Nostalgia

Last night, I had my first conversation in Hokkien in a really long time and I experienced a wave of notalgia that warmed my heart. The last time I spoke Hokkien was placement-related and it wasn't just a day to day conversation about anything and everything. I also had char kway teow for dinner which was decent (definitely not the best) but satisfied my cravings for Singaporean food.
Small things like this make me miss Singapore and bring joy to my heart in sunny Aussie.

Endings

The beginning of many endings has commenced. My last group project wrapped up on Thursday. This coming week will mark my last week of university studies, ergo, I'll be sitting for my last lecture submitting my last assignment and having my last student placement. Soon, it'll be my last study break, then it'll be time for my last exam and soon, graduation and so on and so forth. It feels peculiar that all of this is coming to an end. It still doesn't feel like four years. It feels so much shorter than that. And I don't want this to end. I don't want to transition to becoming a working adult, or move back to Singapore and say goodbye to my family and friends and experience reverse culture shock. I want none of it all. I wish I could be a uni student forever. I wish I could live here forever. This is a chapter of my life that I don't want to come to a halt.

52nd Saturday

52 weeks ago
I can still remember very vividly, where I was, what I was doing and what was on my mind on this day. It was just after noon time, when I arrived in the library, ready to continue studying for my exam. Just a few hours before that, I had texted my mum. She asked if I was free to FaceTime that day and I asked her if we could push it back a couple of days, which she agreed readily. For some reason, I just decided to check my phone at the library and I had multiple messages from my mum and my youngest sister, asking me to call right away. I had an idea of what was coming. A big part of me was trying to be calm, trying to downplay the situation, but a tiny part of me knew and was ready to accept that Ah ma was probably not going to live very long, that she was likely taking her last breaths.

June 2018

"Ok. When the time does come that Ah ma passes away, how do you want to be told? Do you want me to call or just to send a text?" my mum asks somberly.

"Call. Don't text." I respond almost immediately, a part of me hating myself for already having such a quick response to the situation that I hate to confront most.

"Yeah, don't text me. Call me," my younger sister says. 

"Ok. So you want me to text you and tell you to call me?" my mum clarifies.

"Yes," we respond unanimously.

52 weeks ago

I hurry downstairs to the lower floor of the library with my earphones on. The ringing sound is annoying me, despite my having heard it countless times over the past 3 years.

"Hello? Mum. What's wrong?" I say, even though I'm pretty sure we both know that I know the answer.

"Hey. She fell asleep about an hour ago, but she hasn't woken up even though we've tried."

"Ah ma, wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up." I say with a gradual crescendo that ascends to a forte with each repetition of "wake up". I repeat myself for what feels like an eternity, each time failing to rouse her, my heart breaks a little bit more.

"I don't think she'll wake." mum says. "We'll keep you updated ok? Is text ok?"

"Yeah," I respond, suddenly at a loss for words.

I return to my seat in the library and tears start to stream down my face. I will myself to stop it. I tell my brain that I need to study for the exam that is in 2 days, that I need to study now and I'll let myself cry when I get home. And so I spend the next 6-7 hours studying in the library, with tears flowing ever so often.

On the walk home, the dam begins to leak and the tears are just flowing slowly and silently and I taste the salty water that my eyes somehow are capable of creating. I try to control it, after all, the last thing I want is for complete strangers to watch me cry. My tears are a restricted access zone, they are not a show for public display. 

It is only when I am back in my house, in my room, with my door closed then does the dam finally break. I let out a sob and suddenly, it just doesn't stop. It goes on and on and it can't stop, won't stop and it doesn't feel like it's enough. No amount of tears can salvage the wounds of my heart. I still can't believe it happened and I wished for it to all be a terrible nightmare that I would eventually wake up from and laugh about.

Writer's block

I have so many ideas in my head but the moment I try to translate them into physical words, they disappear from my grasp. I write drafts, but they don't look right, so I start again. And again. And again. Then I give up and chuck it in the trash because it looks so bad that I don't even want to look at it. For some reason, it's easier to put my thoughts on paper so I think I'll do that. And maybe then I'll translate these words on paper into text.

Fall Apart

“Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.”

-Finnick Odair, Mockingjay

It's so hard. So hard to keep from falling apart, and so hard to pick myself up when I do.

I'm so tired. I'm tired of this sadness that overwhelms me, the stress of uni, of feeling tired and of life. Sometimes I wish this life would end already so that I don't have to carry on anymore. I will not take my own life (because then my parents will have to face the legal and financial implications of such an action), but I can't help wishing someone or something will take it for me.

Am I already in the bad place? Are all these barriers I face works of the demons that are meant to psychologically torture me? 

Purpose

What is the point of all this?
Why do I have to leave my present home for my ex-home - the place that has now been branded as a hell in my head? I'm not emotionally ready to go back and be confronted with the truth every single waking day of my life. To be reminded time and time again that my role in the family has taken a backseat, I am but a house guest. That my role in my friendships has changed. I am the outsider, the alien who doesn't understand everything that everyone is talking about. By people who won't understand how living abroad for 3 years changes you. They expect you to still be the same. But how can one be the same in an ever-changing world?
Why did I sign up for 10 years of hell? 10 years of slavery. I agreed to give away 4 years of my life to live away from home. In merely 3 years it has already led me to grow apart from everyone I used to know. It denied me the opportunity to stay with family when they needed me most. To miss numerous 21st birthdays, a funeral, and soon, to miss a wedding. What do I get in return for these 4 years? An iron-clad agreement to work in a place that will undoubtedly trigger all the sadness I currently carry, being surrounded by dying people for 6 years.
What was I thinking? Why did 19 year old me decide to do this? Oh right...."job stability".
Will I live to regret this?

CNY

This year, I'm celebrating CNY away from home, out of Singapore for the first time in my life. And it dawned on me a few minutes ago that this CNY will be different, not just for me, but for the family back home. For starters, I don't even know if my dad's side is celebrating given my Ah Ma's passing. I didn't realise it until seconds ago, when my family asked me if I'm free to call them. Then I was gonna suggest next Monday and remembered that it's 初一on Tuesday and I figured, 初二would be a better time to call because they don't usually entertain guests on that day and they'd visit the niches of those who had passed. And this time, this includes Ah Ma. And it sucks. And now I'm reminded again that she's gone. I know I will continually be reminded of it but it stings because I don't see it coming when it happens.
I don't want to go back to Singapore. I don't ever want to go back to that conservative city-state filled with racist pricks and judgemental assholes. To have my entire life be scrutinized with a fine-tooth comb by every egoistical person who assumes they have a right to just because. I'm not prepared to go back and assimilate with such a society for 6 fucking years. I'm so done with it.
Is it truly better to have loved and lost, than not to have loved at all? Does that saying apply to living? Is it truly better that I got to have my worldviews broadened in Oz, to have had my Ah Ma in my life and have to leave Oz and have Ah Ma leave me? Would it have been better if I stayed in Singapore to study and not known Ah Ma? Would I have been happier with that ignorance?