21 hours ago
It's walking around lost and blind and not giving a shit about it at the same time.
Because it's simply too exhausting to bring yourself to care. It's too exhausting to bring yourself to think about the ramifications of not caring.
Because that's acknowledging that there is no greater purpose, which means you will walk the remainder of your days on this earth not caring that you're going in no particular direction, with no particular point.
At least drowning was certain. A sure thing.
So this black grappling fight with nothing. It scares me. Or it should. At the very least, the idea of it scares me.
Which is probably why I'd rather dwell in my memories, painful as they are than to think about... well everything else.
Because at least in my past, I didn't believe that everything I did was for naught.
How much money do I have in my bank account. How much money do you need to have to matter. Can a single boy and a girl just be friends. Is there really such thing as a soul mate. Where's mine.
And if we're not asking things that only hurts us, we ask things that are pointless.
Who made us. Why did He. What is the point of this life. What if there are aliens. What if I never let go. Would I be happier if I had chosen a different series of paths. What happens if I end up alone.
And then there are questions that has neither a point nor answer.
Why do we try so hard in this life. What are the things that defines us. Where would I be if I was born from another family. Would I still be me.
And it is these thoughts that I've made sure are never louder than the books I read or the people I talk to or the shows I watch. So I ask myself one last question. One that I don't want to hear. One that has no point. No answer.
What then, will become of me.
Scribbled Art
When I wake up, I'm afraid, somebody else might take my place
Thursday, October 10, 2013- Afraid (The Neighborhood)
We repeat the same mistakes not because we're stupid. Even if that admittedly plays a huge role in it. We run back to the same problems because we run back to familiarity. We run back to what we know. Even if all that we know will eventually turn into heartbreak.
But we hope. Oh we do. We do the same thing over and over again in the same way hoping that one day it will change. Einstein called this behavior insanity.
But who is sane enough to claim sanity. Really.
I once ran away. Or tried to. Run away from all my problems. But just before I left a friend told me, that it didn't matter how far away I ran. Even if I managed to get to the other side of the world, if I didn't change, then I would still attract the same kind of problems.
And it's true. And now I'm back. And nothing has changed. Cos I haven't. Cos I'm still stuck in that rut of familiarity. Of safe zones. And when once upon a time I wanted to fly and make my own risks and mistakes, I have learned that it hurts less not to.
So I'm going to keep hoping to do the same thing again and again. And maybe one day, maybe if I get good at it, or the fates shine upon me, something will happen. Something will change.
Cos I don't know how.
But I'm not quite sure what I'm living for. "Right" answers immediately fill my head, but I'm not sure if that's what I truly want. And it confuses me because I don't even know what I want. I just know it's not this. It's not this.
It also makes me sad to realize that often, the biggest hurts in our lives are the ones that define us. The ones that have molded us into who we are. And very often, it is our biggest hurts that help us give the greatest gift of ourselves to others, the ability to help someone else who is going through what we did, to help them heal, even if we feel it is at our expense.
Recently I've been getting a lot of comments from friends, people who say I'm too serious, that I intimidate. I don't do it on purpose. I didn't use to be like this, I don't think. I was the idiot in the class that talked too much, and laughed too loud, and who everyone could say anything to because "she wouldn't mind." But I did, deep down. I just laughed it off because I didn't want to seem hurt, vulnerable. I didn't realize how counterproductive that was until people went too far. And I snapped. And I've stayed angry for far too long and now I'm saturated with bitterness. Now people are afraid to approach me. And I'm still miserable. It's so hard to find that fine line. You're always falling off one edge or the other. One day, maybe, I'll find that perfectly intricate balance where my gravity's centered but for now, I'm grabbing on to that tightrope looped around my neck with dear life.
I don't really know where I want to go with any of this, this is probably why I don't usually write such random meanderings of my thoughts.
There's a hype and a call as I made my way into the crowded hall. There was stamping and dancing and laughing and calling. The room was spinning, people were clapping and the noise was unbelievable. I stood amazed, staring. Suddenly I felt a strong pull on my hand and I was whisked away just in time to avoid collision with a twirling couple.
"Sorry about that!" the gentlemen yelled out, tipping his cowboy hat in my direction. The lady upon his arm just laughed and winked at me.
"Welcome to the good ol' country dance." My friend - my saviour - smiled at me and was then whisked away by a handsome cowboy onto the dance floor.
Not wanting to feel awkward, I tried to shuffle near the back where the people I came with gathered. But I accidentally bumped into another person on the way.
"I'm really sorry!" I stumbled out awkwardly at him.
"It's no problem." He smiled at me. I smiled apologetic back at him, and tried to ease my way to people that I know. Which wasn't saying a lot because the friends that I were suppose to come with all couldn't come at the last minute but they assured me to come for the "Texan" experience, so with a what-the-heck I climbed into a car of excited girls donned in cowboy boots and beautiful dresses while I shuffled my worn-to-death red converse embarrassingly.
"I'm Michael." The guy who I bumped into continued talking.
"Ohh. Erm." I composed myself, "Hi! My name is Karlyn."
"Hi Karlyn. Would you like to dance?" He extended his hand out to me.
Ohmigosh. Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo was my first, very strong instinct, but was quickly replaced by, what-the-heck. You're already here. You may as well go for it.
"Sure!" I grinned confidently at him as I took his hand and he lead me to the middle.
He put his arm around my waist as I put mine on his shoulder, "errrm, I should warn you! I have never danced before."
"Haha! Then I'll teach you. It's easy. Follow me. It's one two one. One two one. One two one. One two one."
He guided me around the dance floor.
"one two one. One two one. One two one. There! You got it already!" he exclaimed proudly.
I laughed. So I did!
When the song ended, he gave me a twirl.
And just as he let go, my friend who I came with tapped me on the shoulder.
"How was that?!" she shrieked at me over the real live band that was starting up again.
"It was awesome!" I grinned enthusiastically at her.
"Do you wanna dance with me?" She smiled at me and extended her hand.
I took it. And we kicked and danced and twirled trying to copy the moves of the elderly couple in front of us. We ended up laughing and tumbling over each other until even the couple turned around to watch the spectacle we were making of ourselves.
The band never stopped playing and people never stopped dancing. When I managed to have time for a breather, I made my way to the chairs lined at the back of the hall. I dropped down next to one of the girls - Cassie - who came in the same car with me and proceeded to talk to her.
But soon someone came to ask to dance with her, and with a smile and a wave, she left me alone. But I was content. I could watch and soak up the events happening around me without obligation to make conversation.
This was obviously a big thing for the youth of small town Texas. A Friday night dance, where they could all gather and go crazy - in the most that a conservative texan town can -with friends and boys (girls for vice versa).
And the most interesting thing was that this was not just a night that the youth delighted in. Old couples held onto each other, some laughing as loud as the youth and step dancing to the fast beats, and others who would just lay their heads on each other and take their time moving to their own rhythm and pace.
One two one. One two one. One two one.
"Sweet huh?" a voice next to me said.
I looked to see a guy sitting by me staring at the same old couples that I was just watching. "One of my most favorite things about the Oplin dance is watching the elderly couples slow dancing the whole night," he continued.
I smiled, "I would love to do that with the guy I grow old with one day too." I confessed simply.
He looked at me. "My name is John."
"I'm Karlyn."
Just then the current song ended and a fast one came on.
"Come on! We have to dance to this!" He grabbed my hand and we rushed to the happening part of the dance floor. And we danced.
I may have only learned the steps a couple of songs earlier, and I told him just as much, but he still insisted on teaching me new moves. I stepped on his feet so many times it was embarrassing but he just laughed.
"Let loose! Just enjoy and let me lead you. I'll keep you safe." He grinned at me.
Just as he said that, we collided into another couple on the dance floor. After hurried apologies and a few laughs I turned back to him. "Safe huh?" I accused.
"Well, relatively. Just trust me. And have fun!"
And I did. After he got use to me stepping on his toes and I got use to him grimacing and shaking his head mockingly at me, I managed to let go and let loose.
After all, I can't get worse than I already am. And this was my last night in Oplin, Texas.
We swirled the fast songs and glided along the slow ones. He told me where he came from and the struggles he faced coming here and I told him where I was from and the struggles I was facing leaving here. He told me about his dad and family and I told him about mine. We laughed about how non-Chinese the Chinese food was here and groaned alike reminiscing on how restrictive conservative communities are.
The night passed by just like that. We danced with many other people. I danced with boys who were completely at ease dancing with a stranger, and others who were scared to make a mistake. And when there was no boys to dance with, I would grab one of the girls I came in the car with, make them dance the lead role as I had no idea how to, and we would prance around the hall like fools.
And like the true texan dance that it was, the second last dance was the chicken dance! Everyone in the hall made circles and linked arms and hooted and yelled and wiggled to the dance.
But like, all good things, it had to come to an end. Just as the clock struck 10:30pm (which in Texas is equivalent to 12:00 midnight), there was a call for last dance. The girl and I shrugged at each other as we made our way away from the floor to make room for others scrambling to find someone for last dance.
And just then, someone tapped me on the shoulder.
"May I have this last dance with you?" it was my knight in shining boots of course.
I just smiled brightly at him and accepted his hand. He held me in his arms and we danced the last dance together. We didn't talk much, which was a change from the incessant chatter earlier. But it wasn't awkward, and instead of filling the silence with empty last promises, we just enjoyed the music, the place, the people, and that empty capsule of time we had left. Over his shoulder I saw other couples taking their time too. I smiled. Knowing that everything I was seeing then was like a mental photograph taken and kept to be drawn out at a later time for melancholic reminiscence. I focused back on him, making sure to take this mental photograph too.
The song came to an end, and he twirled me one last time and then he bowed. He hugged me and told me to take care and that maybe, we'll see each other one day. I laughed and said maybe.
"We'll see where the Lord takes us." He smiled assuredly.
"Bye." I said.
"Bye." He replied.
And that was that. It was an adventure in itself to round all the girls together to herd back to the car. Once we left the hall, the wind outside was hostile and being typical me, I forgot to bring my jacket so Cassie - a friend I made - and I ran, me howling and screaming at how mean the cold was. We doubled up in laughter running back because we couldn't locate the car, and even when we managed to find it, we didn't know how to unlock the darn vehicle. We were jumping and shivering and hopping around the car hoping that anything we pressed or anything we yelled would somehow open the car and shield us from the impending cold whipping us outside. We managed to open the door by complete accident and fell in breathing hard, laughing so hard we can see our foggy breaths.
During the long drive back to Abilene, one of the other girls perked up,
"Hey Karlyn, I'm really glad you came tonight. And that instead of being all awkward, you just went out there and went for it. I'm so proud of you. And you're quite good at dancing for your first time!"
I laughed so hard, partly because it wasn't her whose toes I had to step on so many times. I assured them that I had a good time. And I did.
And honestly, if I didn't have the mindset of leaving, I would never have given myself the chance to do that.
It makes me wonder what other things in life I miss out on just because I'm too afraid to try, or because I always tell myself that I would get another chance to do that.
And I wonder, can you really regret the chances you never knew you missed out on?
Old Grandmother Tales
I must first get all the necessities out of the way.
I’m not the type to beat around the bush so here goes.
I have an uncle. He has only one arm. I’ve never really asked how that happened – my policy is to never ask questions that you don’t want to hear the answers to – but from the bits and pieces I’ve collected over the years, there was The Incident. And he had to amputate an arm.
Once upon a time, I use to sneak glances at his empty socket – which he would hide under his never ending supplies of buttoned and collared t-shirts. It was only when I grew older I realized this was because he couldn’t pull the normal tees over his head - which, to my nine year old self, was a wondrous thing. The sleeve would swing back and forth with no direction, flapping, a lonely flag stuck on a pole. I stared at it in guilty curiosity, and pleaded with my small little heart to the God I had not known back then to never take my limbs away.
Now, I talk to my uncle like I would any other. And, pointedly ignore the empty socket. My eyes would glaze from his face straight to his feet. I guess I think by ignoring what isn't there would make him more normal. Because facing up to something foreign and “abnormal” scares me.
He never married. This I accepted without question. But now, when I asked myself why I readily accepted this knowledge without further curiosity - even to my nine year old self - I instinctively answered, “because he only has one arm.”
So?
But that was the answer life has grown me up to believe. That abnormal people don’t get to have the things normal people take advantage of.
I may look over my uncle’s “handicap” but that doesn’t mean I don’t notice his difficulties. How sometimes he has to struggle to open locks with no other hand holding it steady. How when we set the table, we have to make conscious effort to take away the fork and just set the spoon. How he avoids social gatherings like a plague, running away from people too “polite” to ask but not polite enough to abstain from staring. Sort of like when it takes all your conscious effort to not stare at that teenage kid in a wheelchair or look away from that man with only one leg in the mall.
But just as I notice his “handicap” I notice his “extraordinary capabilities” too. How when I was five, and because I badgered him to, he managed to haul me up and carry me the entire duration of a wedding dinner (and that was no easy feat. I was, well. A fat kid. Even my dad refused to carry me because it hurt his back, so instead would bribe me with chocolates and sweets to relieve his own guilt, which you know, didn’t really help my weight issue). How my uncle cried when he saw my sister when she was born – she was born too early and too small because the umbilical cord got twisted a month or two before she came. All my family relatives cried. The hospital staff tried to lessen the pain but not one of them believed my sister would survive the night - and my uncle immediately went home and prayed to the god he believed in to keep my sister alive. In return, he would give up meat – Chinese people are very big on meat – everyday for lunch. My sister is now 16 years and 7 months old and loud and annoying. And my uncle has faithfully kept his end of the bargain.
Why the sudden nostalgic memories you wonder?
It was the after dinner conversation – or rather supper conversation tonight. The family was gathered around the table all eating kacang putih. Ngen Ngen (Grandmother), Ye Ye (Grandfather), Sam Ku (Third aunt from paternal side), Papa (Dad), Mummy (Mum – haha) and me.
“…a Hakka girl wanted to marry him” My grandmother was saying referring to my uncle.
(Entire conversation was carried out in Chinese but I’m translating to English for reader’s benefit. And also in my part because I can’t type Chinese.)
“But - not me! It wasn’t me who said anything.” My grandma quickly protested to no one but silent accusations she imagined “It was YOUR grandmother who told him not to marry Hakka women. Cannot be trusted she said.” My grandmother chirruped out to her kids. “And of course, he listenend.”
“And this all happened after Kor’s (brother’s) arms…incident” my dad mused quietly aloud.
“She was a beautiful girl too,” My aunt sat lost in thought of the memory of something-that-could-have-been, “such a beautiful girl.”
“She understood, when they all told her that she can’t marry him.” My grandmother added. I quietly and probably rather unfairly wondered which was stronger; my grandmother's own love for her son’s happiness, or her own love for the traditions passed down from her own family (such as not marrying a woman from a “tribe” other than your own).
The conversation slowly moved on to less painful recollections.
I left the table.
And now I wonder out loud.
About my uncle.
I think one of my biggest fear, is to grow old alone. With all the wisdom a naïve nineteen year old can possibly have garnered, growing up alone with no one to share it with seems a pointless life to me. By nature, I am a very emotional and a very social person. Being isolated – not wanted nor needed by anyone – seems a very empty life. And what more, love, is the carrot of my life. The thing that keeps me going. The one reason for doing the things that I do.
When I was nine, I carried the notion that when my uncle lost his arm, he just as quickly adopted the natural fact of life; he lost his right to all normal people can take for granted. He took his arm, or his lack of one, and accepted everything else; inability to use both utensils at the same time, losing the choice of types of clothing he could wear, difficulties tying shoe laces and unlocking locks, zero possibility of driving a car, losing his own independence, and the worst of all; to lose any hope of love and accept that from now on ‘til forever, he would grow old, alone. And lonely.
And for the next ten years, I never once challenged this notion. For no reason other than that my uncle’s problem was not my problem. I wasn’t in any way affected so why should I ask questions that may rock the boat and cause my own discomfort? To my knowledge, he has never complained. Never whined. Never pitied himself. And that was enough for me.
But now I wonder.
He was 22 when he lost his arm. I realize with a jolt that when you’re 22 years old, you have the future – or rather, the possibilities of what the future has - in your hands. It’s the start of something. It’s the start of everything else in your life. That’s what he had. He could be anything. Anyone. Anywhere.
Then The Incident happened. And he withdrew from everything. He ran away from all the looks of pity. Hid himself from his own shame. I guess, those must be pretty dark days. Anyone would have turned bitter. He was young. Full of hopes and dreams. But it was all chopped away. With his arm. Left with a stump. Unable to do anything anymore. Having to depend on people again. Just when you spread your wings to fly, one wing is cut off, and you return back to your nest – a failure. Watching as all the other birds take flight – all your siblings – leaving the nest, giving one last pitiful glance back at you but then soaring into the wide open sky, free.
A promise life whispered to you suddenly snatched away.
It made me think, if a girl, and such a beautiful girl at that could still love you, even if you don’t have an arm, wouldn’t that be the epitome of love? Wouldn’t you fall in love right back and still salvage some of what life has promised you?
But thinking back, in my uncle’s days, filial piety was mandatory, and traditions were laws set in stone. And maybe, just maybe, he felt he didn’t deserve the love this beautiful Hakka girl could give. What could she see in him? How could she look at him without being repulsed? He must have thought unwilling to let himself believe.
And maybe, just maybe, he loved her back. Loved her enough to let her go. What could he do with one arm? How could he get a respectable job? Put food on the family? She deserved someone so much better than him. She deserved a better life than anything he could offer.
It makes me feel, excruciating to think about this. My uncle is now 60. He is robust. He still loves fiercely with everything he can, he buys candy for his younger nieces everytime he comes to the house for visits. Even when I was nine, I instinctively saw my uncle’s inner strength, because I believed fiercely that even though my uncle only had one arm, he would survive, and he wouldn’t grow old and frail and sit in a wheelchair like everyone else you saw that was “abnormal.”
I don’t think I can lie and pretend and say that even though my uncle only has one arm, that doesn’t make him “abnormal.” He is.
I’m not going to say that he's not “disabled.” He is.
And I’m not going to try to be pious and say that I pity him. Because I’m not and I do.
What I AM going to say is that I have a greater disability. That I am more disabled. That I pity myself more.
My uncle has one less limb than I do but he can do far greater things than I can. Things more important than tying shoelaces. Or wearing normal tees.
My uncle stayed strong, for his family, for himself when The Incident happened. I cry myself to sleep just because one person – one unworthy person – hurt me, and remain bitter about it, unwilling to let go.
He can love even when he has lost his “right” to and not only that, but he loves in such huge amounts that he changes lives; life of a girl who remembered that even when she was five and fat an no one wanted to carry her, her uncle did. The life or another who he made a life-long vow to keep. And the right to live a better life to one, beautiful mysterious Hakka girl. Whilst I, take advantage of the love people readily give me, stomping on their hearts and greedily asking for more and never giving more of my own less making myself vulnerable.
Dear Lord,
He’s my uncle.
A silent, unsung hero.
Please.
In Jesus name I pray. Amen.
Romans 8:26We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.
Girl, Unafraid – Neil Bernhart
I grew up with fairytales. But have always believed that life was either black or white.
Its either yes or no.
Now. Or never.
Love. Or hate.
Life was safe with absolutes. I knew what was happening. I was in control. I knew what I had to do.
But as I grew up, I learned that life had a new color to it - the uncertain twist of grey.
The maybes and the could have beens.
The sometimes and laters and regrets.
And the taste of bittersweet love.
Grey is neither here nor there. It was a mixture of both black, and white. Never either, stuck in between, lost.
