Loneliness Feels The Same In A Childhood Bed As It Does On A Faraway Island

Every part of you will always be easy pickings for someone else’s forked tongue, so you tell yourself that there is no point in cutting down the loudness of your laugh to make yourself less of a target. It works, sometimes. Continue reading “Loneliness Feels The Same In A Childhood Bed As It Does On A Faraway Island”

Loneliness Feels The Same In A Childhood Bed As It Does On A Faraway Island

On First Love

There’s a Facebook status quiz post thing that’s been going around in which people talk about their first loves. I figured I’d write another contemplative blogpost thingy about this because the bulk of my relationships are messy and dysfunctional and gritty – or at least I am often told it is more so compared to the average one. There’s a lot of dirty laundry written below and stuff that I’d never really publicly told people. I was thinking about it, and fuck it I’m just going to write it because I’m really really tired of people assuming the worst of me because they never think even to ask for my side of they story.
How do you even begin to define your first love? The first crush I ever had was a boy in my primary four class. He sat next to me and we both liked books and would talk about them to each other. He was probably the only tolerable boy in the entire class. Then he moved to the far end of the country and changed his school and we lost contact. One day I received a phone call from him. He told me that he’d just bought the latest Mr Midnight book and got it autographed. I think I was so stunned to receive this phone call that I only gave monosyllabic answers. This was despite the fact that I’d actually actively glared at the new boy who had been shifted to his old seat and said aloud often how much I missed the old boy. I put down the phone without ever thinking of getting his phone number. I think I only realised two years after that I had a crush on him. Which sounds ludicrous but in my defence, I was only nine at the time.
(This is the only sweet and cute story of the lot. You can stop reading now to avoid angst ahead.)

Continue reading “On First Love”

On First Love

Not Always The Victim

I’ve been thinking a lot about breakups lately. More specifically, the numerous ones I’ve had over the last five years.

A lot of people (including, perhaps especially, friends) have been judgey about it, and I can’t say I blame them. I jump head-first into relationships with the kind of recklessness that some might call very brave and many others just plain stupid. I simultaneously want to commit to things but am also afraid that I cannot live up to these commitments, afraid to let people down. I work out in my head reasons to stay or to leave, or to feel a different way but of course I end up doing something completely different in real life, so even with the best of intentions the plan never quite works out.

What’s interesting though, is that people/friends like to usually pin the blame on whichever partner I was with at that point in time. “Of course it wouldn’t have worked out with him you were settling”, “He’s so weird why were you even dating in the first place”, and “If only he had a spine – there FTFY”. It’s nice and heartening that friends have such a high opinion of me and also get righteously angry on my behalf but I find that I end up sliding into the role of victim far too easily. (It is so difficult to balance who is at fault though, and then thinking it is all my fault, which is another problem altogether.)

There is no such thing as a perfect victim. Or at least, I know I am not one. Continue reading “Not Always The Victim”

Not Always The Victim

After The Funeral

After the funeral I crawled into his side of the bed, unearthed his clothes from the cupboards, buried my nose in mountains of fabric, but his scent, like him, was gone. I had unplugged the phone, hidden my laptop under a mountain of trash. People kept finding new ways to tell me that they were sorry – in hushed whispers, condolences messages, assurances that he was a good man, the best man. I never knew what to say in response.

See the thing about finding The One is that there’s always a chance you will have to spend part of your life without them. I just didn’t expect to do it so soon.

The only thing I ate was soup, sullenly heating up a can on the stove and then spooning it tastelessly down my throat afterward when even the hunger pangs could cut through the numbness. Occasionally there was a loud knocking on the door, and I might hear my mother or my sister calling my name. Sometimes I would let them in, but would regret it almost immediately afterward as they bustled around tidying the apartment, making clucking sounds at me and trying to force me to eat, all while trying to make forced cheery conversation. Their love was deafening, and all I wanted to do was sink down into deep, black, bubbling grief.

The first letter was slipped under my front door. I found it after I stirred awake late one afternoon and stumbled into the living room. I had had a dream about him, and waking up felt like losing him all over again. It was in an unmarked white envelope which I opened without even noticing my hands’ moving. When I unfolded the letter, and finally looked down to read it, I almost dropped it.

Love, it started. I’m so sorry.

It was his handwriting.

Continue reading “After The Funeral”

After The Funeral

The Diary of a Cat Lover (a mostly true tale)

20 Feb
Met this handsome boy while walking home. He was really friendly and let me take all the pictures and give him lots of scratches. After a while a lady came by with kibble.
Apparently he’s been taken care of a whole community of cat ladies for the last ten years. One feeds him in the morning, he goes to another lady’s house in the afternoon for a snack (prawns, apparently, the pampered thing) and naps on the couch, and then a third gives him kibble at night, between eight to nine in the evening. Someone gives him anti-flea treatment every three months and there’s a domestic helper in the area who’ll give him a sponge bath every once in a while. They’ve tried keeping him in their homes before but he likes being free and jumps out of the window (on the second story) to escape the house.
They estimate him to be fifteen years old. He certainly doesn’t look it. I looked it up; house cats can live up to about seventeen years, stray cats seven, and he looks like he’s in the prime of his life.
The lady told me about how he’s very patient with children. How he used to chase and eat the rats in the area, but has gotten too old and slow to do that now. How he puts up with the dogs in the area, as long as they leave him alone.
His name is Nick. I hope to meet him again soon.
File_000.jpeg

Continue reading “The Diary of a Cat Lover (a mostly true tale)”

The Diary of a Cat Lover (a mostly true tale)