Being honest, or having that honesty has never come easily to me. In a piece I wrote for UnRepresented KL, I wrote something about how pretty girls don’t cry and I couldn’t show my grandmother – she would’ve probably murdered me as soon as I got into the house with sad eyes, or maybe not. She did instil that fear in me. So I cried and cried in the garden so loud that the guards came to check on me. Being Malaysian, I don’t know why the sweet smell of frangipanis became sweeter or the banana tree started rustling, but whatever (probably) haunts it decided to take pity on me and didn’t bother me.
The original title of this post was supposed to be Instant Crush, like the Daft Punk song featuring Julian Casablancas. The song itself is about a guy wondering if he should give up on a girl, and the song can be applied to a lot of things. Really.
One of my old pieces made it onto BFM’s Readings, which I’m pretty proud of. I’m normally pretty hesitant to share my writing, which is why I keep a journal and a private twitter account for all my inane rambling and breakdowns. This isn’t an invitation to go looking for the latter. Unless you go become a Patron or something.
Sad Eyes Club was a moniker my exes and I came up with because we’d all played trauma bingo at some point of time. I kinda won, but that’s not something to be proud of (a) and it’s not the Pain Olympics (b).
The last week has been pretty rough emotionally, with one almost-ER trip and many cases of me crying myself to sleep. I wrote a piece about it on Anything Lah! and the excerpt’s above (before the link change – correct link is to the right of this).
My friend tried to kill himself last week. He says the last thing he remembers is stepping off the sidewalk and then the bus screeching to a halt three feet from him. I’m glad he was comfortable enough to be honest with me, because I know his parents don’t know. My family only found out at my first psychiatrist appointment. I might be part of the Unemployed Club but being part of the Sad Eyes Club is something I don’t think I’ll ever really get out. My mental illness is about management, not fixing. I hope the people around me understand.
My influencer side has been working in full force recently, which is great but it’s a lie. It feels disingenuous and I am trying to be honest with the content I put up. Half my followers just save my pictures on Instagram as spank bank material, sigh. External validation isn’t something we can look for, but it’s nice when you get it. I guess,