Anger management issues: it runs in the family.
My father uses exclamation marks in his texts to show his anger now, but I guess it's better than the way he used to hit me all the time. Even when I was 17, the only way he knew how to punish me was by giving me a beating. The day he kicked me out nearly five years ago, he rammed his foot into my stomach so many times, he should have done it when I was pregnant and saved me all the abortion fees. But he will excuse himself every Hari Raya when he says he beats me up because he loves me.
I've seen my elder brother snap at my mother just for the way she fidgeted with her toes. The way he took all my books and threw them across the living room because he didn't like how I dumped my bag on the floor when I got home from school. I've seen him break down because of an extension cord, actually throwing it at my father. I've gotten my fair share of beatings from him, oh how my mind and body have been so bruised from the hits of these two. The two older men whom I thought were supposed to protect me.
I know the way my mother likes to use her role to get what she wants; how she thinks I should be giving her $500 because that's her entitlement as a mother, even though she knows I earn less than a thousand each month. I remember the way she shrieked at me in the dining room: "I am your mother E'indah I AM YOUR MOTHER!" I never once forgot that she is my mother, but why does she always forget that I'm not her only child and I don't deserve every one of the burdens?
Save me the pain from seeing my younger brother turn out like them too. I've seen him cry when our elder brother and father fought because of an extension cord, and it breaks me. I'd rather be killed than watch him grow up angry, only knowing how to throw things and hit people.
Last night I watched my elder brother break down again, because he didn't like the way my father scolded my niece. He accused him of venting it on her while he was angry at me, for reaching home late. I tried to drown out my elder brother's voice, my father's daring him to sini pukul ah bapak kau, pukul. I knew my elder brother would have punched my father's face right in, I knew, and all I made myself do was get up of bed and stand between them.
But I wasn't strong enough, you know, I had nothing. My mother was the one who held my elder brother back; my grandmother the one who told him to mengucap. My niece didn't know what was happening, but her father's angry voice was scaring her and she started crying, together with me. She allowed me to wrap my arms around her and she hugged me back, her wailing almost as loud as my elder brother's possessed voice.
Why do we throw things when we're angry? Why did you pick up your son's crib and your daughter's little chair and throw them at your father? I heard your increasing voice, bringing up all those years from your youth, how our father beat you up and it's led you to be this way.
Anger. It runs in the family.
Fire. It might run in this house someday, burning it down. Maybe our family could reflect the one in my most favourite book, we can be our own Sinclairs. We could look perfect and happy on the outside, only to burn to ashes someday.
Friday, September 15, 2017
Wednesday, September 06, 2017
Limbo
The dreams that take place where you are currently sleeping are the worst. I could be lying in bed, and then off my alarm goes: I get up and head to the shower and nothing seems odd... until I look into the mirror and realise half my face is gone. Another alarm goes off, and I wake up again but this time for real.
I don't know if you've experienced those before, but I get that a lot. I'm not looking at my sleeping body in third person or anything, but it's an entirely different scenario taking place in the exact same room. The same furniture, the same placement of the books and bed and the like.
My thoughts rob me of my sleep sometimes, but they also rob me of sweet dreams. I got home at 2 last night, after ignoring the phone calls and texts from my parents at Pasir Ris and aunt and grandmother from Paya Lebar. I thought it was unfair for my parents to call Paya Lebar asking about me, but they were sleeping when I got home. They made my aunt and grandmother worry for me and left them to it while they go off into slumber.
Those were the last few things I thought of before I drifted off sometime after 3 in the morning. But my sleep never really lasts, because I was forced awake a while later: at 5:32 A.M. Maybe it isn't a coincidence but I'm not surprised by it anymore. I'm haunted by my own head and a heart that never got to beat.
In the afternoons I could sleep through an earthquake; at night the sound of my heartbeat is loud enough to keep my eyes wide open. I don't dare close them, to give way to the dreams that grow from the tiniest of thoughts. It exhausts me, and I think it's taking a toll on my dream-self too.
During my very few 5-minute naps before my alarm at 8 this morning, I saw my/her reflection. The depth of her dark circles, how the skin beneath her eyes seemed to have sunken into her sockets. I can't get the image out of my mind, it really did feel like my own body standing in front of that mirror.
I talked to my mother, about how she wanted all the money that I have or lack thereof. How I walked into my bedroom to see her in my chair, waving my wallet around and accusing me of lying to her. How she'd wiped my bedroom clean of any notes or coins, taken the gold necklace my grandmother gave me for my 21st, and then pointing to my face and laughing.
My elder brother threw a tissue box at me, hitting me square on the head, I swear it might have left a dent. His daughter, my niece, was standing between us and I felt my body move toward her. He rushed to carry her away and looked at me like i was the most hideous monster he'd ever seen... which maybe I was.
I sat with my aunt and grandma, who told me they'd made chicken nuggets for the foreign workers from downstairs. I took a bite and they were burnt like hell, the black bits melting like dust against my tongue. I watched my aunt go into the lift, a cat following her; the doors closed before the cat could fully go in, and the lift's departure gave me detached feline legs.
I woke up at 8:38 A.M., with my mother and grandmother stand at the edge of my bed. My mother threw my towel at me and yelled at me to get to work, you useless motherfucker, you're already late. But me, I'm never late, I'm always awake before my alarm even goes off, I'm never late, I stick true to my routine.
I woke up again at 8:00 A.M., to an empty bedroom, to the sound of rain. I'm still sane enough to tell the difference between reality and the dream world, but with my worsening eyesight I'm not sure how long that'll last. God if you exist help me, get me out of this limbo, this in-between world that is giving me the insanity I worked so hard to get rid of.
I don't know if you've experienced those before, but I get that a lot. I'm not looking at my sleeping body in third person or anything, but it's an entirely different scenario taking place in the exact same room. The same furniture, the same placement of the books and bed and the like.
My thoughts rob me of my sleep sometimes, but they also rob me of sweet dreams. I got home at 2 last night, after ignoring the phone calls and texts from my parents at Pasir Ris and aunt and grandmother from Paya Lebar. I thought it was unfair for my parents to call Paya Lebar asking about me, but they were sleeping when I got home. They made my aunt and grandmother worry for me and left them to it while they go off into slumber.
Those were the last few things I thought of before I drifted off sometime after 3 in the morning. But my sleep never really lasts, because I was forced awake a while later: at 5:32 A.M. Maybe it isn't a coincidence but I'm not surprised by it anymore. I'm haunted by my own head and a heart that never got to beat.
In the afternoons I could sleep through an earthquake; at night the sound of my heartbeat is loud enough to keep my eyes wide open. I don't dare close them, to give way to the dreams that grow from the tiniest of thoughts. It exhausts me, and I think it's taking a toll on my dream-self too.
During my very few 5-minute naps before my alarm at 8 this morning, I saw my/her reflection. The depth of her dark circles, how the skin beneath her eyes seemed to have sunken into her sockets. I can't get the image out of my mind, it really did feel like my own body standing in front of that mirror.
I talked to my mother, about how she wanted all the money that I have or lack thereof. How I walked into my bedroom to see her in my chair, waving my wallet around and accusing me of lying to her. How she'd wiped my bedroom clean of any notes or coins, taken the gold necklace my grandmother gave me for my 21st, and then pointing to my face and laughing.
My elder brother threw a tissue box at me, hitting me square on the head, I swear it might have left a dent. His daughter, my niece, was standing between us and I felt my body move toward her. He rushed to carry her away and looked at me like i was the most hideous monster he'd ever seen... which maybe I was.
I sat with my aunt and grandma, who told me they'd made chicken nuggets for the foreign workers from downstairs. I took a bite and they were burnt like hell, the black bits melting like dust against my tongue. I watched my aunt go into the lift, a cat following her; the doors closed before the cat could fully go in, and the lift's departure gave me detached feline legs.
I woke up at 8:38 A.M., with my mother and grandmother stand at the edge of my bed. My mother threw my towel at me and yelled at me to get to work, you useless motherfucker, you're already late. But me, I'm never late, I'm always awake before my alarm even goes off, I'm never late, I stick true to my routine.
I woke up again at 8:00 A.M., to an empty bedroom, to the sound of rain. I'm still sane enough to tell the difference between reality and the dream world, but with my worsening eyesight I'm not sure how long that'll last. God if you exist help me, get me out of this limbo, this in-between world that is giving me the insanity I worked so hard to get rid of.
Monday, September 04, 2017
Construction
Construction sites: you think they are a hindrance. The noise they generate. Breeding ground for mosquitoes. The way they have to shut off your usual path and you're forced to take a longer route to the bus stop.
But I have a thing for them, I may even say I love them. I love the strangest things, from caterpillars to buses; it shouldn't be surprising for me to love construction sites. There's something about the way they're growing into what they'll be, maybe a hotel or another mall or a train station. It's the way I watch them slowly form whenever I pass by on the bus every morning.
Back in April, a week after the break up I'd gone to my old school. The last time I passed by the new Downtown Line stations they were still under construction, not much hint to what their names in the future will be. Just like everyone else I overthink, but just like nobody else I overthink about construction sites: I think about how I was there everyday during its forming, but I left school before it was done and couldn't be there for its completion.
I thought about how I was there for my hurricane through his growing up; from the day we both got out O Level results, our broke and skinny and dumb days, all the way to his vocation at Police Cantonment Complex. But he left, and I wasn't going to be there for his ORD; the honour was about to go to another girl, whoever was stupid enough to fall for his maturity without realising someone else stayed with him when he didn't have anything.
I love this station from the top deck of my bus; from the time they had to close off the roads and leave only one lane open, to the construction workers placing the yellow logo I see everywhere but which name I do not know. Just recently they have placed Tampines East over the outside walls; how I love you so. Of all the Downtown Line stations, it is my favourite, and I will stay in this routine long enough to catch the completion of its construction.
But I have a thing for them, I may even say I love them. I love the strangest things, from caterpillars to buses; it shouldn't be surprising for me to love construction sites. There's something about the way they're growing into what they'll be, maybe a hotel or another mall or a train station. It's the way I watch them slowly form whenever I pass by on the bus every morning.
Back in April, a week after the break up I'd gone to my old school. The last time I passed by the new Downtown Line stations they were still under construction, not much hint to what their names in the future will be. Just like everyone else I overthink, but just like nobody else I overthink about construction sites: I think about how I was there everyday during its forming, but I left school before it was done and couldn't be there for its completion.
I thought about how I was there for my hurricane through his growing up; from the day we both got out O Level results, our broke and skinny and dumb days, all the way to his vocation at Police Cantonment Complex. But he left, and I wasn't going to be there for his ORD; the honour was about to go to another girl, whoever was stupid enough to fall for his maturity without realising someone else stayed with him when he didn't have anything.
I love this station from the top deck of my bus; from the time they had to close off the roads and leave only one lane open, to the construction workers placing the yellow logo I see everywhere but which name I do not know. Just recently they have placed Tampines East over the outside walls; how I love you so. Of all the Downtown Line stations, it is my favourite, and I will stay in this routine long enough to catch the completion of its construction.
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