hello and back again April 12, 2009

Couldn’t sleep after three-quarters of a tall latte at ten. A few nights ago – those panicky feelings came back, at about three-twenty-five in the morning, after a ridiculous dream. It was then I missed those little pills of mine. Since I got well (how can just two words sum up that tedious journey back to health?), my red pillbox has been overflowing with Prozac, neglected. Every now and then I’d reach in for Nurofen instead, more powerful than paracetamol. When I went back to the doctor’s and I mentioned, tentatively, Ativan please, he scoffed and said ‘How old school!” I hadn’t realised how 1970s our mental institution had been.

Anyhow, that wasn’t what I set out to write about at all. I had been okay for a long time now. Even the dreams are elusive, are fuzzier. But I missed those dreams. I vaguely remember one about flying, to escape some rogues at a spa, high high up, seeing sandcastles on a beach, a decision to power up and fly higher, went up too high past the clouds and had difficulty breathing. Then another, where my teeth dropped out. Common dreams – nothing a dream dictionary couldn’t solve and that disappointed me.

Blah September 30, 2008

GQ is fabulous fabulous, in a way many women’s mags are not. I am listening to Nick Drake and thinking how to negotiate my way to an oil rig in Alaska, to Oooguruk, the US$500 million dollar man-made island on ice, where the cold is just cold. Perhaps that might be a place to run to, a way to be workable, somehow. Since I couldn’t write a single decent word on a certain Mediacorp actress today, I am telling myself I must write more. I decided that while I was listening to Let It Die by Feist – over, over and over again. Perhaps I can write about Alaska, in Alaska. Here, in the safe security of home, the dog has gotten the cat to swat a half-eaten pack of catnip drops off the dining table and am, at this present moment, finishing off whatever his tongue can get out of that little pack. Tomorrow is a public holiday – I can dream tonight.

Missing Moggy September 24, 2008

Before I sleep I’d ruffle Starkey’s fur and smell his paw and feel very grateful he’s just right there next to me, even if the rest of the flat is dark and devoid of – pretty much everything. Yesterday night I buried my face into his fur and told him you had a brother you had a brother! And I was thinking of Moggy and his sweet face and his mini coughs. And the memories are getting vaguer – I had re-watch videos to remember how he used to run, how he used to sleep, how he used to cough even. I later dreamt of a giant mall where each level was stamped with multi-coloured footprints and I didn’t leave mine because I was floating slightly above the shiny floors. That’s all I remember for now. This afternoon I spilled coffee all over my khaki-coloured dress – I had shut my tired eyes just when I was negotiating a corner – and almost cried at the loss of pretty much everything except for my shreds of sanity, and of course Starkey, who is at this moment satisfied with the daisy he chewed as dessert.

Wordle.net September 20, 2008

Let’s See September 17, 2008

It has been over a week since I discovered the mould on the inside of my waterbottle. So it must have been over a week since I stopped popping Prozac. Thing is, I don’t exactly understand why I’m doing this. Perhaps because I have exactly 3 Ativans left in my little red pill box that’s why. I have wasted them over weekends, when the going is hard and the heart is pained. Then suddenly I realised that I am finishing up my supply, and so stopped. And stopped the Prozac too. Which means life is strangely a culmination of days into the next big breakdown and I am worried. I tell myself every morning to pop one into my mouth, how hard is it? But I don’t know. I miss Moggy – it will be his death anniversary next Tuesday. Oh dark thoughts. I tell Starkey he had an elder brother he never knew, but he just smiled and walked away. 

Several nights ago I plunged down a dry canal in pursuit of a story – a woman, a family of three…at least three children in rags, huddling in the lit underbelly of the city. A marathon, 10km far. Him running. I don’t exactly understand so yesterday night I climbed into bed, closed my eyes (and shut out the mess of my room . cat . dog . clothes strewn all over) and attempted to go back to that scene. It’s been cold lately which is good. Some evenings I come home and stare at the gogglebox all night. No one to talk to, to ask if i’ve eaten, to laugh with. Only the dog and his cat. So I talk to them. Throw toys for a round of fetch. Chase them around the house. One day I tell you I’ll go mad.

It May All End Tomorrow September 9, 2008

Plath’s obsession with loving Hughes seems to be something I’m living out from my bed – groaning. moaning. Remembering when they first met, how they loved, how she loved – fiery and stubborn, like me. An abandonment of self – why, for whom, deserving, no, yes? The Ativans soothe me oh so so much. I hadn’t realised how much I missed my little white pills. The wooziness, toppling against walls, groaning, groggy. Three days gone – just like that. What happened to all those months of trying? I forgot, couldn’t care less. It’s one pill two pills snooze two pills snooze another pill. Just no life-saving Prozac – I don’t know what to save my life for when ultimately I am all alone. I remember Plath in her last days – why do I remember it? Surely some karmic residue? Her pottering around the chilly flat. Looking dreadful. The kids sleeping. Preparing the milk. Sealing the doors. Turning on the gas. A terrible way to go. Why do I remember? A suicide does have far-reaching impact. At the rate I’m going, I may, like Plath, have just six more years to live. Or, it may all end tomorrow.

Earthy August 19, 2008

I’m not too sure if I can resist this delicately beautiful silk-screened dress from Wiksten. But I really should. I’ll compensate myself with this irresistibly cute Official (Unofficial) Team Zissou Intern Tee instead.

Swim August 15, 2008

The medicine is working, else I won’t be at a lost about what to blog about. My hands shake very occasionally, usually while I’m holding a fork. Otherwise, all’s jolly and dandy with my life right now. We attempted the deep pool yesterday evening – a brave dip on a full moon’s night. It was beautiful, pushing water under water. I think I should like diving very much. There is a cheerful recklessness about me these days. Swim to that ladder. Sure, why not. And I took a deep breath and went. It surprised me – that recklessness. It was almost like I didn’t care. Maybe the serotonin is flooding my synapses. But whatever – I peered at the old folks at the pool again. There was an elderly couple, both learning to swim to together. Like fishes in love, A said, uncharacteristically poetic. Then there was this old dude with a fat belly, happily waddling in the water. We had porridge after that as usual, and a mango pudding to finish up the meal. I spoke to a budgie at the pet shop after that. He bent down, pushed his head against the grilles, as if telling me to stroke him. I did and I think, he almost purrrrrred in delight. You’re a clever bird, I said. And he stared at me fixedly. You don’t have to lie to me, budgie. I read studies. You’re smarter than us. Talk to me! Budgie screeched: lao ban ngiang! lao ban ngiang! Brilliant – I want a budgie.

Night Terrors July 24, 2008

In all vividness:

I was walking towards a Starbucks – nowhere in the city, in an unknown single-storey shopping centre. Just as I approached the counter, my fingers dipping into my fat wallet for coins, something rammed into ceiling violently and shook the laze out of the shoppers. I crouched down in terror. Collective cries abound. Debris started to fall like cement rain. I peered out of the full-length glass windows and saw, a fat plane, with red splashes on the body, skidding onto the field opposite, skidded and stopped. I hear shocked gasps all around. “Oh no no no no please,” I muttered. The red, fat plane burst into flames. Cut. We ran out. Cut. “Oh no oh no oh no.” Moans, blood, people dying everywhere. I wanted to help. But too many were dying, or dead. I ran up and down the columns of casualties in fright, dabbing away blood. It was mayhem. It was, like what a Buddhist monk once told me, collective karma resulting in hell on earth.

Swirl.

In the hospital room. I was the invisible observer, floating slightly above the floor. Looking down on two hospital cots – in one a child, almost a child, reaching out for his twin brother, refusing to go without him. His brother, sleeping and shrivelled, was a terrifying sight. Their weeping parents were distraught – the mother tugging at the father. 

Swirl.

Not Hungry July 9, 2008

In the evenings I sit in front of the telly waiting to feel hungry while the cat scratches my arms, hungry for human flesh. This lack of appetite worries me. And even when it strikes I have no impetus to eat. There is nobody to make sure I eat – unlike Solomon, who has his father cut up terrifying lamb chops into tiny bits. I try my best really. And I’m not complaining. We had lunch at Da Paolo’s today – I ate enough slices of fresh, aromatic pizza (absolutely beautiful – I avoided the smoked pork. Poor pork! Poor piggie!). And I laughed genuinely, lightly, enjoying the sunlight, the lazy lunch. I haven’t felt so, so light for so, so long. And it’s all thanks to Prozac. Only it gives me a dry mouth, a slight headache at times and takes away my appetite when the darkness cloaks in.

Calming the Demons July 8, 2008

In The Noonday Demon, one woman said it is impossible to have dreams and be creative when on pills. How true. I vaguely recall the last dream I had. A mongrel sat on the top of my head. Other than that, nothing. When there are no dreams I feel numb. When there are nightmares I feel frightened. But numbness is a good thing to feel. At least it offers stability, which is more than what I can ask for in these days. On my wrist the scars are fading, slowly. I look at them and wonder just how I could have done it – and I maintain, I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me at all. It was caused by my hand, but that’s it. It happened to me – I didn’t do it. I have three pills left – a dangerous situation. In my mind I manoeuvred – god it took me five minutes just to type that fucking word i must be dyslexic or depressed did i spell it correctly? – schedules to permit an opening so I could run off to the hospital for more. Surely you can pick them up? I hear the doctor saying, gently. Or get someone to pick them up for you? I think she has never been depressed. Did she think I’d submit my mother to this, this perversion? Besides in my sobbing and spiralling that night I couldn’t even remember where I placed my prescription – my precious half a prescription of pills! I searched the sleeves of my wallet but it wasn’t there. And for the life of god I cannot remember. Certain faculties are so lost to me it is a miracle I function the way I function, that is, amazingly organised, at work.  In bed I hold on to The Noonday Demon, which calms me at night. Solomon is wise, compassionate and lyrical in his writing – every word he writes is truth. Of the pills, he wrote: It is humiliating to be reliant on them. It is inconvenient to have to keep track of them and to stock up on prescriptions. And it is toxic to know that without these perpetual interventions you are not yourself as you have understood yourself. I could not have phrased how I felt so poignantly, so beautifully, so accurately.

Hello Belle. Hello Boo. June 23, 2008

I take time out of my depressive episodes to find delight in belle & boo’s pretty prints. They have a blog too. 

To the same place, the same face, the same brute June 17, 2008

I was gleeful too quickly. Too complacent (aren’t we all nowadays?). I must understand, from my struggles against it, that it is by no means self-induced. Nor could it be overcome by sheer willpower (try doing that with appendicitis won’t you?). It is biological. Definitely, maybe. And in my quest for Prozac it seems I must yet again trudge down to that dreaded place, and be quizzed to death by psychiatrists who read two pages of your history and claims to know you. I must put out my card, by now yellowed and crumpled, and waited for hours in the cold waiting room. I must sit down and state my symptoms. Except with this sort of thing I can’t just tell it all in seconds. I must lead herr doktor through my case file, bring him to back to the past, remind him of the lead characters, repaint my life after -, how I climbed back up from the abyss of the dead (or more accurately, less poetically, my bed), and how, now, I’m back in that same seat, sniffling. I must re-describe the signs – the bad dreams, the uncontrollable sobs on the train, the twisting of the fingers, the thrill of having the cat claw my hand till the skin peel off, the breathlessness, the sorrysorrysorrys, the weekend spent in bed worrying about the broccoli out there, wilting – Starkey would have to go without it for now, three broccolis gone! I shouldn’t be thinking about broccoli.. shouldn’t be thinking about it at all. All I want is to be on Prozac again. Maybe I shouldn’t never have gotten off it. It works long-term. Without it, it’s just short-term straight-line surrogate happiness. 

Looming June 8, 2008

Dark clouds are looming. I sense it. From the frequency of the dreams. It’s not that bad because I have to try to remember them. What I cannot remember is safely out of mind. Except that they’re still there, somewhere in the deep, dark abysses or right above my head full of headaches. I think I cannot escape it. Somehow, it will catch up someday. And the writing is bad. It is getting harder and harder, and all those words, sentences, paragraphs – just a job. And in the end, after all the lunch-ins, all the meetings, all that staring at the screen, I don’t know what I’m writing about, who I’m writing for and if it does any good at all. Happiness, for me, in this life, will always be contrived. It is impossible. And nobody will ever, ever want to live with someone so flawed, so unhappy, so incapable of enjoying life. I think, I am thinking, that it might be better to just snooze and not wake up.

Oh Sweet Sale June 2, 2008

pic from www.epiloguepages.com

The GSS is upon us. Save us! Tried as I might, I still couldn’t help staring at the four-letter word whenever it is propped up on store shelves, in all fonts and colours. But I’m surviving. As long as I don’t go anywhere near Orchard, where no fruit tree ever grows.

Instead, I’m buying bread. You have no idea how therapeutic bread-buying (along with clearing cat poo) is. Mulling over the offerings fresh out of the oven, baked crisp or soft with powdered hands. Should I get the cranberry scone (just watch butter melt on it!), the boring sugar doughnut, mini picks of fruit tarts and almond croissants …or just a plain loaf of wholewheat bread? Sweet temptation, best savoured with a cup of hot tea in front of the tv. 

If I have a home of my own, I’ll invest in a hardy (and pretty) breadbox. A wooden one that slides open to reveal bread that’ll feed a family of four. Cupboards stocked with berry jam and orange marmalade. A yellow toaster with a smiley popping welcomes into your face. If I have children, I’ll raise them on bread. Wholewheat. Multi-grain. The best thing in the world.