reading and writing

I am concurrently reading Lolita and The Night Watch at the moment. One is about a paedophile and the other a lesbian novel. But both are nicely written, beautiful prose, even if I cannot really relate to the subject matters. Language always gets to me this way.

I love sociological novels as well; the ethos of a time, the subculture within a cosmopolitan city. Hence I love Hanif Kureishi, DH Lawrence, and even (well-written) chick-lit.

My own writing of a book is still in its stop-start mode. Using myself as a muse hardly qualifies, and it is in fact rather irritating because I am such a perfectionist. I think about reading perfectly even before I write the words. Plus I am lousy at fiction. I could probably dig my own blog for material but even that is too tedious for my current state of energy-laziness. I think about my book(s) from a marketer's point of view (occupational hazard?) and the words cease after a while.

I think about my favourite artists like Joan Miro, Jackson Pollock, and I think about their lyrical, meditative artistic process. I want to translate that into literary art. Each one of Miro's and Pollock's artwork is a perfect poem.

Maybe I should interlace my poems in chronological order with the entries from my notebooks and blog. But that is more editorial tedium than writing in itself.

Reading more doesn't really seem to help very much, it has diminishing returns, and seems to not benefit my writing unless I really start to write and write.

I think about writer's desks in rooms or beautiful flats, and I wish I could really write like one like that. Emily Dickinson wrote in a room that she lived in most of the time, an attic of sorts. I want to be like that - lock myself up and write, and think of writing the moment I put the key in my door to enter.

And who would read my books? Local books are hardly the toast of the town, even if Asian writers in general are rather toasty. However I am no Banana Yoshimoto or Haruki Murakami; I am Singaporean. I am more inclined to buy a locally published book out of sympathy and support, just like how I support local films.

Thus, somewhat of a stalemate. Bah.

hide

Thank you all for reading me.

I find myself finally, really, truly, now someone who is an open book for others to read me. I used to hide behind cryptic posts here on worldsuponwords, just so that I could hide the truth from the world and yet still write as a release and a comfort to my pain.

I had a really long conversation about myself tonight for a pair of willing ears. The void when the listener goes and leaves behind for me is a deafening silence. I no longer want to hide as much. I would rather have company than solitude sometimes.

I guess I have changed somewhat. From deliberately stressing myself out to share with my friends, to actually finding it easy to talk in a crowd again. Medication gives me the energy to do that, I do feel; it is still a main source of upping my abilities to deal with people and real life. This is progress.

Company is such a beautiful thing sometimes. Thank you for bearing with me. My past, my future. My bitching, my whining even. My fierce opinions, my cutting remarks put across as tastefully that I can. The million times I interrupt you (and this I will keep trying to improve).

The fact that you bother to listen and to read me, still, means that you care enough about this person saying these words. And for that, I love you.

wow

Yesterday I played WoW for almost the whole day. And I mean twenty-four hours of a day. I started at 11am when I awoke. Stopped a few times in between for a quick lunch, exercise, two spa-like showers, dinner. I went to bed at 3am. I actually had symptoms of repetitive stress injury: my left wrist and middle finger ached from the strain of spamming buttons.

The best thing of it is this: I didn't feel sad the entire day. I didn't shed a single tear. I didn't have what my doctor calls 'negative thoughts'. I felt normal. And I laughed a lot from chatting with my friends online. Plus, I actually managed to sustain an activity the whole day. I think it is almost a first for me.

I am happy for my achievement. Event though gaming may seem like a vice - to many girls out there widowed by computer games - it really makes me happy. And it is my gaming friends that make all the difference. I really love them.

fight or flight

Apparently you can trick your central nervous system into responding desirably to stress triggers which do not actually kill you.

When I am stressed, I get a pain in my chest, or a headache, or I feel irritable, or I freeze up and can hardly think clearly.

My stress triggers are: people asking me about myself, crowded spaces, complicated things, long hours spent at doing any one thing persistently (church, gaming, reading, talking) even if it is enjoyable.

Now, to complete the equation, I need to learn how to trick myself. Wondering how in itself is making me nervous and short of breath. If only logical thinking alters things permanently.

I am very persistent. But my depression is even more persistent.

Trying to get better is stressful. Mind-control has diminishing returns. I feel negated. But I have said all this before.

I will try to post something more meaningful some time soon. We all have a right to read pleasantries.

One thing I miss about C, is being able to read in bed next to him as he does the same.

whale

I am not eating more than usual. I exercise more than I ever did since leaving school. But I am official whale-sized. Bloated, round, chubby. I hope you like me this way. I am officially oval.

alkie

previously written yesterday, Tuesday, 20 May 2008


Here I am sitting at the public house at Hotel Rendezvous downtown. The sun is setting soon; it is still hot out. My Hoegaarden is sweating in its mug-barrel.

I have decided - and this I told my doctor today- that I cannot give up drinking. I am a closet alcoholic. I have been using drink as a coping mechanism since 2003.

He says, "Go ahead," and this is to two a day. "Enjoy it. Just don't take the Ativan (Lorazepam) when you do." My Mom has also said that if I want to drink, drink at home with her. So that I won't get knocked-out drunk outside alone like I was on Saturday.

So this is me. Out-of-the-closet alkie. For real.

Not only do I enjoy alcohol, very much, I also enjoy good music very much, 'live', or DJ sets. But as of now I don't have very many people to enjoy all that with. I have no yuppie solidarity pool to dip into for pub and club companionship.

I drink alone for now, when I am out. At least, at last, I will never need to thirst that way again.

I get high more easily now when I drink, because of my being on medication in general. But I am not looking to get drunk, it is a horrible feeling, which I recently got re-acquainted with many times this year, more than my entire adult lifetime.

Krys texts me later in the evening saying, "An alcoholic? Alone?" before she comes to accompany me. But I really don't have much of a choice I think.

I feel normal, happy, and my thirst is quenched.

But tonight is good. Sober enough, actually happy, and a good night's sleep without medication.

sleepy afternoon

Slinky sleeps a lot. So do I; hurrah for meds!

I don't have the energy to write today. I want to be as chirpy as I was yesterday. Walking from Mount E to Mohammad Sultan, reading, writing, making merry mania with friends. But here I am, hugging my pillow in half-slumber after napping the afternoon.

Oh! Slinky just woke up from her afternoon nap too. She just slunk away to another corner of the room. She has her hyper moments too, but she doesn't need coffee, medicine, CBT, alcohol or nicotine to be a normal cat. She already is one, sleeping her fill of sixteen hours a day.

doggie dance

For all who have seen me dance this dance in real life. /smile

crush

My first crush on a boy was on my first day of primary school. His name was Christopher. He was a bit waifish: fair, skinny, reserved. Much like my second crush, Kenji, whom I met when I was barely eight years old, and adored all the way till I was eleven. Ha, I have no idea where the idea of having a crush descended from. I just knew I liked him. Nice to look at, makes my heart a-flutter, gives me some reason to wear my hair nicely when I go to school, that sort of thing. No, I wasn't reading Sweet Valley High prematurely, I really only read Enid Blyton till I reached my tweens. TV was not like it is now; I pretty much grew up on just SBC 8 drama serials and cartoons, so, no, I didn't get my romantic ideas from TV.

Back then, and in most of my teenage years, we had crushes based on looks and personality. She's so cute, so cool - that was it. Today, single adults are so jaded. 'Looks' and 'personality' are otherwise known as just 'fuckability' in today's SATC-styled world. A crush becomes a false hope, a fling, or a broken relationship - one of the above. Having a crush is a sign of being immature. Real adults have relationships based on a whole lot more than just looks and personality. If you have a crush, too bad. Forget it, unless you two are compatible can communicate have common interests are on the same social standing have the money to get married blah blah.

Is having a crush really an adult faux pas? What explains physical attraction? Is it just part of the equation in finding lovable companionship? I cannot love a man based on his social qualifications. But I can fall in love with a crush. Go figure that one, and tell me.

politics, class, and me nowhere

How much of a Marxist am I? Like any true educated intellectual I read as many schools of thought as possible into sociological issues, and then I make my opinion on them. I believe that the bourgeois wife or yesterday's version of the tai-tai is the private prostitute Marx says she is. She hires tutors for her children and maids for the house, so what else should she do but provide sex on tap? Work? All right, but only to provide some brain-sex for her husband, or else she would go mad with paranoia at home.

In Singapore we have a middle class. Like most urban Asian societies do now. The Singaporean middle class wife works because she has to earn some, and then hires maids and tutors and mothers-in-law. Meanwhile because she is comfortable (instead of working till death like the working class women do), she goes mad with her free time. Usually used to make children the centre of her tiny universe, clean the house where the helper cannot catch up, nags her husband so as to take the place of his mother, fishes for gossip fodder or is fed some. Oh yes, and spend time with the extended family.

As Marx would say, in my words no less, some day, the poor old working class folks will wise up, learn fast, overthrow the elitist minority. So much passion in that goal! But what happens to the middle class...? Marx dear, your pyramid is now a fucking apple-shape. Think thick-waisted women like me.

Actually, I fit in nowhere. I am neither materialistic nor have I a survival instinct, yet shopping makes me happy, and so do yuppie activities and elitist interests like art and film and literature. I want to save the world, yet I see very little salvation in my own life. I am neither a Romantic nor a logician. I am well-read and somewhat educated, yet I fit in nowhere societally. I hate civil servants and see them as bureaucratic numbskulls, but I think capitalistic business-like thinking rules the economy well. George Orwell says writers write because they have a political viewpoint; mine is this, that I don't fit in anywhere.

Maybe this kind of alienation from the rest of the world, is what makes us depressives disenchanted (thank you Sociology for the terminology). Yet I don't think I really want to belong anywhere; I want to remain an alien. I don't want to subscribe to any one ideology except maybe just my own concoction of ideas. The kingdom of God is not about eating or drinking, but about far more unseen concepts that differ experientially for people. Hence they say, do not judge by what people eat drink wear do or say, and so on. Well, I don't think I do things the same way as you, you or you do. I am E, and I have my own ideology.

I am neither bourgeois, proletariat, nor middle-apple-shaped-class. I dream because I love, not because of economics. I like the arts not because it is trendy to, but because it speaks of life. I read for power, but also for romance. I am better than many men, yet I still would like to have one (especially to change the light-bulbs and fix the computers). And I hope one day I find a man my equal, yet would love it when I do the laundry and iron his shirts.

unremarkable

that is how I feel.

I am so awake, when I was so tired in the daytime, at five in the morning now, I cannot sleep. How much more medicine must I imbibe into my system for me to fall asleep? I hear a noise inside my head that keeps me from reading; I hear a silence that needs to be filled up by electronica. I feel almost completely anhedonic. My cat probably loves life more than I do. I would watch movies in bed until I fell asleep but my laptop is kaput. Black screen. Words. Not working. So I sit erect at my desktop remaining awake. I feel like screaming and cussing out very loud. Writing gives no respite.

My hands are trembling. I want to keep sleeping. I feel fucking lonely, yet I want to be alone. Talking is tiring. Replying messages is tiring. I have no appetite. I feel fat. I want some really good music. Every tomorrow stretches out empty.

weight

I am - the
weight of a hot air balloon,
chain at the end of drapes,


jewel in your crown,
weighty, set -
elegance and worth
weightier than you, gold.

I am - a
maker of kings.

I - give you trajectory
with you behind you
away from you even.


give you love,
give you helplessness,

intoxicate you
with charm and the sex
of power, and that of
destiny.


I am - a
maker of kings;


a sieve you pass through,

a signpost, a bus stop,

a valet a prostitute
so you don't drive alone.


I am - a
maker of kings

and I will die
without royalty in my bed
or a crown on my head.


- my immortality is
in all of them kings.

I am the -
weight they carried
for their worth,
charm they fell in love
with,
jewel in their crowns.

My body reached a 'breakthrough', says the doctor

My depression took a turn for the worse because my body stopped responding to my meds. I am now taking more antidepressants and mood-stabilisers than ever. I am hitting the maximum cap of quetiapine administered for depression at 300mg a night, up from 100mg. I am taking 3 tabs of Lexapro a day of which 4 is the maximum cap. Neither are dependency-causing, but it means that I am incredibly unwell, and very expensive to take care of.

Not responding to medication means I feel like I do when I am not on any medication. Nothing describes the pain properly. It feels like an indescribable anguish and then some more, like a tropical storm causing squalls all over a wrecked vessel. I feel almost as down as I did when I really wanted to die to remove this pain.

The storm is passing soon. I am but driftwood, dead but afloat.

I wish I could cut out my heart and brain and replace them with normal ones. I need a heart that is not black with pain, and a brain with the right chemical balance. Right now I just carry around in my skull a brain that feels like an alchemy lab bubbling over and drying up, and in my chest a heart stuffed full of rusty needles, black and gangrenous.

The answer would be term insurance. I need at least $250,000 to half a mill assuming I live for say, twenty years, as an inpatient at IMH, or in my own flat paying outpatient charges like I currently do - after my parents go. I really don't think I am going to get better anytime soon.

Dear Mom and Dad

Who is going to take care of me when you're gone? I have nobody left in this world who will take care of me except you two. I don't think I will get better anytime soon. I need to be taken care of. I always have. I could make Milo by myself as a little girl who couldn't reach the hot water flask. But I cannot do without you two as my parents taking care of me. I have been depressed for a very long time, and I think I will be depressed for a very long time still. I need you to take care of me.

Your only daughter,
Elaine

About Clinical Depression 4 - helping someone you love who is ill

1. Educate yourself. There are countless sites on the Internet where you can learn about depression, it's symptoms, and treatment.

2. Put yourself in their shoes. Learn what depression feels like, the misconceptions about mental illness that they must deal with, and get the facts about what depression really is.

3. Take care of yourself. Feelings of depression are contagious. Periodically take some time to step back from the situation and recharge your batteries.

4. It's okay to feel upset, angry, frustrated. These feelings are a valid response to a very trying situation. Join a support group, talk with a close friend, or see a therapist. The important thing is vent your frustrations rather than allowing them to build up inside.

5. Be there for them. Give them a shoulder to cry on or just listen while they spill out their hearts to you. Be patient with them. Let them know that you care. Share the things you've learned while researching depression. Let them know it's not their fault, that they're not weak or worthless.

6. Remember that the depressed person's behavior isn't indicative of the "real" person. The depressed person has impaired social skills. They may be withdrawn and shy or sullen and angry. When the depressed person lashes out in anger, it's because they're actually angry with themselves and the way they feel. You just happen to be there. When your spouse or significant other doesn't feel like having sex, don't take it personally. Loss of sex drive is a classic symptom of depression. It doesn't mean they don't love you.

7. Depressed people aren't lazy. They're ill. Everyday activities like cleaning house, paying bills, or feeding the dog may seem overwhelming to them. You may have to take up the slack for them for awhile. Just like if they had the flu, they simply don't feel up to it.

8. Medications and therapy are crucial to their recovery. Help keep them on track with treatment. Help to ease their fears about treatment by letting them know that they're not crazy.

9. Offer hope in whatever form they will accept it. This could be their faith in God, their love of their children, or anything else that makes them want to go on living. Find what works best for them and remind them of it whenever they're not sure they can hang on any longer. If they're suicidal, you may need to seek immediate help. There are some very valuable suicide resources on the Internet that will help you to help your loved cope with suicidal feelings as well.

10. Love them unconditionally and let me know it's their illness you're frustrated with, not them.

More about Clinical Depression - 3

Medical and clinical terms of symptoms for clinical depression might be mind-stumbling to some who are trying to find out if they are depressed. It also means that people who know someone they love who is clinically depressed may not totally understand what their loved one is going through. Here is a list that puts the clinical depression symptoms plainly. Refer to the title link for more information.

1. Things just seem “off” or “wrong.”
2. You don’t feel hopeful or happy about anything in your life.
3. You’re crying a lot, either at nothing, or something that normally would be insignificant.
4. You feel like you’re moving (and thinking) in slow motion.
5. Getting up in the morning requires a lot of effort.
6. Carrying on a normal conversation is a struggle. You can’t seem to express yourself.
7. You’re having trouble making simple decisions.
8. Your friends and family really irritate you.
9. You’re not sure if you still love your spouse/significant other.
10. Smiling feels stiff and awkward. It’s like your smiling muscles are frozen.
11. It seems like there’s a glass wall between you and the rest of the world.
12. You’re forgetful, and it’s very difficult to concentrate on anything.
13. You’re anxious and worried a lot.
14. Everything seems hopeless.
15. You feel like you can’t do anything right.
16. You have recurring thoughts of death and/or suicidal impulses. Suicide seems like a welcome relief.
17. You have a feeling of impending doom - you think something bad is going to happen, although you may not be sure what.
18. In your perception of the world around you, it’s always cloudy. Even on sunny days, it seems cloudy and gray.
19. You feel as though you’re drowning or suffocating.
20. You’re agitated, jumpy and and anxious much of the time.
21. Your senses seem dulled; food tastes bland and uninteresting, music doesn’t seem to affect you, you don’t bother smelling flowers anymore.
22. Incessantly and uncontrollably into your mind comes the memory of every failure, every bad or uncomfortable experience, interview or date, like a torrent of negativity.

#5. I have always found it hard to wake up in the mornings, but some mornings it is so hard, and there are times I never successfully make it out of bed till much later. I thought I was just tired and lazy.

#13. I worry all the time - I pray every day that my parents are alive and safe, and before my mom moved in with me this year, every phonecall I got from them, I used to worry it was bad news.

#3. I cry almost all the time, almost everyday. In the past if I got spotted by C, he would get angry. I usually cry alone. I hear myself cry, and it sounds so sad, I felt pain for the pain I am feeling.

#9. There are no feelings. No emotion. Just a physical gnawing pain in my heart, and tears in my crying. I feel I no longer love. During this time I initiate break ups with committed boyfriends. Looking back, I have done this to three of them. All while I was depressed. Love suddenly became an impossibility; I wake up, and realise, that I am love-less. So I devise a reason, and ask them to leave me.

#8. I feel like being alone, and I deflect questions my mom asks me. Being in church irritates me because Christians naturally take an interest in other people, so they ask me things about me. This really irks me. I rather they talk about themselves. But that's me.

#2. There is nothing in life right now that makes me happy. Not anymore, if there were, due to limitations (shopping makes me happy but that is financially crazy). And so, there is nothing. Anything I try to do now, would be an alleviation of the sadness, not creating happiness. To be honest, I don't believe happiness exists anymore. It is a myth. Believe me, it really is a myth. Let's just try to live with our sadness in manageable portions (not like the carton-loads of pain I have on my heart now). I hope to try and alleviate my pain to make other people "happy".

alone

Who is going to protect me? Even the angels in my presence stand aside and touch-me-not. Tears are repulsive to every man. I feel like a beggar on the street waiting for my next coin, vulnerable, pining, and truly alone. I still see no real point to my sickness, except to live in this state till I die. Who is going to protect me? I know I would stay by the side of a sick husband if I had one, but no one will find me and no one will rescue me. I say to every lover I meet, "I love you too much to make you stay." A caged bird loses its song and my sickness is that cage. As a result, I wither from neglect. I will keep feeling neglected, keep letting lovers go, keep on staying alone and isolate myself, and stay unwanted for the rest of my life. I sound like a pompous ego-maniac, but my emotions are bigger than my ego, I only wish they would submit to me and be controlled and be happy. But I will never be happy again. Never.