, “Siao char boh” or “stupid! Don’t want to cross, stand there for fuvk” and who knows what other thoughts.
I imagine that must be what I looked like, upon seeing the sms.
There was a sinking feeling in the pits of my stomach. I felt nauseous. An urge to throw up what makes me feel that sick, thinking that throwing up could help make the growing pain in my heart go away.
I don’t know how long I stood there, with the sun’s ray beating down on my bare skin, that never left the house without some sort of sun protection. I was jolted by the ring of my phone, and I answered the call with lightning speed thinking its Wayne. It was my girlfriend, Joy. Called to tell me not to be late for the afternoon tea at shangri-la. I no longer remember what exactly I said. But it must have worried her because she asked if I was fine and that I sounded weird. Should have told her what happened. I didn’t. My brain was blank. Like a hard disk that has been cleared of all data. Like a petrol tank that was empty of fuel.
My knees felt weak. Like a robot with no emotion, I finally crossed the zebra crossing and sat on the floor of a nearby hdb block’s void deck. A rising sense of panic set in.
I called every known number that belonged or was connected to Wayne.
Calls to his mobile went straight to voicemail. No one picked up call at his residence. His office direct line; thinking I finally hit jackpot when his voice came on. It was a recorded message that says he will be away from office and to look for a particular colleague if assistance is required.
In desperation, I called his best friend, Daniel. Still reluctant to face the truth or to tell it as it is, when Daniel answered the call, I felt a momentary sense of relief. I asked if he knew where Wayne was. He was puzzled as to why I would ask him. And enquired if anything was wrong. I said nothing and said, “ohh I can’t get him, thought he is with you”
When he said no, my heart sunk again. I was at a dead end. The stabbing pain in my heart grew. I ignored it and thought to myself that it must be a joke or perhaps he is planning to surprise me at my house.
Like a crazed woman, I found new meaning at that instant. And was optimistic that he would be at my place. I hurried home, unlocked the door, flung it open. Only to be greeted with silence. No one was at home.
That was when I crumpled onto the floor. I wanted to cry but no tears came. The stabbing pain in my heart hurt so bad I dug my fingernails into my wrist just to starve off the pain. Distraction. That’s what it was.
From this point on, I have at best hazy fuzzy memories of what I did. Don’t know if I stayed at home that day or was it for 1 more day. But at this point, no one in my immediate circle of friends nor my parents knew. I vaguely remember fobbing them off with lies that I wasn’t well and hid in my bedroom majority of the time. I sobbed and screamed into my pillow, trying to muffle the noise. I still kept calling those numbers of his, hoping to reach him. I stared at my mobile everyday every hour.
I don’t remember which day Wayne called. When I saw the number of his residence flash on my iPhone, I answered it and sobbed into the phone, “where are you? What is wrong?” So many questions but so little time to ask. All that greeted me was a “sorry. Do you want to pick up your belongings? It’s all packed. I could send them by courier if it’s easier. Text me and let me know.”
That was it. Call ended just like that. Fresh tears rolled down my face again. Suddenly I shot upright. Found new meaning in life at that second. I know what I needed to do.
Remember changing into a sundress and dashing out of the house. It was mid morning 10 plus am. Wanting to drive but I realized I left my keys at home. Didn’t want to waste even a second, I hailed a cab to take me to his place.
I stood at the metal gates for a long time. Rang the buzzer again. The Filipino helper whom I was always chummy with, opened the gates. Eager to know where Wayne was, I asked her the question. She looked away, refused to meet my gaze. Instead she said, “mam, sorry. Your stuff is inside. I bring out for you. "
I wanted to follow her into the house. She refused to let me in. I pleaded and pleaded. Still no. She stepped inside and I thought the door would close on me. But standing in the gap of the barely opened door, Wayne’s mother. She stood there with half her body behind the door. Looking at me like I was the most pathetic filthy creature in the whole world, she said “what do you want?”
“Is Wayne in?” “Please..let me see him, I need to talk to him..please”
Over and over I begged her. She stood there resolutely. Perhaps fed up of my antics, she said ,“my son made it clear. He is a decent boy. Told you right at the start he has a great future ahead and he needs a wife who can support him, not hinder him. Our family is not worthy of being in laws with your family. Please take your things and leave. "
As if on cue, the helper unceremoniously dumped 2 big red plastic bags (the kind that folks use in the market for big items like potted plants or bunches of joss paper) filled with my clothes, my guitar which I always practiced on for the church’s praise and worship, my golf bag and god knows what else. I cried and knelt on the floor, begging one last time. The wooden door slammed shut with a final slam..
How long I stayed there I don’t remember anymore. How I managed to cart all these alone, neither do I know. I do remember walking out of the gate. My heart, strangely, wasn’t hurting immensely. Instead a numbness and coldness took its place.
I walked. That I remember. Walked past the houses in that lane. Walked past houses in the next lane. Walked till I could see houses not buildings no more.. Trees..lots of them.
I thought I was crying. I don’t know if I was. It was raining. Raindrops pelted my face. I was soaked but I didn’t know it then.
I do remember the kind taxi driver who stopped amidst the rain by the road. And through the open window, shouted and asked if I need a ride. How I even got into the cab, I have no idea. The taxi uncle asked, “ok where to..” I didn’t know how to talk. I suddenly became mute. I handed him my wallet with the identity card inside. I must have looked like a strange woman to him. He took me home..I alighted and I think I probably paid. I don’t know if I thanked him.
*if the taxi uncle is on this forum, and you happen to read this..just wanna say thanks.
I don’t know how I carted my belongings into the house. All I remember is going into my bedroom, and lying on the bed, curled up like a fetus and the comforter covering me entirely.
*TBC
Quote:
Originally Posted by
fijiperri
Pain, the hurt that leaves a mark in our hearts,
Yet at times can be satisfying in a perverse way that we revisit it from time to time,
For without going through the darkest hour,
We would not see the brightest light and appreciate every joy fully,
It makes some of us feel alive,
Pushing us to reach deep into the recesses of our soul,
To the core of our emotions,
The best and worst memories would always etched deeply in us,
We may stumble as we walk along the path of life,
But we would learn to cherish every rainbow and silver lining that comes our way…
Nicely done. Very true but unfortunately my heart is like a poem of Sara Teasdale, an Americsn poet in late 19th century to early 20th century. In the poem, she uses the juxtaposition of spring and winter to show that one may appear as happy and bright as spring, but inside feel as cold as ice in winter.
The wind is tossing the lilacs,
The new leaves laugh in the sun,
And the petals fall on the orchard wall,
But for me the spring is done.
Beneath the apple blossoms
I go a wintry way,
For love that smiled in April
Is false to me in May.
This song made me cry the first time I heard it. Although it was only released last year or the year before. I received a few pm-s from a few samsters who said they were going through something difficult currently in their lives. And they felt like giving up. Apparently what I wrote showed them there are indeed people worse off than them. I hope whatever I have written helped put things in perspective. There will always be someone worse off than you. And me!
in a way we are fortunate. Isn’t it?
" I know exactly how that is. To love somebody who doesn’t deserve it. Because they are all you have. Because any attention is better than no attention. For exactly the same reason, it is sometimes satisfying to cut yourself and bleed. On those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen and you are washing a glass in the sink and it breaks-accidentally-and punctures your skin. And then there is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. That is okay sometimes because at least you know you’re alive.."
By Augusten Burroughs, Running with scissors
Starts off like a sharp sting. Like the pain a lancet gives when the nurse pricks your fingertip to get a tiny bit of blood when you had to do your identity card at 12.
As the pain continued, sending signals to your brain to release the hormone, endorphins, the emotional and physical pain dulls.
Then, a trickle of red. Your eyes glimpse it, appearing like a scarlet blob of pen ink that spread on a piece of white paper. Your body release adrenalin, which quicken your heart rate and introduces a burst of glycogen or glucose. It’s nature’s way of providing you energy when a fight or flee response is triggered by danger. Except in this situation, there was no danger.
By now, the pain has dulled so much, I cut deeper again into the same wound. The blob of red soon flowed a little more.. Mesmerized by the sight of blood saturating and spreading across the bedsheet, I felt myself slipping into a peaceful darkness that envelops every part of me.
My brother was the one who discovered me. The incident affected him deeply, such that for a long time, he didn’t talk to me even after I got well. It was also the reason we drifted apart. He just couldn’t understand why I couldn’t treasure and love myself more even though that person didn’t. When I still had my family and him, my brother. He couldn’t understand why a normally sensible sister would do that.
He shouted for my parents, who came rushing into the bedroom. He called 911. As I drifted in and out of consciousness, having taken a massive cocktail of dormicum and Valium and I can’t remember what else, my dad was trying to shake me awake, dousing my face with cold water. Wanted to tell them I love them and I’m sorry. But the urge to sleep was too strong.
Woke up to the feel of cold metal on my wrist.
The rattling of the metal handcuffs against the bed, brought my parents into the room. There was a police officer there as well.
Apparently if you wanted to die, you needed to make sure you really die.
Zero heartbeat. Zero breathing. More dead that the ant that I just squashed under my shoe. For if by a rare stroke of bad luck, you do survive the suicide attempt, it is punishable with a year’s jail or a fine, pursuant to section 309 of the Penal Code.
Though rarely enforced, another key aspect to suicide is that, under the mental health care and treatment act, the authorities technically could send the subject to IMH for a 72 hour chalet stay IF you survive.
They didn’t send me there. Simply because IMH lacked medical facilities to render care for medically unstable patients. And because of patient autonomy, authorities are unable to forcibly admit the subject to IMH, unless he or she does not require medical care.
So the gist is, either one really konks out, or somehow make sure that in the event you do survive, your condition definitely requires medical care IF you don’t wish to see the insides of an IMH ward.
Anyway, my parents had to sign a release form or something, basically to undertake the responsibility that the subject which is me, would not be doing the same again.
The general view of society, including members of the nursing team for the ward I was, probably felt it was a waste of resources and bed space for someone who didn’t treasure her life. After all, out of the 3 nights I spent there, I often heard the junior nurses talk and gossip in guarded whispers. In any case, the medical staff had pumped my stomach to flush out the contents which included a lovely cocktail of drugs. They had also stitched my wrist up.
14 stitches.
That was the mark I would be branded with for life. And one that I would always spend the rest of my life hiding. Later on, after this episode in my life, the scar always led me to use my right hand to hold utensils, leaving my left hand on my lap. If I took public transport, I would deliberately hold onto the metal bars or the bus railings, with my right hand instead of my left. In social functions, If there leaves me no choice but to deploy the use of my left hand. I would always flex it such that the red angry scars faces the least number of people. It became a habit.
Effectively bi-dexterous, I used to use my left hand to write. With the brand of shame, my dominant hand now became my right.
In a way, that is how life is.
When you lose something, you learn to cope using another existing thing or alternative tool.
*TBC
Guys, Can we please don’t argue over this….everyone is entitled to their opinions. And if we look at the points brought forth by each of you gentlemen, I can’t say anyone is downright wrong or 100% right.
If I may sum up, each opinion has its own merits.
Our life experiences, societal factors, etc. determines the viewing angle by which we look at every situation.
It is just what it is. And whom among us has not been selfish or self serving before.
And I hope in helping someone albeit even if I’m not aware, it would make me feel better and be a form of consolation.
The hospital referred me to a government psychiatrist who diagnosed PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) and depression, they said the US incident was the main cause but the subsequent break up was the catalyst that finally triggered the suicide attempt. These days, every time I read of some news about US war veterans and their PTSD suffering, it still sends chills down my back. Hearing that term brings with it a sense of deja vu. It is so hard to put into words, the thick darkness that envelops you, and seeps into every ounce of your being and which oppresses every logic and rationale to be happy, and the exact searing pain that cuts you simply because you are still alive. It is as you felt that you should have been dead and deserved to be lying 6 feet under the ground.
In those days, the social stigma of anyone having to visit a psychologist or a psychiatrist for mental health was such that one gets labeled as a nutcase. As such, my parents made sure that other than immediate family, only a handful of close friends were kept in the loop. They were the ones who stood by me and paid me regular visits at home, determined to keep the friendship alive. I am forever grateful to them.
Society these days on the whole have progressed a lot, better equipped and educated on the general topic of mental health. Perhaps in part due to burgeoning numbers in terms of young and working adults afflicted with depression, people do realize that it can strike anyone regardless of class levels, education etc.
In any case, the first visit to the psychiatrist’s office allowed me to see multitudes of patients who were obviously suffering inside. Someone said to me before, in hokkien, that “..going to that kind of place, not mad also will become mad..” *direct translation
There were those who sat on the chair waiting, continually fidgeting, shaking their head or mumbling to themselves. I saw those who sat there with tears continually flowing but no heaving or wailing sound. I saw those who sat there with obvious self inflicted cuts on themselves (thighs, legs, hands, palms, wrist etc). And those whose faces resembled an empty canvas, devoid of any writings of painting a. As I sat there waiting for my turn with my mum, I was wondering, am I really bat shit crazy? Would I become like them eventually? What on earth is wrong with me, why do I feel so alone even when there are people around me.? All these and a million thoughts were carousing through my deadened mind like a freight train at full speed.
Eventually came my turn to enter that room. It looks like any clinical office except what was missing were the usual medical apparatus we would frequently see. Clean. Sterile. Tidy. Emotionless. I felt these words sum up that room with the psychiatrist seated within. He was a kindly old gentleman with neat jet black hair and a pair of spectacles perched on his nose. While I was seated, he took a brief glance at my medical file that was on his desk. I don’t remember what exactly he asked but I remember crying in his office. I remember being asked a series of questions and having a chat about me and what happened. And him trying to prod deeper and deeper in conversation. Crying in his office became a way to cope with some of the uncomfortable questions.
He sent me home with a large bag of medicine and said that these medication will help me. For easier understanding, there is a difference in seeing a psychiatrist or a psychologist. While professions deals with emotional and mental health however the distinct difference between the 2 is that a psychiatrist is basically a medically trained doctor with a 3 year residency in the assessment and treatment of mental health disorders. A psychologist on the other hand, does not have the ability to dispense medication as they are usually not medically trained, though if they are, they could dispense some general medicine. A psychologist has a doctoral degree in the human psychology, study of the mind and human behavior. As such, they would also have a degree in clinical or counseling psychology.
So in short, the ones we typically see in movies and tv series, of a patient lying on a couch or seated in a armchair trying to pour out their thoughts with a doctor like figure seated nearby to encourage them to share more–> that is a psychologist we are looking at.
A psychiatrist is more “business” minded, in the sense that based on your answers to their questions, they arrive at a diagnosis. Much like how doctors arrive at the diagnosis of a physical ailment. And it is definitely not as comfortable being grilled by the psychiatrist.
The visit didn’t seem to help me much. Other than being “gifted” with a bag of pills which I took home. I never took them. And my parents didn’t know. They applied to my employer then, on my behalf for hospitalization leave. Thinking those magic pills would work at easing the pain in my heart.
During this period, I would hide in my room all day, venturing out only to use the bathroom. Only when night fell and everyone has retired to their bedroom, would I step out of my room. Always stood at the window of the living room, looking up at the night sky, looking at each and every house that was lighted up, wondering why and how the wheel of life could continue moving while I was stuck and rooted to the ground. Tears melted through my pjyamas like litle drops of acid.
I felt like a leftover, scraped to the fringe of the plate; unappetizing, repulsive. Like I was a waste of life giving oxygen.
Logical thought processes were non existent and I blamed myself for what had happened.
Things finally came to a heed only when I was caught taking something that didn’t belong to me. I had ventured out with my mum. Went into a department store and I saw someone who resembled Wayne. I lost it and I began taking stuff into my arms and simply walked out of the store. To cut the long story short, the police was called. My mum was in a state of panic. My dad dropped whatever he was doing in the office and rushed down. Brought back to a police station, handcuffed, thrown into a lock up cell. I remember sitting on the cold bare cement floor, tears streaming down. I felt like vermin. Having taken my statement, I remember what the Investigating officer said to me after that. He said that my parents have been outside all this while, waiting to bail me out. It is time to wake up. And no one, can help me except myself. I was let off with a warning though I was this close to being charged, as told by the officer. Had my medical letter from the government psychiatrist not been submitted by my parents, probably it would have gone the other way.
I burst into tears the minute I saw them. They even brought down a distant relative of my dad, a lawyer, to help get me out as soon as is possible.
From that point on, the road to recovery started. It took me 2 months. Some tells me it’s considered fast, for there are those who either stays on medication for years or not getting any better from the first day they were diagnosed. It was during the harrowing 2 months period that I also read extensively and learnt that a lack of serotonin in the brains leads to either temporary feeling of down. A massive prolonged lack leads to depression. Reading about the chemistry of the human body helped me tremendously to rationalize the feelings I had over Wayne’s leaving, and eventually a breakthrough for healing.