Group Therapy Progress

I've been referred for group therapy by my way too good at what she does psychotherapist.

I don't know what to say. I'm just so tired. Everything's just been a whirlwind in my head. Social interaction does that to me, and I don't feel like I'm getting any closer as to uncovering why. Again, my default knee jerk reaction of putting myself down kicks in and says, "maybe I'm just shy", "maybe I'm just an introvert".

I'm writing this a day after my third session. I've been meaning to do more detailed posts regarding each leg of my journey in recovery, and the idealistic fuckboi inside me wants to even list down each and every step such that I can one day look back at it and remember how tough it was, be glad that it's all over, and hopefully show others going through the same some semblance of planning, hardship, and hope in this war in our heads. But alas, alls I seem to do nowadays seem to be immersing myself in difficult to learn and understand shit that hardly matters, like creating scalable vector graphics, or learning how the 32-bit unsigned integer is generated in Pokémon games from more than 10 years ago to learn how to create the most legit looking, "perfect" Pokémon from those games.

Well, "learn" is a bit of an overstatement, I guess. Alls I do is to watch YouTube videos, have no idea what the hell is going on, download some free software, and follow cluelessly step by step until I get what I want.

It's been the theme of my life for the past few months: denial. Or avoidance. Whichever works. I've received a letter from my psychiatrist in IMH recommending slavery to review my viability on the battlefield given my mental struggles, but I have yet to be able to pick up a phone and get in touch with everything that I hate and loathe, to cut myself free from their clutches. My steering wheel set at home has a few problems with it and I ask my friend for help, got his advice, but I just sit on it, not acting on anything, because... because I'm lazy? Because I'm tired? Because I don't want to deal with it "right now"? Because getting in touch with society is scary? I don't know.

But hey, look, I got Pokémon Ultra Moon to run at full speed on my laptop at 2x native resolution, and I edited the ROM with a hex editor to allow legendaries in the Battle Tree.

The funny thing is, when asked how we've been for the past week in between sessions, I just said that I had some trouble sleeping, because of a nagging sense of dissatisfaction and emptiness I can't explain why. I have a lot of fucking problems... well, I think I have a lot of problems, anyway, but I for some dog shit reason am horrendous at voicing them out, and it's only after session 3 that I'm starting to realise it.

It's funny that I only find myself having this problem now, seeing that being more aware of our own thoughts, beliefs, and resultant actions has been the main theme of our group therapy sessions, at least to me. It has even been specifically mentioned in handouts and in speech that some people may cope with stressful situations by putting themselves down, believing their voices won't be heard, that they aren't important, or to save themselves the shame. And, well, the whole point of group therapy is to challenge those unfavourable tendencies in a safe, confidential environment with feedback from other therapists and er... therapy-goers? Patients?

What's been bothering me, gnawing away at my head since that last session was just... how... preachy I had been. Who am I kidding, I'm no trained social worker. I'm just a jobless asshat that's too damaged and afraid to step out and get a job. Yet for some reason, I seem to know all the best things to say to someone else going through anxiety and depression. I seem to know all the best ways to look at the positive side of things when others share their problems with me. I seem to always know how to challenge and debate the negative feelings and thoughts of others. I seem to be able to emphatise with others who pour their hearts out to me, and even give advice accidentally in the process (which we're supposed to avoid doing). Hell, not only do I think I'm good at it, not only do I have feedback from others in the group that I'm doing well, but I actually enjoy it.

It bugs me because when the tables are turned on me by a therapist, I can't do any of that for myself  That is, I always seem to find the worst in me and my situation and believe wholeheartedly in them. I know the best ways to endlessly debate and challenge whatever positivity that seeps through to my conscious thought. And most of all, I am my own harshest critic. I lack any empathy for myself because I... hate myself and feel that I'm not worth that kind of warmth I want others to find in their lives.

It bugs me because it makes me doubt everything I said to others in a similar situation as me. It makes me wonder if I'm a hypocrite, or if I'm not being entirely honest, almost like an over eager salesman unknowingly throwing away his own sense of self to sell a brand of happiness to as many people as possible.

Positive thoughts in my head always just sound like a cop out excuse, akin in disgust to someone who never takes responsibility or blame for their own wrongdoings. And, yes, my behaviour, my thinking patterns, and resultant actions are all spelled out word for word in the handout as generic textbook examples. It should be so easy, it should be a cinch for me to recognise and change these thinking patterns. Yet I always feel so... disconnected from myself. Despite being, you know... myself and all, I feel like I don't know myself well at all. It took me some ten-ish years to even realise I had depression, anxiety, and a whole assortment of other issues. I need a psychotherapist to ask me "Ke Tat, what are you feeling right now?", or "are you hiding something from me?", before I pause to realise that I'm angry with something. I get a lot of emotions I just kinda... sweep under the rug.

I don't know how group therapy is supposed to help me with that.

The funny part is, I agreed to join group therapy because I told my psychotherapist (that's a handful of keys, can we just shorten it to "PT" from now?) that I have a tendency to offend others in school, in slavery, and at work, and most of the time I wouldn't even realise it, which has, well, cost me multiple jobs, ahah. So, my PT recommended I try out this group therapy thing, sort of as a trail by fire kind of thing, except of course she didn't phrase it like that and I'm a horrible concoctor of sentences even in writing so maybe I make everything sound worse than it is.

When I readily agreed to join though, she seemed really... worried. Doubtful, even. I guess it's the way I reacted/ agreed to it that put up some red flags. She knows I don't deal well with social situations; hell, you hardly have to be a trained professional to figure that part out during a face to face talk with me. And so when I readily agreed because "I need change", and "I need to challenge myself", and "I'm desperate to try anything because I don't know how to help myself", she seemed to become really worried. To me, anyway. She kept asking me, "do you have any reservations about group therapy?", "any questions, any concerns?", etc.. Again, maybe I'm hiding something I'm not aware of. Maybe she's seeing something I'm not.

What my therapy mates tell me is that I'm fine, and that I don't have a problem. Hell, they even say I'm a very well spoken and express thoughts and feelings that they feel but can't find the words for. Yet when I'm asked about my problems and disturbing thoughts I always just clam up, stutter, and vehemently squeeze whatever it is that I'm holding - no joke, I actually thought of buying stress balls to bring to subsequent sessions after the first, HAHA! Buuuut I figure that'd just creep everybody out and make the therapists overly concerned for my well being, so I decided to make do with the pens they provided. Something tells me I'm not the first, nor the last to torture those poor pens; every single one of them had their clips broken.

It's absolutely scary what the human mind is capable of achieving. Maybe... maybe I don't have a problem. Maaaaybe I'm just being too harsh on myself and others. Maybe I just haven't had luck in finding employment with agreeable colleagues. Maybe, maybe, maybe. If only I could find enough kindness towards myself to really believe that I'm fine. It's scary, because, coming from myself, I don't know how objectively true any of my thoughts are, positive or negative. It's only when others tell me I'm fine does the insecure me dare to find any validity in the notion that I'm fine. And conversely, maybe that's why I love to be such a preachy jackass.

Even if it means I burn myself up and wipe out at freaking 8pm after a shower and dinner , I really enjoyed my three sessions of group therapy thus far. Even with just five therapy goers, among us there's a creepily coincidental mix of age, gender, races and personality types. And it's precisely in this diversity that the similarities in the problems we face, the emotions we feel, and the way we react to them that becomes really eye opening.

I just wish I knew how to talk about my problems better. Or, you know, get some goddamned sleep at 4 in the morning after my cat woke me up at 1 just to say goodnight to me ahah that sweet bastard.

Snippet 19

As the door finally clicked shut as silently and begrudgingly slow as can be, I was finally able to cave in to my impulses and convulsions and immediately shrivelled up into a fetal position, pulling my left knee as quickly as I can away from the ice packs Nurse Amy had encased my knee in. I immediately began to half hold, half rub my knee with both hands, finally free to shiver freely, which just seemed to make the goosebumps ravage my body worse.

Nurse Amy silently took a seat, not saying a word. Not that I was paying attention, but her old swivel chair has developed quite the distinct creak. Did it even begin life as hers? I don't know. Paired together with how uniformly Nurse Amy always lands calmly on the chair, the noise, though subtle, is unmistakable. It's weird how well I've gotten to know that sound over the past few months.

After the initial shock of the freeze wore off, I laid my feet to the side of the ice packs and slowly resumed my lying on my back position, almost as though being in the position I'm supposed to be in makes the situation better. Nurse Amy's silence is unnerving and guilt tripping me to hell and back though, even if she's genuinely one of the nicest and kindest people in the school, and one of the very few I find myself counting on.

Much like just now actually.

"S-sorry...", I began. I thought to offer an apology and an explanation, but the pressure from her silence is almost crushing my lungs. I can't believe I've had to lie to Nurse Amy of all people. Now she's acting like a disappointed mother too nice to scold her child. Ouch...

"Must've been tough out there", she replied, planting her cheek on her palms, held up at the elbow by her desk, facing me with an almost sarcastic smile. I can't even tell. "What happened?"

I let out a prolonged, defeatist sigh. "Crazy shit. You'll hear about it soon. People won't shut up about it. It's not like I have a private life anymore."

"Yeah? First time it's gotten bad enough for you to fake an injury."

"Well I mean... I did kinda have to land really hard on the steps, y'know. Never really practiced how to fake a fall, 'specially in a wedding dress. Only so much you can protect youself and make it look real."

"Need ice for the bruises?", her smile widened. Yep, she's totally toying with me.

I feel so out of wind right now I couldn't even retort. I could feel myself sinking through the leather of this rock hard patient bed thing.

After a slight pause, I began. "Some crazy motherfucker confessed. On stage into a live mic. Right after the play. Had my hand grabbed and everything."

"Ooh, what kind of guy was he? Not your type?"

"Fuck no! I mean Jesus...", I began to get exasperated with how much I want to rant, but how little energy left to deal with bullshit I have. "The hell kind of dumbass does that? Confessing his 'love' for someone for the whole world to see. He's been watching too much dramas or something. Get a fucking grip..."

I didn't look at Nurse Amy because it was honestly quite embarrassing to talk about, but her silence is an indication that she wants to hear more. She's never the type of adult to cut you off ever, and she always has something useful and constructive and mature to say when you're done talking, so her silence tells me I'm not done with my story yet. *sigh*

"I mean it's stupid, isn't it?!", I begin to bitch and whine, avoiding having to explain what happened earlier. "Not every girl falls for the charming brave chivalrous sweep me off my feet bullshit! Some girls are embarrassed by that! Why can't guys understand that!"

"AND THEN!", I continue, fuming, "Has he even thought of how I feel? He's just PRESSURISING me into saying yes to create a good story with a happy ending in front of thousands of watching eyes! This isn't some fucking drama! This is life! Not everything has a happy ending! WAKE UP!"

After taking a moment to grit my teeth, I somehow found the courage to explain what happened. "I tried to break free and make a quick exit, obviously. Motherfucker won't take no for an answer, goes after me, and since I can't run in a dress -- who the fuck thought dresses, skirts and heels are a good idea and why girls should wear them -- I've had to fake stepping on my dress and falling. Hit my head and hand harder than I wanted to, just to add to everything."

"Fucking swear people are getting stupider and stupider as the days go by...", I mutter under my breath. Nurse Amy still isn't saying anything, and I still don't have the face to look at her, so I'm just staring at the nondescript, stereotypical white wall with diagrams of the human anatomy that I'm trying not to focus on 'cuz believe it or not they kinda still gross me out.

"He must've been somebody special though. I haven't seen you so riled up about rejecting a guy before." She might as well have added, "I keep hearing stories about how coldly and ruthlessly you reject guys" at the end of it. How does she speak so clearly without actually saying anything she's speaking?

Regardless, it wasn't something I had an immediate answer to, so my angry rant was cut short just by me having to stop and think. I roll onto my stomach, clutching the gel like pillow that gave off the somehow soothing, yet somehow unsettling scent of disinfectants that's rife in these medical facilities.

"He, well...", I clutched the pillow tighter. "we kissed", I threw out the words as softly and quickly as I could in hopes she wouldn't catch it.

"You what?", Nurse Amy, never breaking her kind demeanour, gently leans toward me and asks me as though she genuinely didn't hear me, her eyes and smile widening again as though she's some kind, all accepting counsellor.

"WE KISSED!", I shouted, and immediately buried my tearing up face into the pillow. Oh man. Now the whole infirmary heard that. Brilliant. Sweet. Go, me.

"Did he force himself onto you? Hard to think you wouldn't smack him and send him bloodied and battered to me like you did Ishikawa, Kunoichi, Murasaki..."

"...part of the play", I cut her off as she began trailing off the list of names. "The kiss was part of the play."

With permission to go on by virtue of her silence, I continue: "We rehearsed, of course. But never really kissed. Was just stupid and awkward. I never fucking wanted to be part of the play. Dumb waste of time for people to laugh at me and spite me."

I paused, seemingly having talked myself into a corner. The onstage kiss though... I gave it everything I had. I mean... what's the best way to act than to truly be the character you're playing and really feel what they feel, right? Before the kiss I really wanted to try liking him. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to know what it felt like to trust and love again. I thought of all the times he practised the play, how hard he worked to make the props, how much he thought of the lines, how into it he was... he was absolutely radiating and alive. It's hard to not get swept up along with it. I submitted myself wholly to him. I looked at him as though he were my everything, as though he could save me, turn my whole life around. I... wanted him to. I tried to leave everything behind, for that one moment, to genuinely smile and be his.

But when he grabbed my waist and pulled me towards him I was just... shocked. I wasn't expecting him to be so... aggressive. My whole body jerked and my hands flew up in defence. I've... never been grabbed by a guy like that before. I'm sure nobody watching that would believe we're a happily married couple after seeing that... I... cared. About the play. About my students. I just wanted to do my best as council president. Just... why! Why do I care so much?! About all those useless fuckers who just want to point and laugh? That all hate me? To the point where I'd entertain thoughts of trusting and loving again!

What the fuck is wrong with me?

"But you gave it your best", she summed it up for me, almost like a pat on my back for a hard day's work. She didn't even fucking see the play, what bullshit. Still... it was comforting. She always knows the right things to say. I wish I were even a fraction as good as her with words. But, alas, my character is a cold, hardass, uncaring gangster like rule enforcer and once you have something like that established it's super awkward to go with anything else.

Not having even the slightest clue as to what would be the wise thing to say, I just sort of made a quiet "mmm" noise in affirmation with my lips pressed to each other.

"What did he say when he confessed?"
"Bullshit", I tried to brush it off.
"You're blushing"
"Fuck"
"Language"
"Fucking... fuckity..."
"Ema"

"Stop!", I recoiled, this time doing my best to wrap my head with the pillow. "Said some bullshit about how he sees the 'real me', how I'm the sweetest, hardest working, kindest soul that made him feel a way no one else had... saw the real me through an act and knew he found 'the one'", I spat out, and almost involuntarily trailed off into the rest of it.

Although she still didn't say anything, I could feel Nurse Amy withdraw back into her work, going back to the document she was typing on when they brought me in. I lowered the pillow from my temples to make visual contact with her. I... I'm not sure what to make of her like this. I've never seen her react like that before. Her silence this time is... unnerving, somehow, like a kid unknowingly telling their parents something bad. I've never seen Nurse Amy mad before like the other teachers, which makes it even scarier when you MIGHT have crossed a line but don't know it.

I mean, I'm the victim here, right? I'm just describing what happened to me! How could I be in the wrong?!

"So what's your type, Ema?", she suddenly quips back in, never taking her eyes off the screen or a moment out of the clickity clackety of her typing.

"Huh?", bewildered, I rose up from my lying position to propping myself up with my elbows.

"Your ideal man. What's he like? You're super pretty, Ema. And I'm sure I'm not the first and last to tell you that. You have a lot of suitors, yet you've never had a boyfriend. At least, not one that's known in the school or the gangs in this town, anyway. If you've ever had a boyfriend he must have been super low profile, and I don't believe that guy exists or existed. If you're so overly picky about a man, you may never find the one you're looking for, you know? He might not exist. You might be expecting too much."

"Wh- I..." I can't. All I can do is stutter. "N-no! Yeah. Super pretty. Whatever. One of the 'five grand beauties' of this school or whatever disgusting crap they coined. All the guys that talk to me just want a quick fuck. Are just in it because I'm pretty. That's the whole reason why I'm even in this stupid play to begin with. Why the hell else would a constantly scowling, fear mongering, rude, crude bitch like myself get voted to play the loving bride anyway?! They don't care about me! No one does! The hell do they know who I am. The hell do they know what I want. How do I trust someone who just wants a quick fuck?! I can't!"

"Ema, listen", Nurse Amy suddenly snaps away from her computer and heaves herself toward me on her swivel chair. "That's not true. You can't say that. People care about you. I care about you. That's why I bailed you out and said you twisted your ankle when you didn't. I don't think a lot of people would believe that someone who could beat up ten gangsters by herself in a fight would hobble over to the infirmary for a twisted ankle after a metre drop from the stage. I'm sure this isn't the first time I helped you. I'm sure I'm not the only one. There are people out there that like what you do and appreciate you for it, Ema. There are people out there who appreciate who you are. You're an amazing Student Council President thus far, Ema. You may not have the best grades and you have problems with manners. You're not a favourite among the staff because of that. But you do your best in what you believe is right and stand up for students even against the teachers. You're a council prez that isn't the typical polished pet type. You have the respect of students because of that, even though most don't like you for how you became prez. You command respect from the more troubling students simply because you're one of them, which, take it from the school nurse, is something most teachers can't, or won't, handle. I haven't told you, or anyone else, this before, but ever since you became president and started going around enforcing rules, I've been seeing a lot less fight related injuries -- although, in turn, I see you a lot more. You're a likeable person, Ema. Pretty, to boot. You can't go distrusting people just because they're male, Ema".

"I-I-"... beginning to crumble under the weight of her uncharacteristic directness, I could feel the guilt haunting me, chasing me down. My performance as president aside, I know what she said was absolutely right. I knew it all along. I just couldn't face the reality of it, and in doing so I hurt so many guys, some even physically. I never gave them a fair chance, whatever that may be.

I'd really love to retort, even if it were just a one liner, one word retort. But I somehow couldn't, not even in my head.

"I-..." I spoke but I didn't know what I wanted to say. "I'm not ready". And in that moment, I felt as if I had finally come clean with myself. Not that I had been lying to myself for the past few years, but... somehow, just that one line, "I'm not ready", somehow felt more honest and true than anything else I've said over the past few years. I... don't know how to explain it. I don't know what's really going on. "To trust. To love again."

Nurse Amy, without saying anything, reversed her chair back to her desk and continued to click and type away, although this time somehow... softer. "So I was wrong", you could almost somehow hear a smile through her words. "You did have a boyfriend before".

I just laid back down, not sure if I really wanted or needed to say any more. For a while, I just laid there on the bed, not knowing if I should keep lying there and taking up a bed that other students might need, or if I should just waltz out like nothing happened. I still haven't apologised to Nurse Amy. Or at least, it somehow didn't feel like I had apologised. The atmosphere is still heavy, and the thought of having to pretend to limp on a twisted ankle irritated me somehow. I'm just... sick of acting.

"Well, Ema,", Nurse Amy begins to speak as a document she's printing is almost fully out of the noisy contraption, hands already slightly tugging at the end of the slip of paper. "Here's a medical certificate to exempt you from physical activities in school. It's good for a week inclusive of today. If the swelling still persists after a week, come to me again and I'll re-assess you. I'd tell you to submit this to teachers, but it ends up back on your desk anyway, doesn't it?"

I meekly accept my more paperwork, but I just kinda sat there, head hung low facing her after receiving the MC. "Not a boyfriend. Sisters. Not blood sisters. Didn't work out."

With my head still hung low I couldn't tell much of what was going on, or how Nurse Amy reacted. It was just... silence.

"I... pushed them away", I slowly, and very uncertainly, spoke. I'm not used to being so... candid. I never thought I'd ever be sharing this with anyone, and I certainly don't know why I'm suddenly speaking up about it now. "With my urges... they got scared. I guess we were never sisters. Never was. Never could've been. 'Sister' was just an excuse for me to be close to them and have somewhere to live".

More silence. I still didn't dare look up. My insides are churning and twisting as my brain desperately tries to scream at me to not talk and not trust again, but somehow I just super wanted to get it out. It's like a breath of fresh air, this coming clean thing.

"I love them" I clutched my dress and tears started to fall, choking me up and preventing me from saying any more. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!". I don't even know to who or what I'm apologising for anymore. It just felt like a tap was opened finally and everything just started spilling out, you know? I just felt like a monster that had hurt so many people unjustly. I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't take this anymore. I couldn't take being "me" anymore. I hate myself. I wish I were never born. I wish I wasn't like this. I wish I was never born like this. The world would be such a better place if I weren't here, if I didn't exist. I just wanted everything to end. I've been wanting it all to end for gosh knew how long.

ACS 12-12-16: Mesmerized

Circle of Dust - Mesmerized

These hollow bones
Before you bare
In the secret sins
I'd never shared

Felt myself slipping away
Into someone who could understand
And be my only friend

As time passes me by
You leave me mesmerized

Both of damaged soul
And of lifeless heart
Oh, how you have shown
Of the place to start

Felt myself stripping away
From what I've held to for so long
I've just begun to fail

As time passes me by
You leave me mesmerized

Mesmerized

As time passes me by
You leave me mesmerized

Mesmerized

Words will always fail
So have I and I tried making any sort of difference
Fighting to accept and in the end I plead
To see you walk away and you do and so have I and it can never be repaired
Only a shallow space where once a heart existed
To feel so much yet so little
To define my last regrets is this final wish that can never be forgiven
Never - not by anyone
Never by myself
And most of all is the kind of peace that I can never hope to see - the light of any better day
Again and again I have fallen down beneath the seams a final time
The only obstacle that exists is you - this fate
A paradox it seems - to punish me the most is the one that has shown the most concern and love
Never mind the definition of that word
I thought I once could understand
But I realize now I haven't got a clue

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Yes, it's another one of these posts. Yes, it's Celldweller again. No, it's not going to get any better than the last one.

To be honest, I'm here less to talk about a single song and more of the whole album. I'd love to embed every damn song in the Disengage album and provide lyrics for every one of those songs, but that'd be horrendously impractical and I suspect no one would wade through all that to read what I've to say (implying anyone at all still reads these BUT HEY).

I don't know much about this album, since it was first released in 1998, under the Circle of Dust band/ artist name, but the man behind it all is still Celldweller. He remastered the whole album and re-released it recently, which is how I've come to know of it. And, I don't know if it's just me, but I find that I have a tendency to prefer an artist's earlier works, since I think that success and fame will invariably come back to taint an artist's later works, no matter how "real" and sincere they are; just look at miwa (OKAY THAT'S ANOTHER RANT FOR ANOTHER DAY). And as a result, I find that, the earlier an artist's work, the more inexperienced they may sound, yes, but their voice, their lyrics, their emotions always strike me as the most sincere. You can really feel the sheer helplessness and despair, you can hear how lost and broken Klayton is in these songs, and I absolutely relish in that (please don't take that the wrong way). It's all to a degree that his later works I believe doesn't quite match, though of course that's not to say they're bad; the last one of these posts I made was of a newer Celldweller song, heh.

This album may technically be 18 years old, but to me it's so "real" and "right now", because, well, I'm struggling to deal with (self diagnosed) depression, and this whole album is just overflowing with emotions that I don't just merely relate to, but I'm so in sync with it that I feel that I AM those emotions. So much so the whole album feels like an anthem of my own demons. So much so that I believe it actually helps a little in helping me understand myself by virtue of giving me another perspective of these emotions I may or may not even have realised before were there. It struck me so hard, it hooked me so intensely, it resonated in my head so resoundingly that even in this "live like a beggar" stage of my life, I found myself unable to resist buying the album and having every song from it on my phone. That is how much I found myself needing this in my life, simply because it's one of those very few, yet very "real" and genuine things that make me feel less alone and un-understandable. You might say that this dark pit of despair is, ironically, a little bit of a light in my own dark pit of despair. And it's songs, artists, and situations like these that make me respect the hell out of song artists who do write and sing their own shit, and how I dislike pirating music from artists I absolutely adore and respect to the highest regard.

I've spoken about how amazing I find the instrumentals of Celldweller songs to be in the last of these posts, I spoke about how his instruments make me feel like I was "getting sucked into the flow", or how I "feel immersed into a whole 'nother world" at the hands of his instrumentals. It's no different here. This whole album has a rather fast paced and upbeat flow to it, such that you really wouldn't think much of it if you heard it being played to a crowd, but if you actually paid close attention to the lyrics of the song, you'd find that that fast pace and adrenaline rush the instrumentals try to invoke in you are all just a result of anger and frustration. And that's why, when it comes to Celldweller, when it comes to songs of this nature of his, one song can legitimately feel like two different songs depending on how much and close attention you're paying; it can literally feel like two different songs to me depending on if I heard it while in a crowded train station hurrying over to a transfer, or when I'm alone in a dark, silent place to call my own where I can be more honest with myself.

That being said, I wonder if I'll stop liking songs like these, if I'd stop liking Celldweller's works if I ever do somehow manage to pull myself out of this "depression". Would seem almost like a damn shame.

Not a Dark Post #1

Too hot, or too cold?

If asked to choose between two extremes, such as "too bored or too busy?", I'd never really have an answer. I mean, duh, right? Who would? I think the whole point of that question is that no one could really have an answer. But it's precisely because of that that I find my ability to pick a side between too hot and too cold interesting.

I'd definitely take freezing over scorching.

I don't care what anyone else says; Singapore is uninhabitable without air conditioning. I could be sitting my jobless ass at home with a fan blowing directly at me writing a blog post, and I could be sweating. The temporary relief of a cold shower lasts approximately fifteen seconds before I find myself burning and sweating again in this heat. I could get heat injury and hyperventilate just by walking in the sun for ten minutes FFS. And they think we're ready to fight a war, ha. ha. ha.

So perhaps then you can see my fascination and affinity with the cold, because to me it has always been a sign and means of relief. It's summer all year round in Singapore, which means we never get snow. I only got to know what snow felt like on a family trip in 2016 to Japan, when I was 22! So of course I'm speaking from a place of bias, because I've never had to shovel snow off my porch just to take out the trash in my home, or had to spike my tyres just to get anywhere in the winter. But, hey, grass on the other side's always greener, right? Or, er... snow... is... whiter... eheh... okay whatever I'm a terrible writer.

Maybe I'm talking out of my ass as a result of never having dealt with the problems of winter, but I always envision that the cold would make one seek out a place of comfort and loved ones for warmth, much like how I associate the cold with relief. What does being too hot do for a person on a psychological level? All it does is waste the brain into a smouldering puddle.

Or how about ways to cope? You can only take off so much clothing before it becomes illegal, but you can put on as much as you want until you're warm (or can't move!). Being too cold makes you shiver, but is otherwise quite harmless, whereas being too hot makes you sweat, dehydrates you, makes your clothes stick to your body and in some cases making them see through. Not to mention it makes you stink like hell. It's just a hateful, hateful mess.

I don't know what this says about me as a person, but it should come as no surprise that I tend to prefer the cold, dark, gloomy places and themes over their livelier counterparts. I just find comfort in the loneliness, the quiet, the desolate feeling of it all. Cars racing in the rain has always been such a romantic thing for me to watch, in lieu of having the balls to actually do it. As a kid I've always loved watching individual rain drops race each other to the bottom of a car window, sometimes merging into each other to gain a weight advantage. Fake smiles and laughter are awash in society, but tears are always genuine.

-gosh what am I even saying? Is this even about hot and cold anymore? Sorry, I get a million thoughts in my head each day, and they're all just about as useless as this. This one just happens to be less harmful and disturbing. Of course, I'll always find a way to spear off into a dark tangent, but when it happens I suppose it's up to me to stop myself.

Sorry for making you sit through it.

Haha, I feel bad just copy-pasting my previous writing onto this blog, and because I'm sharing it only with my therapist thus far, I tend to copy-paste only the dark, depressive, morbid pieces here, which I guess kinda makes me look like a tortured, psycho, suicidal, ensnared in darkness soul. I mean, not that that's not true, it's just... there's more to me than that, you know? Not to mention I feel bad for this blog, becoming a dumping ground of sorts, so here's a bespoke post for fourth wall. I hope you enjoyed it.

(bespoke... right... I really need to be in the car industry fml)

Escape

Am I chasing something, or am I being chased?
What am I running towards, what am I running from?
I don't know; the world is a blur
Nothing really stays long enough to be understood
Everything's so loud and yet it seems I can't hear a thing they're saying

What if I break down and stopped running?
Will they stop and stare, or will they carry on apathetic as ever?
Run, run, I need to keep running
I can't escape the need to run
It catches me even in my sleep before each day starts
But it should be alright; I ought to look fine on the outside
Speed on by before anyone notices I'm broken
Run, run, can't stop running
All the lights are glaring; everyone's gawking
But what am I even looking at?

Will someone catch me and fix me?
Or will I be left alone to run
From someone that had never looked back at me?
Running and running, I feel as if I chase a ghost buried in distant what-ifs.
Running from the ghost always at the back of my mind
I can't win

If it's only a matter of time before we're all gone
Is it so awful to be built faster than everyone else?
If I ran, if I disappeared
Would anything matter at all?
It's just another breath into the wastegate of many
Maybe I should stop for good.

ACS 24-9-17: Betrayal of Rationality

So, while binge watching a ton of Extra Credits episodes on YouTube, I came across this video.

I'm never going to be a game designer. Hell, I hardly even game nowadays. But the reason why this episode hit me hard enough to want to do a full blog entry on it is because of just how closely it hits home, which is rather surprising, because, again, I hardly game, and I never touch horror titles.

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"I am insane" is an easier answer than "The world is insane". Or, to put it another way, they are more ready to believe that they themselves are going mad, than to believe that the world is radically different than what we understand it to be. And the panic this causes is real, because they're perfectly rational, but THINK they're going insane. They're trapped in this rational box, having all of the faculties, all of the ability and the analysis and reason that they've always had, but they're watching themselves, as they think it, going insane. And they can't do anything about it. Unlike the madman, who in most stories, believe his fantasies are realities, and thus doesn't see his insanity, the characters in horror are acutely aware. They KNOW they're going mad. They're forced to feel that descent. To feel the rest of the world judging them, making assumptions about them, because they aren't actually going mad, but even they don't believe it.
(...)
The moment where the character finally faces the possibility that what they're seeing and experiencing is real, the moment they have to ask themselves, "Do I HOPE I'm going mad?", because the alternative is worse - that is the quintessence of horror.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

I've written about my outlook on life and the world a few times. How a lot of things are wrong and don't make sense, and why I can't figure out why we aren't better than this. Here's the most recent example of me thinking the world is fucked up and crazy.

Long story short, it's like seeing the world outside as a horror game. If you ever want to know how it feels to have anxiety to the point of fearing to even leave your house, much less get a job, I suppose you can try a good horror title.

puh 28-12-17: 距離

Well, it's not every post that gets a half month delay before I even get around to forming sentences with bullet points, let alone polishing it.

There are several reasons for the delay. Chalk most of it up to procrastination and plain being tired. A healthy chunk of it being avoidance and just not wanting to think about sad things, and perhaps not just for escapism, but for healthier thinking tendencies. And whatever left of the reason being that I don't even feel confident about my own convictions and how I feel, and not knowing what the hell I'm doing and what's right.

So, needless to say, this is going to be an awful piece of writing. I really ought to make that a disclaimer on both my blogs to spare myself the trouble, heh.

About two days before reslavery, I made a short surprise visit to my cousins' gathering every Sunday. I was made to talk on the long car ride home, since they were trying to help me develop social and networking skills. Seeing that they were close family and all, I felt safe to share the most immediate worry that was staring me in the face at the time: reslavery. I talked about my disdain for "the system", our culture and attitude, how we're treated, how toxic the environment is, and how I'm so, so afraid I'd do something terribly stupid in this stage of my life because I'm not in the right state of mind.

I was immediately blown off and authoritatively told to "shut the fuck up", and this was right after the same person got on my case for instinctively dropping f bombs in front of his, what, 4 year old daughter, too. And it's not like I was just blindly lashing out, either. I was trying to keep everything civil and I wanted a discussion, but hey, he just didn't want to hear any of it. He told me that if I didn't want to defend this place, I should just get the fuck out of here.

I managed to avoid breaking down until I was dropped off and was all alone. And when I managed to stop crying and clean up at the nearby mall's toilets, I threw a tantrum at home, tossing all my slavery related crap around under the pretence of packing. I eventually broke down again mid packing before dropping dead from exhaustion.

So, yeah, I don't react well to things right now. I'm extremely volatile, easy to upset, quick to anger, and will let my emotions consume me and in that state of mind I'll formulate the unhealthiest way to "solve" problems.

But, I mean, what the hell else was I to do? Could anyone really blame me? I have tried everything in the one and a half ish years after I realised I most likely struggle with depression, some of which I never thought I would. I have sought psychiatry, I have sought counselling, I have made SOS phone calls, I let my family, friends, and even acquaintances on Facebook know I've depression. I've made some of my more polished and informative writing about my personal struggles and demons in my head public as notes on Facebook. I do Google searches on depression, anxiety, self esteem issues, codependency issues, loneliness, and so on almost every morning.

And what the hell do I get. For all that effort on my part, for all that damned pain I put myself through, for struggling every day to stay alive to hopefully see a glimpse of light, what the hell do I get.

I'll fucking tell you what I get. I get family members telling me to shut the fuck up. I get parents telling me to just forget the bullying that happened ten years ago. I get treated like a fucking joke by psychiatristS. My counsellor gets angry with me for not being able to change. I get close friends ignoring my texts because they're legit too busy with an adult life now. I get love interests blowing me off after all I did for her in spite of all the fucking demons in my head and my world constantly being in a blur.

I get it. I'm flawed. Extremely so. More than flawed, I'm broken. That's what articles always liken mental illnesses to, doesn't it? If a car is broken, you don't pour acid all over it, blow it up or drive it off a cliff, do you? It's just broken, and broken things can be repaired. You take it to a shop to get it repaired. Similarly, if you're depressed, no matter how warm, caring, flowery the articles always are, they'll always centre back to that point: get help. See a professional trained to handle this. They'll make you feel better! They'll help you fix your problems!

But, as I'm starting to find out, it isn't as easy, or simple, as going to a doctor for a physical illness, or even sending a car into a workshop. There seems to be some missing step, or steps, that I'm just plain not getting and not being highlighted enough when it comes to getting mental health aid. At least three times in my hazy memory I can recall being asked explicitly, "how do you want me to help you?", by these so called professionals, and not as an introductory line at the start of a session, either. It was really deep into the session where the psychiatrist just didn't seem to know what the hell I want. I feel like I'm asking for ramen at a zoo or something.

I don't fucking know how the hell you're supposed to help me, just goddamned help me! I get suicidal urges on a daily basis, I have all the fucking symptoms of depression for longer than I can remember, and you're telling me you don't know how to help me? This is the single most textbook, living, breathing specimen of a depressed individual, and isn't your whole fucking job to help these people? I don't fucking know what's wrong with me! You think a person hit by a car knows what's wrong with him? Or why a car knows why it can't move? So, what am I supposed to take away from this combined experience of both private and government practices? That there's nothing wrong with me? That I don't need help? That it's normal to want to die? To feel this tired all the time no matter how much sleep you get? To find life pointless and meaningless? To want to push everybody away? To get these fight or flight primal instincts kick in when you're rightfully reprimanded? To have your hands shake, heart race, mind blank when someone at work tasks you with something? To get so, so violent at the slightest provocation?

Fine. Fucking fine. Maybe this is normal. Maybe I'm just being a big fucking pussy. Maybe I'm victimising myself. Maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. After all, what other logical conclusion can be drawn when mental healthcare professionals, family, and close friends alike treat you like a fucking joke, right? "How do you want me to help you?", "aiya everybody also has depression one la", "your bullying crap happened 10 years ago liao la remember so much for what" "your problems aren't even real". And if no other logical conclusion can be drawn, then it goes without saying that wanting to die, and by extension, suicide, is perfectly normal, right? That it's of no concern to anyone. It's not a big deal.

Why the hell do I even try so hard to stay alive for fucks and scum like these.

And thus, feeling like I'm all alone in this cruel and unfeeling world, I began my crusade of self isolation. I bring up my misadventure with my cousins not because it was the singular reason that led me to it, but father the final push into reclusion along with a host of other factors, and one that perhaps best helps illustrate my point of everybody around me being jackasses to justify my own actions. Now, don't get me wrong: I didn't go full Hikikomori on the world; I unfortunately am not in a position where that is an option. I still go to work, 6 day work week and all, through the crippling anxiety and the blunders it causes me at work. It's just that I deactivated my Facebook account so nothing is accessible by anyone anymore. I deleted my entire Instagram app, and I was so close to deleting WhatsApp entirely too if I didn't need it for my immediate family to get in touch with me. In lieu of deleting WhatsApp entirely, I blocked both --, and deleted their contacts from my phone. I'd do the same for my cousins, too, if they wouldn't just detour around to my sister to get a hold of me.

Short of suicide, this is the closest I can get to vanishing from the world like I so dearly want to. I'm just sick to the core, sick and tired, of human contact. I feel like I've been played for a damn fool, to have been made to pour my heart and soul out to people who had reassured me they cared for me, only to judge and chastise me for sharing my woes, and belittling my troubles.

So right now, my only human contact is at work and at home. The former because I need to earn a living, and the latter because there's no getting away from them. I don't make, or feel an emotional connection with anybody. I've given up on turning to any of them.

Pain. Pain. So much pain. Too much pain.

******************************************

So go ahead and pin this all on me as usual
At least until my next breakdown
I'm strong enough to say I don't care anymore

So why's it matter anyway
I'm sure I'll go whimpering back to your feet in due time
Nothing I can do matters to you
I don't even take myself seriously anymore
But whatever makes you happy, makes me happy, right?
That's what love is supposed to be, isn't it?
To love someone is to set them free
I can't blame you for not loving me

I know there's no escaping the fact you mean the world to me
I know I could never lie to myself for the rest of my life
I guess all that's left to do now
Is to let time do the thing it does
Kill off any last remnants of attachment to you
To match the hope we had of this ever working out

The silent signs were as tangible as I had feared them to be
I guess it wasn't just the voices in my head driving me insane
Maybe everything's as crazy as I think
The voice in my head tells me I'll never stop loving you

hatred and loneliness can be addictive
if you let it love you back
I don't need you
I've my own vices
you'd never accept

puh 13-04-18: FUDGE014

I want to say that I just had another nightmare, but it's actually a hell of a lot more sorrowful than scary.

I was in Seng Kang Secondary School's school hall, because of course I was. I was an adult though, on an alumni visit together with a crowd of alumni that was large enough to make it look like a regular school day, as ridiculous as that sounds, given every alumni gathering I've been to had only about a tenth, if even that, of that volume. And, for some reason, we were all seated on the wooden floor of the hall, like we were students going through the routine boring, too hot, electric needle sending assembly talks the staff are still so fond of. Maybe we weren't alumni, but instead were brought back to be reeducated for some reason, going through the same belittling treatment as teens would be subject to. I don't know. I don't suppose that part's really that important.

A student... well, "one of us", basically, was on stage speaking. She sounded jovial. The crowd was amped up with emotion and cheerful atmosphere. It was some sort of an award giving ceremony. Me, being the quiet, weird, outcast guy who never found joy in anything them young whippersnappers enjoyed, didn't make much of it. I was more concerned about the needles in my legs and my rapidly numbing ass. All of a sudden, the emcee called for Cypy's name, but she was nowhere to be found. It's no real surprise, since she's frequently absent from school, owing to her frail body and the same condescending disinterest in crap like this, except she has her parents' support to bail on these events unlike me.

Somehow, everyone's gaze knew to turn to me, almost as though a scene out of a surreal horror movie, or an all too accurate manifestation of my social anxiety. It's almost like everyone knew how close we were, almost like I was her only friend and vice versa. It was a really powerful part of the dream, because it's such a bittersweet moment in my dream, when all the dreams I get are otherwise really clear cut happy or sad. It's sweet because everyone acknowledges our ties, reminding me of how powerful our friendship is, and how great an achievement I've made in my seemingly perpetually empty and underachieving life. I was a nobody, I had nothing. I was just another faceless man in the crowd, until she came along in that dream. It's really amazing how my brain can cook up deep, complex analogies like that in a dream I've no control over, yet I can never write literature of that calibre to save my own life when I try.

But it's bitter. Bitter because bitterness concluded that story of our friendship. The last things I could take away from being friends with her were bitter disappointments, breaking down, going insane, a million unsaid things, and the regret of walking away in the way I felt I was forced to that triggers all these goddamned dreams I'm getting all of a sudden.

It's bitter because we aren't friends anymore.

Puppeted by the silent stares of everyone present, it became etiquette for me to conform to their unspoken demands and accept the prize for her in spite of how much anguish it's churning up inside me. Do we really have free will? Are all of us really that different? I don't know. I'm just another faceless man in the crowd, after all.

I took the thing... whatever it was, meant for Cypy, I don't remember, and walked down the steps at the side of the stage, downcast, angry, sad and confused. That was when everybody decided to swarm me and pelt me with insults and mockery, almost as though being her friend was something to be ashamed of. Well, it's not really that much of a surprise, either, since kids are assholes and any little thing different about you is grounds to be picked on, especially when you're already an outcast to begin with.

But we're adults in that dream, weren't we? Or did we suddenly regress into the bratty teens that we were? It felt almost as if all of society's "asshole inhibitors", like fear of prosecution, need to uphold an image, etc., all just fell away because we were students in a school. And without these "asshole inhibitors", everyone felt free to be true to themselves and act upon their most primal instincts and their worst desires. That is, everyone felt free to be the asshole they are at the cores of their beings.

Dear theoretical reader, does it make me a bad person for getting urges to destroy lives? Am I a bad person for getting violent urges to end the lives of many? It's rage of such a calibre I barely even remember nowadays. Nowadays it's easier to just walk away or cry somewhere alone. But I felt like I was trapped in a sea of laughter, mockery and degradation I could not escape in that dream, just as I had felt some ten years ago. It's a nightmare I had, because I fear all the philosophical questions it makes me ask of myself. Are we perhaps all the same? If I lived somewhere with easier access to guns, would I be a murderer by now? Would I have taken by own life by now? For this façade of peace and harmony, what really is the price to pay? Can human will, ill or otherwise, really be suppressed? And what are the costs of such suppression if it were possible? Are we really all the same underneath, with the need to belong in a group, feel powerful and free, and feel the need to defend ourselves? Why do I always feel like a loser for not being the asshole and pulling the trigger, when everyone else was free to be the asshole they wanted to be? Am I weak and pathetic, not knowing how to stand up for myself, or am I admirable for having made it through that hell at all? Why is it such an admirable thing to make it through hell if it's a Pyrrhic victory? Are we all as awful as I am, and am I as awful as all of them? Even if I don't have a whole gang to single others out to put them down, I've developed such violent and condescending coping mechanisms and speech patterns to compensate for my feelings of powerlessness, that when I stop to take a closer look at myself, I feel like I've become just another one of them. Not to mention, it really doesn't help me fit into society.

Are all of us really that different? And if we are, how much deviation are we allowed before we're singled out and corrected? What if I'm just too weird to have enough free will to be happy? What if I'm actually normal? Why do both possibilities scare me all the same? Why is everything so scary in this world? If we're all awful, how do we fix it? Can we really be fixed?

Dear blog, sometimes I'm afraid of closing my eyes. When I sleep, I feel like a fish that can somehow forget to swim and drown in the ocean in which it lives. I get pulled down into my own ocean of negative thoughts and awful memories, useless regrets, and it's only when I start to suffocate do I wake up terrified. And then I fear going back to sleep because I don't want to drown again.

Needless to say none of this is good for my health.

"And kids are cruel. All people are, by nature -- they just lose touch with it as they get older." - Sundowner, Metal Gear Rising Revengeance

ACS 21-10-17: Akira Me

It's weird, how, whenever I'm down at my worst, this car, and people's reactions to it, always has an odd way to light a little warmth back in my heart. And that's something you can't buy. That's not something you can name drop your way into. I've made this analogy many a times, but the FD RX-7 is my automotive wife, heh. Kinda like how there may be prettier, more capable women out there than your wife, you love your wife for who she is because she makes you feel special, y'know? There's an intangible connection you can't put into words, yet one special and profound enough that you would not exchange that for anything else in the world.

The RX-7, especially the FD generation, is one of the most divisive, if not the single most divisive car I think I've ever seen. It's a car that, if you get it, you love it, but for those who don't, they'll see this as a disgusting, unreliable, uncomfortable, uneconomical piece of shit. You could literally hear the disgust in this guy's voice when he says "a 1994 Mazda", which ironically makes the FD stand out all the more, simply because it was quite unfathomable that a small, independent carmaker in Hiroshima could produce something that could challenge the world back in the day, and even to now they still haven't quite recaptured that magic.

But what really puts a smile on my face is when someone who isn't a racing car driver or a sports driving enthusiast getting into the car, and being immediately bewitched by its unique, lightweight balance, and smooth vocals and power, even on the streets. This is the kind of car that make people LOVE cars to begin with. Being one of the cars with the most pure design both aesthetically and performance wise, it's almost as though this car embodied the souls of Mazda engineers back in the 90s. Cars nowadays simply do not have this much character engineered into a them nowadays, what with safety standards stating that we ought to protect those who don't look left right left before crossing, and how people buy cars based on badges and spec sheets instead of how it makes you feel, or manufacturers simply sticking with cookie cutter, established trends to ensure sales. Once you've experienced the bug bite of a pure, simple, focused performance car like the FD, there simply is no forgetting it, and there simply is no way of getting over it, no getting enough of it and no way of duplicating that intoxicating mix.

I suppose it's rather inevitable that cars sort of have to drive themselves for the driver nowadays, with so much power on tap, even professional racing drivers would have their hands full managing all that power. I just feel that it's such a damn shame we can't have more of the 90s Japanese Economy Bubble sports cars anymore, right at that sweet spot in history where cars could only produce manageable power, and when regulations and trends didn't have such a strong chokehold on the industry, yet advanced and safe enough in sensible hands. But I digress.

It's people and videos like these that make me really feel that a next generation Mazda Rotary Sports Car would be warmly welcomed, if only by that select few people that it can "speak" to. And, god, what will it take for me to be able to put smiles on the faces of people who drive a car I created ten, twenty, fifty years down the road?

I've said this ever since I took up a Mechanical Engineering course in tertiary education, but I want to build, design, or just in whatever small way I can be part of the development of the next gen Rotary Sports Car. Hell, I'll even take being a coffee boy or a toilet cleaner, if it means I get to wear a Mazda shirt and help the people responsible to come up with something that can rival the FD in terms of significance and purity of self expression.

This is going to sound weird coming from me, but I think my love for the RX-7, and Mazda Rotary Sports Cars in general, is pretty undeniable. But, with only a sixth of 2017 left, battling depression and anxiety throughout, bouncing from job to job, receiving both helpful advice and scornful dismissals from friends and family... a lot of the negativity is getting to me.

Honestly, if you want to dig deep enough, you might even claim that my love for the FD is the main, if not sole cause for all my misery. Because I love cars so much and did so much research on them and always wanted better, always wanted more, I despised my outdated and backwards polytechnic education, where I looked down on our education system and lecturers, and even my classmates, who happily spent their days playing games with each other and graduating with the same diploma as I did, but with better grades. Because I felt like I was in a rush to make the most of my youth and get some industry experience I loathed slavery even moreso than your average joe, sometimes with the angst building to a dangerous fever pitch that could have easily landed me in severe trouble. I openly defied orders in the faces of those giving them and even at one point attempted to punch a spec in the face. And now, being a grown ass adult free of the shackles of "education" and slavery, I find myself impossible to please because I can't find a way to make enough money and get enough relevant industry experience to buy my own FD in this fucked up country, let alone modify and fine tune it to tackle the most daunting and challenging of roads. I suppose that's where my hateful perfectionism comes from, too. After all, in car tuning, even a tenth of a degree in wheel alignment can make a world's difference, and we're dealing with hugely expensive chunks of metal capable of mass murder. Where a second's difference in lap times is an eternity? And so it's just a mentality I grew up with, and it's that mentality that makes me disagree with so much of society as I see it. How could anyone sleep at night doing a slipshod job deemed as "good enough"? How could I have ever fathomed that laziness could take such a strong hold in the culture of a workplace, and that lying on a report just to get it over and done with was the right thing to do? What if a racing driver took a car I tuned, expecting it to corner, but the car fails him at a hundred kilometres per hour? What if someone depended on a report I was told by my superior to lie in? How could anyone do their jobs just to earn a paycheck to continue their existence without being personally invested into a job?

I don't get any of it, and I'm so scared because that seems to be the mentality of the vast majority of people in working society. After all, who's going to be super passionate about flipping burgers, or sweeping the streets? We can't all be special. We can't all be that lucky to find a job that aligns with our personal goals and needs, yet society still needs to function and we need to be paid. I don't know how to fit in with a society like that... and it's causing me a great deal of anguish and panic.

At this point, I'm very surprised that none of my close friends and family have hated that "devil's car", for making me like this. If I hadn't loved cars, if I hadn't loved the FD as much as I did maybe, just maybe, I could have a stable 9-5 office job and be content with "just being alive" and just "getting a monthly paycheck".

While they haven't expressly hated the car itself, almost all of them have at some point, with some variation, told me to give up on my unrealistic dream. And that's just something I have never been able to even go close to understanding. I don't understand how telling someone to give up on their dream is supposed to make them happier, and I don't understand how one is supposed to just give up the one and only thing they crave, yearn, and live their whole life for. Like, what the hell else am I gonna be if I'm not going to be a technician/ engineer/ tuner/ racing car driver? What the hell else would I be good for? What the hell else would I be interested in? Would there be any meaning in a life without my own FD? No. I would be so fucking lost and empty if I could not have that in some way, shape or form. You can liken it to a drug addiction if it helps you understand it any better, but I would literally choose to die if I can't get that same high again. Living with the pain would drive me insane. Every moment without it is withdrawal and it's fucking miserable.

The world is cruel enough as it is. Just... let me have this, please...

What the hell does it mean exactly to be happy? How does one go about achieving happiness as a state of mind instead of just a supply? I'm pretty sure there would be people that have wound up happier by giving up on an impossible dream, or an impossible love, such as that of widows. Yet on the other hand, success stories are aplomb of famous entrepreneurs, inventors, trailblazers, whatever else term there is, and the main ingredient in their success stories has always been that they never gave up in the face of adversity, in spite of nobody sharing their vision, and have the love of their trade carry them to a breakthrough.

So what the hell is better for me. Am I better just letting this go, pretending I was never touched by that magic, that I never found my calling in life, living a whole life of denial and end up a salty, grudge ridden old man full of regrets? Or do I continue losing my goddamned mind, blotting out large chunks of my life with drugs and alcohol to hopefully survive long enough like this hoping some miracle one day gives me a break into the industry, into the company?

If there's no fixed answer as to what ought to make us all happy because we're all so different, then perhaps life is about finding our own brand of happiness. And, yeah, it's unrealistic. Hell, at this point I don't even know how I'm supposed to make enough money to feed my car, have a job I enjoy, while providing for my family and even a wife. And it drives me into depressive states and panic attacks when that topic is brought up either by friends or just me wondering to myself in my head. But... I actually don't know any other way to live or exist. I don't know how to give up. I don't know how to let go of a love and passion. I don't know if I'll truly be happier even if I did give it up.

I'd beg for help right about now, but I honestly don't know who I want to help me or how, or, if they're going to tell me to give up anyway, if I even want their help to begin with.

ACS 5-11-17: Workshop

Oh yeah, did I ever mention that I've a job right now?

I actually applied for this job together with my last one (you know, the one I quit after working a day, heh), and frankly speaking I've always wanted this one more, almost solely due to the fact that this one's at AMK, which slices my travel time by around half to a third compared to the other one at Tuas. Also, this is an actual car workshop, where we service cars, repair any nook and cranny, wash, etc., compared to the other one which is just pre delivery inspection, so we don't get to really pick apart a car to study it. It's just that this workshop's boss was too busy to get back to me within the time frame I was given to confirm with the other boss whom I did meet for an interview at a coffeeshop, and my mentality back then was, "well I need A job...", and so I bit the bait on it.

On the week I quit, a message came from that too-busy-to-interview-me boss on Friday night, arranging for an interview on the next day. Honestly speaking, I didn't really think or feel that I'm ready for anything, on the heels of that tidal wave of sadness I couldn't overcome that caused me to quit that last job within a day. I was incredibly lost and defeated, and didn't know what I ought to do or how I can get better. But, in an odd twisted logic, because I was so lost and didn't know what to do, I just treated the invitation for an interview almost as a conscription. "Oh fine I'll go, not like I've a choice or anything...", separating what I really want and feel from what I told myself I "needed" to do. I just kinda knew I needed the interview in my head but I couldn't find myself wanting to do anything, à la slavery.

And so I went in not expecting anything or even really wanting the job, dragging myself to the interview and just being super disinterested in general. Of course, with society's lifelong training of putting on a presentable front, it didn't come across in the interview. The long and short of it is that I got the job on the spot, with barely any mention or look at my qualifications or résumé.

The head honcho looked and sounded like a nice enough guy, especially for someone I might've pictured running such a rough business handling equally rough men. He is a diploma holder much like me, and started out on the rock bottom just like me. He said that this trade doesn't have enough Singaporeans in it, which is why he's always happy to mentor Singaporean kids in his workshop. He also laid out a career path for me, along with how I might branch out from doing this seemingly menial, low paying, rough work. And, really, that was the ONE thing I was missing in that last job: a sense of purpose and progression.

Also, I feel very fortunate to have found this job at this garage, because I feel that the workshop's ethics aligns very well with my personal ethics. They emphasise honesty and sincerity towards the customer above all else, in comparison to all the nasty rumours of upselling and unnecessary part replacing that is rife in the automotive industry. They focus not on being the biggest car repair company, but the best. And, as I've come to find out in the four days I've worked for them thus far, they really emphasise on doing the best job they can, for every car that arrives at their workshop. They treat each and every car as they would their own, so as to earn the trust and respect of the customer, as well as to learn as much about cars to be the best technicians they can be. I am thoroughly blown away by their work ethic, and I'm... actually quite surprised that people like that still exist today, let alone a whole company of them.

More surprisingly, as a newbie 23 year old Singaporean with zero experience and knowledge in a car workshop, I was welcomed with open arms in the workshop where, aside from the boss, I was the only Singaporean. It sounds like a silly thing to have reservations about on paper, or, should I say, on the internet. But the thing about Singapore's erm... what's the correct term... manual labour industry? is that it can be quite backwards, and it's readily apparent even in the little working experience I have. Manual labour is usually, if not exclusively, handled by foreign workers, since we're a *cough* highly educated *cough* bunch and we're theoretically above doing menial, hard work for a living, especially when such jobs usually don't even pay enough to sustain a life in Singapore. The pay however, while not feasible to live off of in Singapore, due to our dollar being quite valuable, actually exchanges to quite a sizeable chunk in, say, MYR or RMB of Malaysia and China respectively, so foreign talent is more than happy to work here for that kind of pay (also because they don't have this whole pesky CPF thing that takes a hearty chunk of their pay).

That said, I think you'd understand if I tell you I've reservations about being accepted into a workshop full of foreign workers, since I'm seemingly the instant apple of the boss' eye just for being a Singaporean Diploma holder, and get paid just as much, if not more on paper for doing less than a hundredth of what they're already capable of. Heck, this seed of doubt had been planted in my mind straight from the day of the interview, where the boss said something to the effect of, "they're all dumb muscle I expect you to be better than them since you've demonstrated that you can learn better than them with this fancy ass shiny diploma so I expect you to observe more and come up with more ideas". Even before I put on a pair of safety boots, a line had clearly been drawn and a wall had already been erect in its place, and it makes me sick. Imagine if I had went and gotten a degree like I felt so pressured to, whooh!

It makes me sick still, that people would heap expectations on me, for things I never had a choice in. It was never my choice to be born here. And while, yeah, it was my choice to pursue a diploma, it always felt more like I was getting swept along the flow of the norm rather than an informed decision with the context of various industries and markets of society. I mean, hell, who's a dumbass 17 year old me back then to know, right? Then comes slavery, and suddenly the expectation of being a tough, responsible, patriotic and teamworky person laden onto you. It makes me want to fucking puke. None of these things were my conscious, informed decision. None of these things make me a better, more useful person. None of these things, except maybe the "I'm a Singaporean pls I have cpf and shit's expensive here", warrant me getting paid more. Yet every automotive industry related company I've worked at, these expectations cling onto my like a cage. Even the foreign workers themselves expect more from me, even if it meant putting themselves down. I was told off once in my 4 days thus far, "Singaporeans shouldn't do work on their knees!", when I was vacuuming a car's removed carpets as part of our servicing package. It baffles me to no end how much value there is simply for being Singaporean, and it baffles me perhaps even more that I can't see that value. If we're so against racism, or discrimination in general, then, conversely speaking, why do we condone this "Singaporeans are holier than thou" attitude with open arms?

It makes me feel guilty as all hell, almost as if I owed the workshop the world, when I'm so accepted by those that'd place me on a fucking pedestal. I was even told off once for thanking them too much when they teach me stuff, simply because it breaks that "family" feel they have fostered in the workshop. I literally showed up one day, a clueless fucking lamb, told them "hey I'm the new guy pleased to meet you" and just like that, we were family.

In fact, they hardly even seemed to give a damn when we met the first time. After that introductory line, they were like "oh okay" and went back to whatever they were doing, be it eating instant noodles for breakfast, or watching some cheap, horrendously produced, unsophisticated, talentless porn on company Wi-Fi. Contrast this to that hard to describe, super discreet feeling you'd get in an office setting, where, with every introduction, you get this vibe that everyone is trying to read you, to guard against you, or to somehow use you as a stepping stone. It's common sense, and I too am of course guilty of it, but it's only when people don't do it to me, when people didn't give a damn, that I start to realise how upsetting that feeling of being guarded against and read is.

A host of these factors combined, what with being Singaporean, being accepted unconditionally nonetheless, feeling in debt, and with me staking my own self worth and future dreams on learning this trade, I think I put a lot of pressure on myself at work... god it still sounds awfully weird when I say that about myself, especially when this is the only way I know how to work and exist. And so, because of the pressure I put on myself and all these expectations everyone around me and myself put on me, failure hits me really personally and way harder than it perhaps should. When I don't do a good enough job, if I don't know enough to do a job, when I fuck something up, it really digs into me. Again, this is my first four days on the job. Of course I suck at it. I realise this. That string of words forms a sentence is in my head, but I can't make them carry any weight for some reason. I just want and need to be so good at this, so soon. When I leave work feeling unaccomplished because all I could do was to stand around quietly watching the people too busy to reply me, I feel fucking worthless, and all those dark thoughts and feelings come back to haunt me, which just opens up the floodgates to all the philosophical and existential questions I kept pestering myself with when I didn't have a job. But, when I did do something, like when I handled that -certain car-, including doing a full oil change for it, washing the car, just looking at it, even thinking about it now, makes me smile like crazy. "Look at that, you see that? THAT was ALL ME, look at how much it's shining! Look at how ready the car is!"

I don't know. The weirdest things make me happy. Happiness in itself is a weird concept, isn't it? Some people are slaves but can be happy, yet there are millionaires who are miserable. Sometimes happiness feels almost like a cruel joke with how befuddling it is.

Well, I say they're family. They say we're family. But in reality, we're "like a chicken trying to talk to a duck", as the local saying here goes. Yeah, sure, in theory we all speak Mandarin. They are to some extent capable of English, but it's the accents that make communication super hard, especially with their god awful, half baked English. "Vacuum" is pronounced "vikkim", and "sponge" is "span", just to give a few examples off the top of my aching head. I mean, it's their unique language, almost. And, well, even if they say they're family, I can't find it in myself to really open up and drop my guard. I can only still see them as colleagues, and it kinda bugs me that I do. I realise this whole "trust" thing can't be rushed, especially with a lifetime of lessons conditioning my head to never trust anyone, but it still makes me feel awful.

It's amazing, really, to see this great divide. If anything, it just reminds me of how fucked up we are, watching these "lesser educated people", if you will. Makes you wonder why we're made to be like this, if things really are best like this, and how cold and callous a world we live in. Makes you wonder just how to be happy in a world, with a status, like this, doesn't it? Is this really for the best? Can society not function without all this coldness and distance? Why are we trained and conditioned from young to be like this? Who decided this is necessary and why?

Kinda sucks that I've a 6 day work week and get paid peanuts by Singapore standards, and how I leave work every day with every part of my body sore and head aching. But at least I'm too tired to let that sadness take root and conquer my head... so it's... something, I guess? And, hey, if I'm careful, I might save S$400/month... of which I've already blown about 30 buying my first porn title eheh.

ACS 31-10-17: Existential

It feels like every few months or so, I'll finally come clean with myself and realise I haven't got a clue what's wrong with me, instead of telling a million stories on what makes me sad in the world, and the people on it.

If true happiness comes from within oneself, as is often said by people who tell you fame and money won't make you happy, is it possible to say that you can be sad on the inside, and that things from the outside won't make me happy?

I am miserable on the inside. And I don't know why. I don't know what will fix this. I'm sure all my friends and family are sick of me saying I'm sad and sucking at explaining why. I'm not writing in hopes of getting advice this time. I just want to write without the responsibility of explaining myself, a prerequisite to what ought to make "good" writing. I just want to explore freely. Just let me indulge and wallow in my sadness for a bit. In short, just let me bitch a little, okay?

I feel so empty. So small and insignificant. So powerless to do, change, or affect anything. From young we're taught that we "should", and we "need" to study hard and get into a good school to get a good job. And thus it's a whole life of dictation, where even the slightest deviation for breathing room are met with scorns or even punishment. The peak of this was slavery, and being a grown ass adult I had hoped fervently that the real, adult, working world would be so, so much better.

It wasn't. If anything it was worse, since people's livelihoods are actually on the line in comparison to slavery.

Being told what I had to achieve and how exactly to do it with zero regard for what I personally wanted or believed in, I feel very shackled and suffocated. I'm in a lot of pain I don't know how to break free of. I see everything and everyone around me going through the same thing and I feel sad, for them. I feel that this, everything, is so ass backwards and fucked up, so painful, so meaningless, so dry, so stupid. I look at the people behind the cashiers of McDonald's and I feel sad for them, and how bored they must be but slog away anyway in the name of survival. I see and wear clothes and I feel sad, thinking about all the poor souls in China that had to be exploited, overworked and underpaid to get me clothing I can even bitch about, and I feel sad. I live in this country and take our safety for granted and feel sad, because I know the sacrifices and horrors half our population have to go through to make this happen, and that everybody believes that this is the best way to achieve peace. I walk into a company and because of where I was born and what I've been forced to do, I am expected to be a better person, of more use, than those born elsewhere not as educated as me, even if they do work harder than mine and earn way less. I feel sad for such a discriminatory system in place, and sad also to be bound by its expectations.

I feel sad, because I feel lost. I want the world to be happy. I want everyone to be happy. But with unhappiness at the root of reality and society as we know it, it's almost a requirement for society to function; that is, for people to be happy others must suffer. And that makes me sad. Why must things be this way? Why can't we all be happy? And if sadness and misery is a requirement for society to function, then do I dare be happy? Do I deserve to be happy? Do I need to fight others for the right to be happy? What value is there in my personal happiness? Is it possible to be "happy on the inside", with a stronger resistance to feeling down due to outside events? This fear of happiness makes me sad. These questions I know have no easy nor happy answers make me sad.

"The world won't change for you", lots of people, from friends, family, and my counsellor tell me this. Well then if the world is fucked up and we can't change it, what's the point in anything that we do? Why would we put up with a life we all know is hard and painful? We live, and then we die, all alone. No one will truly understand us. Hardly anyone would share even a small fraction of our burden. Our life, our death, changes nothing. There will always be people sad, and there will always be people ignorantly, or undeservingly happy. "The world will not change for you", even if you died. It'd just keep on keeping on.

But what am I saying? That I want the whole world to change to my exacting vision? I don't even have the faintest idea how an ideal world should be, let alone how feasible such a vision might be. Nor do I think people would be happy to have my idea and my own brand of happiness regimented down their throats. It's like, I know what's sad. It's so easy for things to go wrong. Murphy's Law applies everywhere. But what's happiness? Why do I have memories of being happy, when I can't even define happiness in my head, or put it down into words? What makes me happy? And even if I knew what makes me happy, how many people will it negatively impact? Do I even deserve to be happy, in that sense, wanting what I want? It's easy to destroy a knot, but I never had a clue how to tie a knot back I untied, cut or burnt off. There are so, so many ways for things to go awry, but only one specific way to do something correctly. It's so, so hard to find that needle in the haystack at every turn in life, and watching everything fall through my fingers and go to shit, I get scared. So scared. Of never ever being able to take my own life back under control and know what I'm doing with it, and answer all the moral questions that come attached with having to make such choices. Yet at the same time I feel suffocated following the template that others have set out for me.

After a while of helplessly fumbling around cluelessly and getting shot down and berated at every turn, trying to hold it all together, you almost start to see and treat your own life like a movie. You start to accept that sadness is inevitable, and that some things are just beyond your control. Then it's most things. Then it's almost seemingly everything. Everything you do is wrong and offensive, and everything you want is so unrealistic. The world wouldn't change for you. The world would never be what you might've expected or assumed it to be, and you start to feel stupid for having hope in the first place, and laugh at your happier past self for being so naïve and optimistic. Just looking at your dreams, thinking about happiness, just feels so tiring. Thinking about a possible journey back to happiness that is just wrought with so many hardships, your brain scrambles, tosses and turns to fathom how the current, bedridden, unwanted, lifeless, awkward, talentless you would overcome. And that's only what your brain can expect; who knows what the hell else life will throw your way.

So daunting. So hopeless. And the longer you sit and watch everything fall through your hands because you don't care anymore, the more you hate yourself for being useless and powerless. The less life and its assorted struggles make sense to you. The sadder you'd feel for others who have to go through this, never asking why. The more afraid you'd feel, with everyone around you egging you, supporting you, to get back on that track of senseless pain. You start to lose all sense of right and wrong when you start questioning who you should listen to and why. You start to ask yourself how right you are in your thinking and beliefs, how much you matter, only until the realisation sets in that everybody is as clueless about life as you are, and yet somehow they feel confident enough to live it and give you suggestions/ tell you how to live it.

It all just feels so stupid to me, because everything is so wrong. People are unhappy. Life is hard. There is no meaning. I can't convince myself I want to live. I can't get excited about my life. Will meds help with this? Will counselling? Maybe I'm just too stupid to live. Maybe I'm just too stupid to be happy. Maybe I'm just a super bad actor in an examination like script of a play that is life. Maybe there are no preferences, strengths and weaknesses in this play. It's act or get out. Could I possibly belong anywhere? I'd just push everyone away, like I tried so many times with the friends most concerned about me because I'm stupid and fucked up. Could anyone really understand what I'm going through, when I don't even understand it myself? Do I really want the answers to these questions? Is ignorance really bliss in this scenario? Do I want to dump this onto others?

I ask so much of others. I take more than I could ever repay, and give nothing but trouble and burdens in return. I ask my retiring parents to still keep me fed, I ask my friends to enjoy my company, I ask anyone who'd tolerate me be patient with me, I consume so much media at home nowadays and don't pay a cent for any of it, hoping to find that one something, that one spark, that'd answer all these stupid and impossible questions, that'd make me feel ready to embrace life again.

Do I even fucking deserve to be happy?

In a world so fucked up, I don't know how I'm supposed to be happy. Maybe I'd be happier if I were to be able to turn a blind eye to all this, but that wouldn't really be "me", would it?

First on Fourth

Holy smokes, a new blog? In 2018? Without pictures of food, travel, or scantily clad women? What is this?

*ahem* that's... quite a first sentence for a new blog, isn't it? I suppose that's pretty much all you need to know about how I write, and the quality of my writing, heh. Hello. My name is Lee Ke Tat. I go by "XSquareStickIt" online. I'm a 24 year old male (single!!!) Singaporean, with a diploma in Mechanical Engineering. This is my third and youngest blog. I have two more I started in 2008 and 2009 respectively, but both of those are way too personal and filled with garbage for me to ever feel comfortable with making public.

So, what's this blog, and why did I create it? To be honest, I'm not entirely sure myself. I just went on a ramble fest to my poor, probably confused therapist last session, and she encouraged me to challenge myself by stepping out of my comfort zone by making some of my writing public. Not only does it allow me to express myself more and learn to respect my own voice, it's also apparently some sort of a behavioural experiment. So, um, here's my hamster wheel I guess. I've always felt like a prisoner caged in my own head anyway.

Hooooo boy! That got dark really quickly, didn't it? I feel like you, dear theoretical reader, should know that I have self diagnosed depression, anxiety, and possibly a whole assortment of mental issues I've not quite realised yet. It's certainly not something I'd bring up within five minutes of meeting someone new, yet here you are, five minutes into getting to know me, already knowing I'm sick in the head. That's why I best express myself in writing and in the format of a blog, because it allows me to express myself and calmly think my sentences over without the pressures and stresses of an actual conversation. ...and because I can keep talking even if you aren't interested, eheh.

It kinda begs the question, doesn't it? What defines a person? Is it their personality, their hobbies, their profession, their sexual orientation, their race, their mental illnesses? Does any of it really define a person? I don't know. I've always felt so lost, small, and insignificant. It's hard to care what I am when I can't even convince myself any of it matters.

So, um... this blog... is going to feature mainly heavily doctored content from my two other blogs. Even when trying to write with the general public eye in mind I feel like a fish out of water, and I'm the type that feels the need to declare when I'm not being entirely honest. Um... can I... go now? This is super awkward.