Wednesday, August 13, 2014


I started this post at least two or three months ago, but never got around to finish it. Somehow, now seems an apt time.

A close friend asked if I was prescribed anti-depressants for my tummy problems last year. I wasn't. I don't think I had written about what happened with me exactly. Here it is.

I had been unhappy for what may be a prolonged period. I had been stressed out by things I did not (and perhaps, still do not) consciously acknowledge, or hadn't been aware of. I know not when these unresolved issues, piling and compounding on each other, as issues are wont to do, crossed the limit of my tolerance. They did, and consequently, the tummy problems began.

My gastroenterologist diagnosed functional dyspepsia and prescribed me anti-anxiety meds. I took them for a couple of weeks to no distinguishable relief from symptoms. He upped the dose and I still didn't get better. Finally, he ordered an upper gastrointestinal endoscopy. Nothing. I continued on the anti-anxiety meds for another month or so, while making it a point to be fine with everything. I strive not to sweat the small stuff, not even the somewhat bigger ones. I made an effort to stop over-thinking too many things and learned to let go. I got better, and haven't been in serious pain for over a year now.

So, no, I told my friend. It wasn't depression, which, perhaps laughably, I experienced before too. It was the time I cried myself to sleep every night, lost the will to live, and lost enough weight to look like a ghost. Granted, I hadn't needed medical attention (or maybe I did, but... oh, well) and I dragged myself out of the crazy, all-encompassing gloom after several months. It wasn't easy, and it was scary.

It was scary because I entertained thoughts - several times - of ending it all. All I could see was circumstances hopeless and repellent - there wasn't a single thing I could imagine doing that would lead me down a path I would enjoy, or at the end of which I could see a light, or even affect in the slightest manner anyone in my life. No one cared, and I didn't care. It would be when I was performing mundane daily tasks - driving, showering - when panic would attack. I'd feel a tightness in my chest and maddening lightness in my head. I'd have to physically scream at myself, sometimes including pulling at my own hair or slapping my own cheeks, to snap out of it.

If you know me, Reader - if you are a friend, I imagine you might be rather taken aback right now. Is this true, what you are reading? Isn't she a very happy, funny, and most of all, tough, girl? How can she be this messed up inside?

The truth is, sometimes, the most messed up people put up the best facade to hide their true feelings. I am fortunate that I wasn't that ill, so that I was able to find my way out of the black holes on my own. What about those who aren't? They kill themselves.

I don't know why we should insist on saving those who want to die - in the end, we all have to die anyway. The reason I would guess, is that perhaps many just couldn't, at the worst time in their lives, see that they really want to live, and they can, if only they get past the darkness. And the darkness, eventually, definitely will pass.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Older and Wiser

Picture this: three ladies in short dresses and high heels were walking down a paved road, towards a building on the opposite block. In their path, was a drain, about a foot or so wide. They could either hop across it, or walk a further distance where a completely covered path exists.

"Should we jump?"
"We're in heels... what if we fall?"
"It looks dangerous..."

We decided to walk further, like proper ladies ought to.

"You know, if I was ten years younger, I would've just jumped!"
"Right! Or if I was wearing flats or slippers, I would've considered jumping too..."
"Agreed! Totally!"

Yup, definitely older and wiser now.


Thursday, May 29, 2014

The Last Concubine

It is not without reluctance that I tagged this post under my reads. I am barely halfway through it, and have completely lost the will the proceed. I might some day - some very distant day - finish reading it, but I don't want to wait that long to write about it.

I can't remember what of this book that caught my fancy. Perhaps it was the cover art (yes, I still make the mistake of judging a book by its cover, every now and then...), or the promise of the teaser-synopsis on the back. The only things I remember about it are the two or three times I started it, and then gave up before the first chapter was over. Trust me, Reader, when I say "dropping out" of a book isn't at all like me! I mean, I finished all four books in the Twilight series! Sure, I practically had to force my eyes on the pages by the time I got to the third one, but nevertheless, completed all four. That's how obstinate I can be. (Note: I will always regret having read them though...)

The Last Concubine is tiresome in its lengthy, yet uninteresting description of everything. Its pace is exceedingly slow, a painful drag. Certain parts in the story (up to less than half the book, where I'm currently paused...) are outright laughable. Should I extend my apologies to the author for what I've just written?

Sorry, Lesley Downer, I simply don't enjoy reading your book.

Reader, if you trust my opinion on reading material, don't bother getting this. If you have, by chance, already read this title and enjoyed it, I'd really like to hear from you! Leave a comment, or write me.

Monday, May 26, 2014

Two Months

It wasn't that I forgot my password or anything. I'd just been burning myself out taking on more than I ought to. It was work, and well, research obligations, and more work. And as if I hadn't stretched my limits out quite enough, I took on an extra "project", for lack of a better word, for the sake of *ahem*... glory. And, a small sum, of course.

Sometimes, I wish I were more regular. I wish I didn't think so differently, that makes the whole business of being me so... unbearable, at times. I wish I can be like all the other money-chasing fools out there. Earn big bucks, spend big bucks, *happyhappyhappy*. Imagine that in hashtag, Reader.

Most of the time, I don't know what I want. Sure, I wouldn't mind lots more money for the amount of heart and effort I put into what I do, but that's not the ultimate goal. I don't know what is. Perhaps, I'm still searching. Perhaps the reason I feel lost is... I'm actually lost. There are days I feel I'm right on track in my life, and there are those I feel I'm struggling for something I can't quite put my finger on.

Struggling. In high school, after a particularly disappointing test result announcement, my bestfriend felt especially depressed. She gazed listless out of the classroom window. It was pouring madly outside. In a broken voice, she said - Look at the bird flying in the rain. I am that bird... struggling. Of course, that, she definitely isn't now. I wish I can be sure that I'm not too.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Weird Sounds Past Midnight

There was once, when I was a child, laying in bed in the middle of the night, I heard weird sounds. I am convinced I was awake then - one would have to be awake to be trembling in fear - but I accept that I might had been only half-conscious, or completely unconscious and dreaming away. There is no way to determine that now. I was 8, maybe 9 years old, my family members were all fast asleep, and the house was in near-complete darkness. I heard rattling of the iron grill at the main door.

It was loud, it was clear - it was as if someone, or something, was grappling with it. It rattled. Then, silence. Rattling. Silence. Rattling. The pattern repeated for a good while. I heard it all, and was so terrified I couldn't move, couldn't make a sound - not even to wake my little sister sleeping in the next bed. I don't know how long it went on, I never found out what it was. Chances are, I never told anyone about that night.

There was another instance my sister heard crying in the house. She had somehow awoken, in the dead of night, and heard distinct sounds of weeping - heartbreaking cries, she added - from another part of the house. She was in her bedroom and had not dared to venture out to investigate. She told no one of it then, and only related the experience to me several months later.

As I sit here typing these words, I hear sounds coming from downstairs. Like, things being moved, doors or windows being opened or closed, indeterminate slight clickings and clankings. My family is fast asleep. All lights except that of my room are off. To insist that I am past the age of being terrified would be to be untruthful. I am in fear. Who wouldn't be spooked by unexplained noises one would not expect to hear at this unworldly hour?

This is unlike the iron grill rattling from my childhood, which may very well be nothing more than a vivid dream, given that I cannot be sure if I wasn't asleep. I am fully awake now. This is also unlike the mysterious crying my sister told of, for I was quite sure it was me she heard. Staying up all night and crying was something I tended to do as young adult when feeling depressed. (I am not crazy... wuahahahah *Ahem*) But this - now - I cannot explain what I'm hearing.

And so, yes. I am scared...

Tuesday, March 11, 2014


I'm not sure I believe in them... but we sure could use one right now. My thoughts are with the 239 souls aboard MH370.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

Nothing To Say

Sometimes, there are just so much on my mind I want to simply spell everything out... yet, as I'm sitting, staring at the blank screen, I have nothing to say.

Certain things are too complicated; others too sensitive, or controversial, or at risk of putting others in trouble; there are those I feel reluctant to share under the semi-transparent cloak of anonymity. In short, I have so much, yet, nothing. It's the closet-full-of-clothes-and-nothing-to-wear situation again.

Perhaps it is more accurate to say that it isn't that I have nothing to say - it is that I have nothing I want to say.

Both life and work are too complicated for my liking at the moment. In the next, when things become more favourable, perhaps, I should find the the writer that I hope is still within me.

Goodnight, world.