Thank You.

With my knees on hard ground and my head in my pillow, I think of all the things you did for me, did to me, did behind my back for my sake and tears start to run down my cheeks. You have redefined love for me, shown me the sunshine I never saw in this dimension of our bond as Friends.

It is a day before my birthday, Saturday. She grapples with her heart, wrestles with time- God, is this how I turn Twenty-one? In This state? She cradles her heart to her chest so it won’t sink further.

A mysterious telephone call, a friend claiming to be my personal chauffeur for the day picking me up right from my doorstep, a very polite request for me to blindfold myself before being very roughly covered in a sack and lugged off by two inexperienced ‘thugs’ into a car, to a mysterious location... A mockingly fierce and gruff, "Woman, you're not allowed to ask any questions." Giggles, and laughter.

An interminably long car ride, grappling with a hidden depression still, and trying not to fight the Monster writhing within me- do I deserve this love and do they know how Ugly my Monster is? What are they up to? A gentlemanly invitation out of the car with my blindfold still on, the sound of birds, the smell of trees, and a question, "Wai Jia, do you like what you hear? Where do you think you're at now?"

A hug, more hugs. Can I take off my blindfold now?

I open my eyes to see you all, standing proud like a neat choir, your voices rising to lift my cold heart, serenading me beautifully with a self-written song about my life-what I do and who I am, to the tune of the hit number Yellow by my favourite band Coldplay. Your voices resonate in the sunshine-filled glasshouse restaurant in the midst of an Eden-like garden, your faces filled with glee at my shocked expression. The lyrics capture my heart and I am too surprised to cry. I have never been in this place before. Your voices rise like rainbow-coloured balloons which burst into love, amidst the strumming of two guitars. The last line of the song goes- See how God sings to you, that you are beautiful…

You all envelope me in a hug.

I find ourselves in a classy restaurant, with snazzy menus and attentive service. "Are we eating here?" I ask in disbelief. Healthy, yummy salads, colorful fusion fruit juices in tall, tall glasses, thick gooey homemade soup, gourmet sandwiches and cold soba sitting elegantly on white plates. I realize this costs everyone a lot, and you had put in so much thought to find a place with food I’d be comfortable with. All this while, you've been keeping track of what I've been comfortable eating, what breakthroughs I'd made, and what I'm still trying to break through.

Sunshine pours in through the glass walls. The garden sings outside. You know how much I love nature, love the way gorgeous sunshine kisses skin. We all agree it feels like a piece of heaven.

I smile back, don't know what to tell you, don't know how to tell all fifteen of you how touched and loved I feel. I look at the menu and realize how much you all have paid to make this reality, the days of planning it must have taken in spite of exams in a few days, how well everything was thought through so that they were all my favourite things. "Go sit down Jia, don't just stand there. Look at your presents!"

There's more?

Wild, unpredictable flowers, so tall they strectch from my knees to my shoulders, picked and chosen for me fresh from the florist's bucket. Violet hydrangeas, pearly white carnations with a tint of crimson and purple on the edges, and pure white lilies fast asleep in their buds. Wild, unpredicatable flowers, the way I like them- so free and unpretending. It makes me so happy every morning to see gorgeous flowers by my window sill soaking up morning sunshine. " I hope you like them, dear. My pleasure picking them out for you."

I absolutely love them. My room smells like a garden.

A book- Where is God when it hurts? You know what I’ve been going through because you’ve all been praying for me all this while. I realise it isn't any book you pulled off the shelf- you bought it specifically with me in mind. Photos of my closest friends in a special frame, a beautiful sketchbook-the kind with blank pages that scream potential and smell like as good as the morning, a silly and obscene sketch of me which invites my skull-boring glare, more hugs and heartfelt notes-

-“ I’m so happy being your friend, so happy that youre such a strange mix of child and woman, of dreamer and radical, melancholy eyes and that incandescent smile… I love the way you have thought bubbles, the way you randomly tell me I am beautiful, the way you can hardly keep your new ideas from bubbling from you, the way you dream of wearing black stockings with white shoes! Everything!!...”

And another- “ You are beautiful just the way you are. As as you soar on heights with God, battle monsters that come your way, get headaches from pesky guys-whatever it is-I’ll be walking by your side all the way.” I know they are more than words- because you have always been there for me, your arms have held my teary face so many a time, almost every time. What do I do with Friends like you.

I take pictures with everyone. I think it must be over- “thank you all for coming” and then-

-another song! And cake... a huge beautiful breadcake (Weeks before today I remember you asking me very gently, "Jia, have you started eating cake again this year? Does it make you uncomfortable, still?" And you smile broadly when I reply, " No dear, my church friends bought a birthday cake for me in advance- tis the first time I finished my portion by myself since It happened."), the kind I like best- that is solid cake all the way through without cream in between, and a generous spread of strawberries and raspberries and blueberries. I finish my portion and I feel… normal. Happy.

Presents, more presents... do you guys ever stop?

More hugs.

"Jia, you look so beautiful today."

"Do you see how loved you are? You're so beautiful to us."

I don't know what to say. You all, separately, tell me in different ways. As usual, I take deep breaths to believe it from within and I hear a voice within me dying to ask, " Really? Even though I've put on enough weight the equivalent of two sacks of rice in the past year during recovery, and I'll still grow to put on more? You still think so? Even if it's in all the wrong places?" But I never need to ask it because you all look at me and I know your answer would be yes, you still think so, you think I am more beautiful now than I ever was before when It happened, will become more so, because I am happier now, will be happier still when all this blows over. What do I do with friends like you.

Sunday morning, the actual day arrives, I receive a flood of emails and text messages, and struggle to reply every one. My 21st birthday in church is me in my white, white dress. An elderly missionary, blind from illness takes both my hands to pray for me, “Oh Wai Jia you’re such a blessing”, a surprise treat to a birthday lunch after my exams by a very, very kind woman, a bouquet of flowers bought spontaneously and given to me, a woman who’s been loving me for no reason other than “your beautiful spirit” (Really? I think to myself) stops me in my tracks and asks all in one breath in her beautiful Indian accent, “Young lady, so tell me- why do you have a ring on your finger? When I told my husband about taking you out for lunch with our family someday, he told me that you are married and I said no, you’re so young, she must be married to God- so what is it?”

I smile, I tell her I turn Twenty-one that very day, and yes, she, not her husband, is right about my ring. She hugs me and beams “I knew it!” Finally, someone understands.

A beautiful drawing of a photo of me and the children in Nepal, and a poem written for me makes my day. It is the kind of gift that unlocks locked doors in my head and gives me fresh insight and warmth each time I look at it.

I realise, in so many ways, you all have more faith in me than I do. And that keeps me so strong, keeps me going.

More cake, church friends, laughter. I remember the birthday celebration we had in advance a week ago when I opened up my place to my church friends for our weekly bible study and you all brought books, clothes, a painting painted specially for me, jewellery, a subscription to a Christian magazine for a year, expensive cake, hugs, more hugs… "You all brought presents?" I ask incredulously.

"Of course, silly girl- it's your birthday!" Silly me. The last time I had a party was when I was six and I forgot what a birthday party is supposed to be like.

I receive all sorts of hugs. I love hugs.

That afternoon I deliver two large boxes of second-hand clothes collected from my classmates to the missionary from Nepal who's back in Singapore for just a few days-"I can only meet you on Sunday afternoon. You can pass them to me, and I'll bring them back to the children, thank you so much."

In Daddy's car, we drive up to his place.

"How are the children?" I ask, "How is the project coming along?"

" We've raised our target amount, and Kitesong has raised... $110'000 to date. That's what I last heard. Biggest portion of the $250’000 in total raised to date from other things. But inflation makes things so uncertain. Details will be finalised by April… Ha, it's your 21st birthday and here you are delivering second-hand clothes for the children in Nepal... It reflects you, doesn't it, ha?"

I remember the children, and their smiles and the innocent way they used to tell me, "I don't know when my birthday is." I forget, they are orphans with dark stories, which begin with being left on a dingy roadside. I’m so sorry for asking, I say. “It’s okay, didi (big sister) Wai Jia.” They beam at me and giggle. Silly me.

Two years ago, on this very day, they told me, "Yes, I think your idea will work out. Please draw your book, please go ahead with this project." It’s been exactly two years.

How time flies. How we’ve come full circle, and yet, not quite yet.

I miss you all, lovely.

Friends, flowers, cards and cake. Second-hand clothes, Kitesong, prayer and love.

Days and days of planning in spite of an onslaught of exams looming imminently ahead, remembering all my favourite things (you all even try to come in rainbow colours), and telling me over and over how much you love me, singing how beautiful I am that day, and every other day. You keep telling me the same thing over and over, in different ways.

Love travels far, leaps over bridges and sails over oceans, continents. Love, love can be close, can smell like flowers, feel like warm, fuzzy hugs, sound like self-written songs, look like hand-written cards, drawings too.

"We love you so much. Do you see how loved you are, Jia? The way you are, just the way you are."

You remembered all my favourite things- from the type of food and place to the type of cake, from the choice of song to the choice of books, from the type of flowers bought to the choice of surprises that would move me… You know me so well-you make me wonder, am I the clown with stilts too far off the ground and a heart worn too close to both my sleeves? And you take it like you always do from me, pinning it on your chest like a lapel pin, my heart next to yours. What do I do with Friends like you.

I realize, you all have been praying for me, visiting this space, even. You all know.

With my knees on hard ground and my head in my pillow, I think of all the things you did for me, did to me, did behind my back for my sake and tears start to run down my cheeks. This underserved love from you all.

You have shown me sunshine in a dimension of Friendship I have never seen before, filled me to capacity again with love when I was emptied, burnt out, drained dry and crushed down. Your love has filled me to the brim-is this how God looks like, like all of you? Your love, your longsuffering, patient, forgiving love for me and my Monster has given me new strength, enlarged my heart to love even more widely, deeply. So this is what Friends do- I never knew it in this dimension before.

I look again at the present you all prepared for me and it reads on the side, “ Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”- John 15:13


All at once, the words flew off like golden butterflies, and rested onto the tree planted in my heart.

Thank you all so much. For all your well wishes, for remembering, for showing me what Love can be, what it looks and sounds and feels like, what it is. This has been the most memorable and beautiful of birthdays.

I love you.

With special thanks to J, TT, MR, JK, BH, SL and all my friends who helped out that day- I want to thank you specially for all your effort in making this day so special for me. Not just that day, but every other day- From helping me with schoolwork, to praying for me when I can't sleep at night, to just being there for me and giving me a handsqueeze, I can't believe you go to such distances for me.

Till today, J, you're telling me how you're going to pass me a CD of all the photos and video you took that day, and how I'll receive the lyrics of that beautiful song on shiny paper. I just learnt you guys had to recce a few places to see which was suitable for me, and how things were stressing you out a bit the night before because of all the details, how you prayed that everything would be -just- perfect. You guys are crazy, you know that?

And for all it's worth, I want to say how blessed and thankful I am to God for you. For showing me the distance that Friends can go for each other. Your love for me has taught me time and again what Love is, what it looks and sounds and feels like. When people joke that I'm like Mother Teresa, I often tell them it's because... they haven't met you.

Thank you.

“ Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

- John 15:13

Is lazyness stronger than coffee?

Every day since I started work, I have been depending on one thing to keep me going.

That is Coffee.


Not from Coffee Bean..



and definitely not from Starbucks. Look what it did to Britney.


I simply depend on my affordable Nescafe. Affordable and it works..



Now lets forget that there are some studies that states this...

"Studies have shown that coffee may reduce the risk of type 2 diabetes. After analyzing data on 120,000 people over an 18-year period (1), researchers at Harvard have concluded that drinking 1 to 3 cups of caffeinated coffee each day can reduce diabetes risk by several percentage points, compared with not drinking coffee at all."

Nevermind that its from Harvard...



because I!!!IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

I think that drinking coffee is bad. Simple as that. Anything that lets you do something different to your body like forcing your brain to keep awake is a bad thing.



But the only real reason why I drink coffee is because it keeps me awake and somehow feeling fresh throughout my day. But if i really wanted to sleep, I still could somehow!!!

(I happen to be one of the people on earth who has no trouble in sleeping but trouble keeping awake, thus does not require sleeping pills that could get you into big trouble)

Think heath ledger..




So where am i getting at??

Well, you see....

Tonight!! I need to stay up awake! I am required to finish up some paper work which requires to be passed up in two days time. Lots of paperwork.20 to 30 pages of written paperwork.

When i say paperwork, not this ok...


I mean this...



I've not even started on anything yet!!I was suppose to do it a month ago. Its always tomorrow after tomorrow. I seem to always have time!!And now...I have no choice but to do it..I only have TWO MORE DAYS!!

So, drank my dose of coffee...I wondered to myself..before attempting the assignment.

Ummm...what am i doing now..

I'm writing a blog. Have not touched my work, thinking maybe I should do it tomorrow. Then I thought to myself a case study which could be answered by Harvard or by you of course..

Is lazyness stronger than coffee?Will I go to bed and say haiyah still can do it tomorrow(you know following up on my consistency) or will i use the coffee dose together with the determination to complete the assignment.

wait wait...yawnn...ummm tomorrow?hehe...still got time leh...

Carousels.

"Daddy, one more time, please? Pleeease? Mommy, daddy says no, but please one more time? One more time, okay?"

Children never tire. Over and over, they can do the same things and yet, never tire of it. It is not to say they do not appreciate variety, but simply, that they exult in the rhythm of life, pattern, seasons and cycles. They exult in repetition, because each time offers a new heady experience, fresh windows into new worlds.

Up and down, round and round- I used to love riding on the carousel. Up and down, round and round on my favourite unicorn- every round was a new beginning. And at the end, the inevitable, "One more time? Please?"

But even children tire-they tire when they grow up, learn monotony, become Big people.

People say I seem older than I really am. The truth is, though I turn 21 tomorrow, I feel like I'm all but three. Three years old holding onto the golden pole through my white, white carousel unicorn, going up and down, round and round. For so long, I had grown up in the dark, going up and down, round and round in grown-up monotony, walking the same roads over and over, making the same mistakes, along the same cracks and faults, over and over in the darkness, up and down, round and round in the darkness. Blind- too afraid to get off a ride that I had outgrown, out-ridden.

Once, I asked the unicorn I was on, "Why do we keep going on in circles? Can't you get out of here?"

And it replied, "Don't you see, I've been trying to run away from here all my life. But the faster I run, the more I seem to go in circles. "



As most Big people often do. We run, we keep running, but we go in circles, committing the same seemingly unpardonable sins in the same faults, along the same lines. Over and over, up and down, round and round, in and out of therapy. We hold on so tightly to the golden pole in the darkness.

Twenty-one. But I feel like I’m three. Twenty-one, but just, three.

At one point, she didn't even think she'd make it this far. Three years ago, she took the plunge like a suicide off a bridge... and then, she met God, and that made all the difference. Daddy says she grew up too fast in the past year, and Jie (elder sister) says she never thought she'd ever turn twenty-one-"You'll always be the rascal-baby in my eyes," she says. I hear the twinkle in her smile over the telephone cord stretching over miles of oceans.

One finds the time to contemplate the weight of this, of what Twenty-one means. Twenty-one means... you're a Big person, a Woman now?

That we lived our lives smearing milk chocolate on our lips like lipstick, eating marie biscuits bitten into shapes of zoo animals, stuffing ourselves sick with candy floss with sticky hands with a balloon tied to our wrists, decadently, wildly, carelessly, and now... we eat with shiny cutlery with our backs straight and I have to learn what it means to eat well, not too-much, too-little, just enough to make your face shine for people and in a way that balances your exercise schedule but not too much, not too much- what is too much, too little?

That we lived our lives taking on new worlds, conquering new frontiers, re-discovering new lands, all in the confines of the playground, bravely, boldly, valiantly, and now we find ourselves unknowing, tentative, inadequate, asking- are we enough for this?

That we lived our lives running across sand, grit and gravel at the speed of the wind without ever looking back, with falls and scrapes and bruises that we wore like badges of honour and now... I run, keep on running, but with my head permanently fixated on where you are because I'm so afraid you'd run after me and catch me, offguard. And if you did, I'm so afraid it would knock me off my feet, and onto the tarmac, and I'm not so sure if the scar would heal as fast as it used to, back when we were children. I don't want the other kids to stand round in a circle and laugh at me while I'm forced to do a forfeit-am I running too fast, too slow, leaving you too far, too close behind me?

For all my childish ways- this constant running, running from you with the wind in my hair and turning back ever so often to check the too-far, too-close distance between us, this longing, longing for a too-far, too-close tomorrow without today even being over, and this laughing, laughing like a child at the clown whose stilts leave him too far off the ground, and who wears his heart too close to his sleeve.

All my childish ways of running, longing and laughing- does Twenty-one mean I have to let them go? And all at once I realise, that all this time, I've been running in circles, and you never really moved from the point my eyes left you.

I cannot escape time. Tomorrow, I turn twenty-one. I am learning new things, seeing new lands on my white unicorn but I hear a voice telling me there is more to this, more to this surely. I lean my head against the golden pole and realize… it is my white unicorn who wants to leave, too. Who wants to run like a chariot ablaze into the horizon, in a straight line, finally.

He tells me he wants to be a Big Horse too, and learn to run in straight lines, move forwards, cover real distance, conquer new frontiers, and not in tiny, petty circles. I whisper to him- me too.

Me too.

Three and on the carousel, basking in the thrill of the newness of each new round, learning new things, seeing new stars in dark places I’d never seen before. So this is what happens when you meet God? Everything becomes new, fresh windows reappear in blue skies, and all at once, you are a child.

In God’s eyes, we will always be children.

Something tells me, there is more to these tiny circles we’ve been trapped in, more to this than we ever imagined. There is a circle beyond this, mirroring the circle of the sky, an arc of love from God to men, an arc going from end to end, a circle we were truly meant to be a part of, beyond our carousel, beyond our worlds and imaginings.

All we need is just one brave step to get off our unicorns, let go of our golden poles, and get onto the ground, into the real orbit of love and life. It's when we are finally able to give up what seems good, that we can prepare ourselves for something better, something far better than we ever imagined before. Maybe all we need is just one brave step to see that that’s all it takes to stop this dizzying, petty circling, and start a life afresh on solid ground, enraptured in the Real circle of adventure.

It is not to say that we grow up immediately and become Big when we get onto solid ground. Far from it. For perhaps, perhaps we never really need to.

For in God’s eyes, we will always be children. Every stage in life presents new challenges, new beginnings, and when we look at the world with fresh, twinkling eyes, we see how, at every point of the arc really, we are all but little ones, learning, stumbling, falling, getting up. There is a circle mirroring the circle of the sky, an arc of love from God to men, an arc that goes from end to end, a circle so huge and so infinite we only get to travel but once.

At every point of the arc, we are at the same point, and yet, at inifinitely different points, too. Every day is the same new day, and yet, every day, different, leaving you in wide-eyed wonder, like a child. Over and over, children can do the same things and yet, never tire of it. They exult in repetition, because every point of the arc is the same point, and yet a new point, with new lessons, new perspectives, new adventures.

Maybe that’s what we need to allow ourselves to be- simply, children. Twenty-one or otherwise.
When we finally learn to let go, learn to get off the plastic unicorn onto solid ground, maybe that’s when we can finally find our Real horses and ride off into sunsets, and not in tiny, petty circles. For at every stage in life, at every point of the arc, all we need are a child’s new eyes, and a child’s brave heart.

Perhaps, that’s all we need- to be children again. Small, and hopelessly trusting in a Big God who holds our circle in the palm of His hand. We need just a deep breath to leap off our carousels in order to ride on the Real thing, the Real horse, go on the Real adventure on the rim of a golden arc on a never-ending bend back Home to the skies.

Perhaps that's all we really need.

Twenty-one, or otherwise.

“Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”

– Matthew 19:14

The Simple Answer.

I remember being shocked, so shocked that I couldn't even hide it. Grandpa Zhou had told me before that his house was "like a messy, dirty warehouse", but it wasn't until I saw it with my own eyes that I believed him.

I was at church the other day when my church leader called me into her office. "Here," she said, "These two bags are for you. I remember you telling me about the old man you met at the train station- you can give these two bags to him as a Chinese New Year gift."

She smiled, and I, too, beamed. Those two bags had been left over from a community service project carried out over Christmas, where our church members had packed and delivered goodie bags to the needy and elderly living in one-room flats. In each bag was a sack of rice, a can of sardines, coffee powder, condensed milk, biscuits and tissue paper, practical things which I knew he would enjoy.

"Yes, we had these two bags left over from our previous event and I remembered your story about the old man. I want you to have them. Oh, they're very heavy- take them with you only when you get a lift back home."

I smiled in return. There were many things she could have done with those two bags- give them to other church members, pass them on to someone else, maybe save it for a later event... but of all those things, she remembered... me, and my little five-minute story about Grandpa Zhou.

"Thank you for remembering," I beamed.

I lifted the two heavy bags up. My arms felt like toothpicks. They probably weighed more than ten kilos in total. Two problems surfaced in my mind- one, getting a lift home and two, even if I did give the bags to Grandpa Zhou, how on earth would he be able to lug them home himself? He lived a long way away.

There was only one solution- to deliver them right to his doorstep.

My brain ticks and I realise I don't have a car and I can't drive anyway. I do the only thing I know- ask a favour from a friend. I recount my story to him, and he replies with a ready and willing "Sure, no problem. Crucial thing is to get his address and yup, I'll get the car." The ready reply is fast and certain, unhesitating, and comes even before investigating the details, asking where Grandpa Zhou lives, weighing out the cost to himself. Just an unhesitating, ready commital to offer, to help, to love.

One day late at night, (Grandpa Zhou says, "Please come as late as you can. Eleven is best- because I earn the most money at night.") my friend and I pick the two bags and him up, and drive to his place, far away. We go to his housing estate- it is a nice place, with three-room flats.

"Please don't follow me up," he pleads. He describes his place as jian bu de ren (shameful to look at), but we insist on helping him upstairs. We reassure him and convince him we mean well. It is a nice housing estate. I remember him describing his place as a warehouse and imagine it being cluttered and perhaps dirty as well. But I am unable to hide my shock and horrified amusement when we reach his home. It is beyond my wildest imaginings.

He opens the door. "Oh dear, now you've seen for yourself. Oh my... ... I'm so ashamed."

There are stacks and stacks of plastic bags, filled with toys, trinkets, paper, thrown-away items, household goods, trash stacked from the ground to the ceiling. Stacks and stacks of them, immaculately packed such that they fill his entire living room. They are stacked on both sides, from the ground to the ceiling, leaving only a tiny, tiny walkway in the middle for him to walk to his room and kitchen. The tiny, tiny walkway that is left is so small that my friend and I have to edge sideways to get through. I look up, and all I see are more bags towering over me, spilling with power-ranger figurines, decorative ornaments and other knick-knacks.

"These are all very valuable... I just don't have time to sell them. "

He points to every item and quotes a price for each one. "This one, five dollars. This one, three dollars... That one, I think I could sell for a few dollars too..."

My friend exclaims, "Grandpa Zhou, if you sold them all, you'd be a millionaire!" We all laugh.

It is a spacious, three-room house, but cluttered, packed, and filled literally to capacity by junk valued as treasures.

Today it came to me- those plastic bags are like my Monster, our Monsters. Through our lives, we collect, pack and store away millions of tiny items along our journey. We pick them up, store them into our emotional warehouses, thinking they would be of use to us someday. Our emotional defense system hoards them- hoards achievements, things of pride, memories of hurt, things we think could come in useful for us and our defense system someday.

But they never do, they never do.

The more we live, the more we store and before we know it, these tiny items become... Monsters. Monsters that take away our space, take away who we are, and leave us nothing but a tiny passageway to breathe and find our way around; Monsters that make us feel so ashamed of ourselves; Monsters that we never meant to allow our tiny collection to grow into. We hold to them because of the worth we attach to them, but fail to realise how... useless they all really are. How pointless it is to hold on to them, how much better off we'd really be, how perhaps, we really would become millionaires if we put in the time to exchange them for something of value, things of value like forgiveness, trust and love- if only we would let them go. Let them go.

On my way to send another friend home to the train station today, we bump into Grandpa Zhou. He smiles at me and says hello. "This is Grandpa Zhou," I say to J. She is one of my best friends, so she knows about his story already. She smiles back. Later, she hands me a ten-dollar note and tells me to use it to buy dinner for Grandpa Zhou over the next few days.

Angels, though not in disguise.

A lady at church who remembered my five-minute story about Grandpa Zhou and who saved two bags of goodies for him; a friend who so willingly and gladly offered his effort, petrol and time to help, whose ready, unhesitating reply came even before weighing the cost to himself, planning everything so I wouldn't have to feel awkward asking for a favour; another friend who gave me money, a smile and the trust to bless someone else with the ten-dollar note she had given me. I remembered all the other random Strangers and acquaintances who had stuffed money into my palm before. More than their money, each of them gave me their trust, their precious, weighted trust.

Each and every one of them, special in their own ways- just wanting to use what they had to bless someone else, share their love. I wanted to ask each of them the question-

-Why? But why.

And I know the answer would be the same. It would be the same simple, resounding answer to to why my friends gave up their time and effort to help, the same simple resounding answer to why they did so even though they was nothing they could get out of it, the same simple, resounding answer to my retortive question of why I, we, should love the Ugly, Ugly Monster inside myself, inside ourselves.

It would be the same answer. The same beautiful answer to the question people always ask me, the answer I always answer back, the same answer to why through all this time I've been through the darkness and light, up and down, thrown inside out, my closest friends- you've always been there for me, loving me and my Monster inside. The same answer I always give Grandpa Zhou every single time he asks me why I stop to chat, why I buy food for him.

The same profoundly simple answer-

- that we love, because God first loved us.

It's as simple as that.

We love because God loved us first.

-1 John 4:19

Loving Monsters.

We’re so obsessed with being good, so afraid to be found out that deep inside, perhaps we’re really not. So afraid to acknowledge the evil that lies within the crevices of our hearts, and so afraid to be exposed. But we forget, that besides God, everything in the world is both good and evil. Perhaps it is not the presence of evil that makes us loathe ourselves, but our loathing of that evil, our rejection and our denial of it.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the most beautiful of people are not those without an ounce of evil within them, not those who hate the evil within them, but those who accept, acknowledge, love and win the evil critter within them over, to be taught, tamed and transformed.

Perhaps, just perhaps, true beauty comes from embracing, and not rejecting ugliness and evil.

Today in Miss B’s* room, the quest to find the missing piece continued. It was so hard. The little girl with sunshine and rainbows in her hair cracked. There was a foul, foul odour, so foul that they both had incredulous looks on their faces. She was scared. It was absolutely horrifying.

There was a foul, foul odour, so foul it clung onto skin like a huge, messy cobweb you couldn't get rid off. And oh, how it stank. She didn't expect it would be like this, but when they opened her up to see where it was in her emotional system that had gone wrong, they got more than they bargained for.

Miss B had told her at the last session- “We’re going to take away everything you or any human being ever put worth in, and look at what's left. It's going to be very, very scary. "

It was. It really was. Suddenly, the girl with sunshine and rainbows no longer existed, and a huge, ugly, green-eyed monster morphed into horrifying reality. It was a hideous, heinous ogre, with multiple tentacles, writhing and heaving and seething in anger, stretching across the floor and reaching the ceiling, consuming all light, sucking away anything that even hinted of love. It was selfish and greedy and astounding Ugly. There was no girl with sunshine and rainbows. It was a monster, a full-bodied, writhing, life-sucking Ugly monster.

“I find it so hard to reconcile... Where did this come from? I don't recognize this Wai Jia." Miss B said.

She was so scared she couldn’t stop crying. Where did this come from- this evil, bloodthirsty, life-draining, power-hungry, self-seeking creature? This creature that bears her same name. This creature that is the cause of all her Insecurity.

So this was what it was, what clogged the system. It wasn't a screw, or a missing piece. It was a Monster. A foul, Ugly Monster, hiding for years underneath a veneer of achievement and good deeds, sucking her up and draining her dry. Now that all the sunshine and rainbows had been stripped away, it finally resurrected itself in honesty, and put to shame everything that was ever lovely, or beautiful.

She crumbled at once. Oh, the weight of it all. The stark reality, and the stinging, smarting shame.

"Look at me. Look at me," Miss B said over and over, more than ten times. And she couldn't. There was panic and tears and fear and shame. This was so hard. This was so very hard- to strip away everything you ever thought you were to look at the inside bits, to find not a timid, confused little child waiting to be saved, but a nostril-flaring, fire-breathing, life-consuming monster that was unthinkably Ugly.

Her greatest fear uncovered. She was found out.

It was too much to bear.

Everything throbbed around her and the tears wouldn't stop. There was fear and panic and tears and shock. Now that the monster had been exposed, she had been found out. It was the most horrifying question of all-What if deep down inside, there was no girl with pretty rainbows or kites or flowers in her hair, nobody who wants to become a missionary to help the poor and needy, no loving, giving, serving person who wants to love till it hurts, love God till eternity. That deep down inside, what if- all there was, was really just an evil Ugly monster just waiting, waiting, waiting to be found out and come alive and devour the little girl who really isn't real at all.

To come to that place of complete honesty, to uncover a beast you never imagined existed, to even consider that beast might be… you and not what you thought yourself to be- can be a scary, scary thing.

"Look at me. Look at me," Miss B said over and over, more than ten times. And I couldn't. It was so hard. You think the world of yourself in so many ways, hold on to your strengths and qualities and finally have them challenged, put down, extinguished by a monster so real it even bears your same name.

Finally she said, " This crying, this crying person here... This is the girl I know. And this is courage- to accept what you have just discovered. Breathe, just breathe."

Perhaps this is the greatest lesson of all- that to come to the place of true acceptance, one has to embrace both the good and evil within oneself. For so long she hated herself because of the monster within her. It was so large and so real but she never could look at it in the eye. Little Anna is so small, so pure. She couldn’t stand up to it.

Perhaps that is why, in our deepest darkest moments, we loathe, hate and despise our very selves. We’re afraid of being found out, afraid of the monster inside, the monster that exists within each and every one of us.

And perhaps all we need to do is to embrace it. No, it is not to say we condone evil, and not to give up on the epic battle between darkness and light. But it is to come down, face-to-face, to acknowledge the monster within, to see it in all its full-bodied Ugly glory and to still… accept it. Accept it because it is a part of who we are, because it takes courage and humility to do so, and to forgive ourselves because the monster bears our same name.

It is not to say we have lost the epic battle. In fact, we win it. When we choose to accept the evil monster inside, we choose no longer to deny it, but to love, embrace and teach it. Evil monsters cannot look you in the eye because that is being polite, they cannot hug, cannot love. So when we choose to look at it in the eye, and embrace, love it, accept it, the ironic thing is, Evil does not win- it diminishes in size.

Evil monsters cannot survive in the presence of love.

It was so scary, made scarier by the fact that the monster grew so big because someone messed with the insides of her head. She didn’t mean to let it grow. She wanted to kill it. But she is all right now. She is learning to love the Evil, Ugly monster inside. Love it so much and so hard with the love of God that it will no longer be able to survive.

Perhaps sometimes, in order to hate evil, we really have to love it as much as we can, love it so much we can even forgive it, let it go.

She is learning what it means to love herself all over again. Not just the rainbows and kites and pretty bits, but to love, even the ten-foot tall, ugly, pimply, one-eyed ogre with bad breath and sticky tentacles, this Ugly ogre that is the cause of all her Insecurity, what drives her so crazy. Love it so much she can look at it in the eye and forgive what she sees, love it so much she can accept it and teach it patiently, love it so much that in time, it has no choice, no other choice but to become smaller, to diminish in size.

There is a long road ahead. The Monster will not go down without a fight. This makes her very tired, and she has had to cancel appointments except church because this process is so very tiring. She is still fighting it, still losing sleep searching for a spear big enough to bring it down when no one’s looking. She can hardly be in the same room with it, much less hug, love, forgive it. Knowing it lives right under her skin drives her absolutely crazy.

Perhaps this is what true courage really is. Loving, and not fighting our Monsters inside. Loving our Monsters and putting our weapons down, forgiving them because even God forgives them. He really does, He even loves us in spite of them.

Because perhaps, just perhaps, it is when we are able to accept, forgive and embrace the Ugly bits within ourselves, that we no longer loathe ourselves and become Beautiful. Perhaps it is when we are able to love the parts that we hate, that we are able to love and forgive others along the same cracks and same faults. Perhaps, just perhaps, all we need is to let go, stop fighting, wind down and see just how much even God loves us, in spite of our monsters.

And perhaps when we finally do, there will not be fear or tears or shame or shock anymore. There will not be the fear that the Monsters might be our true selves, not be the shame that we allowed them to grow, not be the shock at the terrifying realization.

Because when we finally do accept, forgive and embrace them, perhaps that's when we'll find the little girl with kites and rainbows and flowers-

- right there where she started. Beautiful and Secure again.

All posts under the link Therapy chronicle her journey to recovery from Anorexia and depression with professional help from the team at the Singapore General Hospital.

* Miss B is the principal psychologist who works with people suffering from eating disorders at the Singapore General Hospital.

Lest I shoot myself in the foot

Previous post must be consumed with dash of humour and pinch of salt. Best taken after candlelight dinner.

Millionaire by blogging?

There are times poor people like me who earns an average pay would once awhile spend part of his life savings away to join his friends for dinner.

WHY????

because we were going to have dinner at one-utama!




I knew nothing cheap was going to come by unless we were to visit the food court which I(poor man) would not even go because the food there is totally bad even though its affordable.


Trust me, I know its bad...happens to be part of the way to keep myself surviving in KL. Definitely ate there a couple of times

So before going to one-utama, I went to the nearest ATM machine that i could find and painfully took out some of my hard earned cash.



The kind of cash that could feed an entire family.(but sadly would just feed by selfish stomach this time around)



But no matter what, I knew that this dinner was going to help me out in my quest to richness as I was going to meet some successful people at my age.

Note: not being able to afford a camera, I could not take any pictures of our meet up

Anyway, just as I knew it, we sat down in some fancy restaurant that I have never noticed since i landed in KL.

Its called Jack's place.



HAHA!!!Shouldnt be too expensive!*Smiling away*(judging by its name)

As soon as I opened up the menu,

Another friend whispers to my ear, "Heart pain or not??"

*Not smiling anymore*

Never mind how hurting a person can get to you when u're poor, It was expensive!! Above my means. If I had a girlfriend, she would break off with me straight away!! I was doing something really fullish like spending my hard earned money away.

I could have said that i had an emergency situation to attend to and left. But then, I wanted to learn something from this guys.

During the course of the meal, my rich friends were exchanging notes on what to do with their millions that they just earned.

I could afford one but should I....

Buy a ferrari



or Buy a Lamborghini



or Buy an S-class and not a 7-series and pimp it out the ah beng way..



or just buy a Golf Gti for the fun of it which seems like a more affordable buy..



Of course, the only thing that they were not going to do was help uplift by financial situation. Not even a few cents..



Unnoticed to them, I was earning an average pay.

Soon, the dinner was over, and I was very much a poorer man.

Before my last friend left, he gave me an advice which is to blog for extra income. He told me there were bloggers earning 5 digits a month!

5 FREAKING DIGITS!!JUST BY BLOGGING???

THATTT MY FRIEND, WAS THE ADVICE I WAS WAITING FOR!!

Quickly I came back home, looked into my computer.

And checked how much i've got so far through blogging



RM0.50???

Ok...ummm 5 digits a month means...ummm...how many visits do i need to achieve my millions?

*Will i be a millionaire by blogging??I wonder....*

6 dollars.

It made me quite angry actually, the way they made a joke out of the whole affair.

Its supposed to a good occasion, and I’ve nothing against celebrating good occasions-but they’ve made a joke out of the whole affair. Oh, the travesty of it all.

A friend asked me today, “Would you celebrate Valentine’s Day?”

What with the commercialized packages- the glamourous advertising for jewellery, flowers with prices marked up to more than ten times their cost, and strange activities thought up by what must be the most desperate of minds for creativity. I only wonder how the experience of the couples who signed up for the candlelight dinner on the Gourmet Love Tram at the night safari must have been. Perhaps they thought $500 was a really good price to pay for novelty, in order to experience gastronomical discomfort and strange olfactory sensations. Im sure it was memorable.

There is so much advertising. Each idea trumping the next, trying to outdo one another.

The travesty of it all.


Flowers are found on bushes, on trees, and in wild, wild fields of nature. We pick them because of their beauty and allure, and give them to each other as gifts of affection, love and appreciation. Flowers must be chosen from the heart for the specific person in mind, and they must be exciting, wild and free. One cannot, should not, must not ever pre-package flowers. Flowers are free, always should be. In our attempt to express the unarticulated love we have, we can only do our best to try and capture that sense of freedom in a bouquet. A bouquet that stems from sincerity, and spontenity.

Bouquets make or break flowers. They have the power either to entrap flowers with their predictability, grotesquely outrageous prices or unthoughtfulness, or the power to set them absolutely free. Free. Bouquets are set free by sincerity, love and thoughtfulness.

Pre-packaged flowers, handpicked by a third party and chosen and wrapped by someone else with someone else in mind and chucked away in a freezer- are not Free. Behind glassy fridge doors, they really have become imprisoned, because they were not given to whom they were meant for.

The nerve of florists to pre-package them so that pubescent boys can come pick one up conveniently like an answer to a multiple choice question at marked up prices so they can impress a squealing girlfriend (is that what they call it?), and the audacity of grown men to buy them at exorbidant prices appall me.

The travesty of it all. It is an indictment of what we call love, what we call gifts.

It is the prices which sicken me most of all. They are marked up so much they buy us into believing it is the way to show our love. Some of the men who spend hundreds and hundreds of dollars on frivolous bouquets with the intention to impress also happen to be ones who wave off perspiring secondary school students selling flags in the hot sun to raise money for worthy causes, only grudgingly finding a coin or two when they have their girlfriends’ arm around theirs.

Scumbags.

How anyone could find celebrating their love on a day where everyone is expecting everyone else to be doing the same thing romantic at all baffles me, to say the least.

But I restrain myself. For I’ve never celebrated it before. And I must apologise, and also add a disclaimer. Because there are always exceptions, and one must not be quick to judge others. Perhaps a couple had met at the zoo and a tram ride at the night safari perfectly encapsulated their feelings for each other; perhaps the knight had bumped into a dragon and had to slay it to save the maiden, and henceforth had no choice but to pick up a –gasp- pre-packaged bouquet before the clock turned twelve.

And if those expensive, expensive gifts were bought with sincerity and a lot of love, then who am I to judge anyone.

But if you ask me, I’d rather a gift of the monetary equivalent on a cheque instead addressed to children in Uganda, instead of some commercial package specially designed to rip unsuspecting couples off. Now, that would be hot.

Like I said, there are always exeptions. And I don’t want to shoot myself in the foot by ruining my own story for romance.

But surely we can agree, that there is a difference between spending on someone you love, and indulging in nauseating extravagance.

We come to realize at some point, that all the gifts that were most memorable really don’t cost much at all. A drawing, a card, a thoughtful act, quality time, or best of all, a free hug given out of the blue, not for any occassion, just spontaneously, randomly.

Because perhaps it really is true- that the best things in life come for free. And we needn’t try too hard to impress.

I had friends from church come over to my place yesterday. It was a very simple affair, with simple presents and simple things. It was most delightful.

After everyone had left, there was a lot food leftover, still. I packed up a box and delivered it to Grandpa Zhou.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Don’t go, say grace for me first.” I did, after which he dug into his smelly, old green bag and handed me a red packet, from the same red packet envelope I had given to him for Chinese new year. For Chinese people, it is a tradition for married couples to give red packets to single youth, as a symbol of sending their blessings and wellwishes.

“You have done a lot for me. I don’t know how to express my gratitude, but I hope you will accept my little gift of thanks. It really is nothing, but thank you for all you’ve been doing for me. I hope you don’t mind my poor Chinese writing behind.”

He had written the Chinese characters of my name and his well-wishes: Wishing you a Happy Chinese New Year, may your medical skills shine like Hua Tuo’s. From Grandpa Zhou. Hua Tuo was an ancient doctor from China who established himself as one of the forefather’s of medicine.

I laughed. There was money inside. “You’re giving me money?” I laughed and smiled at him, and thanked him in return. For worse than receiving the wrong type of presents, is returning them to someone who gave it to you. I accepted it.

It contained 6 dollars.

Simple presents, simple people. Thoughtfulness, spontaneity and sincerity. The beauty of randomness.

Because perhaps, just perhaps, the best things in life really don’t cost much at all.

Big Teddy Bears.

Raggedy-Anna’s Papa is a Big Teddy Bear. They loved each other so much, talked about everything and anything in the world. How she loved and adored Big Papa- she gave him a Big part of her heart. After all, he was Big Papa, wasn’t he? He promised he would keep it and guard it forever and ever with his life, like a Big Teddy Bear would. Big Papa. Strong and secure and trustworthy, like Big Teddy Bears are supposed to be.

One day, however, Big Papa took the Big part of her heart, put it in an envelope and mailed it away in a brown envelope. He told her he forgot the address, said he didn’t know why he did it, but anyway he couldn’t find it anymore so Raggedy-Anna must find a new one and move on.

Raggedy-Anna has been very afraid of all sorts of Teddy Bears ever since. They look all the same to her. She has many Teddy Bear friends but none have access to whatever part of her heart that’s left. She keeps a Safe distance from them because she is so Very afraid. Afraid they might promise her what Big Papa promised, and then smash it into bits and mail it away and tell her to get along now and good-bye and see you again.

So she keeps a Safe distance.

Even though some of them might be, maybe, perhaps be- angels in disguise. Her maker’s still finding the missing piece. Meanwhile, she’s seeing some doctors, and they’re trying to help her by looking for that brown envelope at the post office. That envelope with a Big part of her heart. It is such a tiny envelope.

Big Papa, why did you do that? I know you do love her so very much. But why.

She’s still waiting to for her missing piece. She’s trying very hard to search for it too.

Meanwhile, she keeps a Safe distance from all sorts of Teddy Bears.

Over and over.

"... You need to constantly remind yourself that there is no stigma attached to taking medication at all for what you have is an illness. It’s not a condition, nor is it an affliction, and certainly it’s not a sign of weakness nor is it a sin or a punishment. It is an illness treatable by medication. And if anyone tells you otherwise, it’s because they don’t understand...”

Why do I feel a weight lift from my chest when I read this letter. I read it over and over so I believe it more each time. I read it over and over.

And if anyone tells you otherwise, it’s because they don’t understand...
If only people understood.

Most don’t and will not-it’s the way things are. It only makes things harder, but we press on anyway.

Onward and upward.

To those of you who have tried to, chosen to, and are trying to understand, thank you.


I read it over and over.

Side effects include Disappointment.

" The meds will take effect only in 3 weeks to a month's time... People take it for at least 6 months. We'll see how things go, and if we need to readjust the dosage. "

"It takes a month? A whole month for it to work? And I take it for 6 months?"

"Yes, a month for it to work. Side effects include headaches, nausea, stomach discomfort, slight sedation... "

"Uh-huh. And that's supposed to help me feel better?"

Nervous laughter.

"Well, not everyone gets side effects. But yes, it takes a month."

One stop.

Have you got stuck in a maze before? I wonder how it must feel like. You run all over the place, frenzied and exhausted, but get absolutely nowhere.

It was a tough day. Walking through the catacomb of corridors in the Big Gray Place, I walked from one block to the next to the next to the next. There was so much waiting, and walking. The whole afternoon was burned away. It was, to say the least, frustrating. They lie when they tell you a hospital is a White place. It is Gray- don't let anyone fool you about that. A hospital is a Big Gray Place.

The Professional People work in a team, so I have to see a team of people, specialising in different areas, from different places and different times, and medication is found in a pharmacy four blocks away, at a different place. They give you directions like it's just across the road or next door, but resentment breeds slowly inside of you when you find yourself all alone in a Big Gray Place, having to navigate your way in a maze, a statistic in a line with a queue number in hand, queue after queue after queue, with multiple appointment cards and lots and lots of people shuffling past you. Everything is everywhere, faces change, queue numbers hop, people are doing a different something at a different place at a different pace.

Mess.

Before all of this, I had walked into the waiting room, awaiting my turn. I had a headache from insomnia, was very anxious and felt very low. I watch people file in and out of the Big Gray Clinic, each one burdened with a Story of their own. Why am I here today? Why am I -still- on this journey? Why am I awaiting my turn in a Big Gray Place? I knew.

A middle-aged lady smiled at me. She looked familiar- have I seen her before? She smiled and came to sit next to me.

"You're Wai Jia, right?" she asked very gently. "I'm... I'm S's mother. She often reads your blog. Thank you for helping so many girls."

I nearly start to cry.

S is a girl I met only once at the support group. She specially travels to Singapore for treatment because she lives in Malaysia, which I presume does not have the facilities for this kind of support. I met her only but once. And there we were, two people from different countries, by some divine arrangement in the same building again, with her mother recognising my face. She is in the room with a counsellor, and I write her a note to pass to her mother just in case we don't meet.

Just before my turn, she comes out of the room, calls my name and runs to hug me. " You look so good today," she smiles. I haven't had a good night's rest for days.

" I'm going to visit N now upstairs at the ward, we're really inspired reading your blog." She smiles, and I nearly cry. What am I doing here, still. I know the answer to that question.

I enter the doctor's office held together and leave the room, fragile. I am in tears- I am relieved and grieved at the same time because she wants to give me meds. I remember a lady I once met who told me the bravest thing she ever did was to take this sort of medication, because her decision to help herself went against stigma and pride. I am in tears but am determined to stick to my word.

"Wai Jia!"

Just as I walk out of the room, I find a little drawing with kites and a rainbow stuffed into my hands, and myself in a warm hug before you scuttle off again- you leave for Malaysia this evening. I really needed that hug. You drew it for me while I was in the room and waited for me to pass that to me, didn't you? Sweet child, thank you.


It's funny. It's funny how the things of man are so scattered, disparate, confusing even. There are so many Professional People to see now, so many appointment cards to keep, so many dates to take note of, so many places to go to pick up different sort of things, so many corridors to walk through and queue numbers to take, faces to talk to, things to sort out.

The necessity and yet, the mess of it all.

And yet, I walk into one place, the waiting room, and find all that I seem to need for the moment right there. A once-stranger friend from a different geographical location altogether, her parents, a word of thanks, a hug, and a neatly folded drawing. All neatly in one place.

It is like my White Place. It is like God, a one stop station for all our thoughts and clouds. No separate appointment cards, no different specialists for different things, no navigating through a maze and a crowd to find the right place and the right person. Everything is there. Mister God, I have ALL these things to tell you, will you listen to me?

He is always there, with everything we need. All in one place.

This is the beginning of a long journey. And I am willing to walk it through. It is messy because we are human, but it is necessary. I must.


In a maze, sometimes you can't even see where you're heading, how long it will take to reach the end. But I know one thing for sure, that at the end of a long, long day, after the exhausting frenzy running this way and that, one can still return to the same spot, the same White Place, to the same Person, and find everything all in one place. Everything in one stop.

No queue number, no waiting time, no appointment card, no different location and no different sort of explanation and different sort of labels for different sort of medication.


Everything you need for the moment folded neatly into one note, one place, one Person.


Just, there.


What a relief.

Trees.

I saw them.

They were very large, very black and very, very dry. They were being carried off by little black men.

I saw them- two trees, withered, leafless and charred black. They had been uprooted and were bring carried off by little black men. Where to, I do not know.

I woke up at an unearthly hour from a dream last night. I dreamt that two trees had been uprooted in my life- two black, barren and dry trees. Little black men carried them off, and I ran after them a bit, just to see what they were up to.

As I ran to take a closer look, I saw a huge crater appear before me, and where the two black trees had been uprooted, a huge tree stump, ten times larger, stood in their place. This was a leafless tree too, but only because it had been pruned. It was a very, very large, but it shone gently, brimming with life and glowing with vibrancy. It would grow, in time, to flourish, lush and green, and to bear good fruit.

I woke up.

Those two black, wicked trees had been uprooted by God. The new tree was a good tree, waiting to bear good fruit. I crawled out of bed and opened my drawer to pick up a gift given to me by a friend a few months before, a comic of a lush tree grown from a withered, barren one, a metaphorical illustration of our growth in God. (Isaiah 44:1-4)

The tree stump would grow to be just like that, I thought, with good fruit too. In time.

I asked God for faith and fruitfulness. And He is teaching them to me, but faith and fruitfulness of a different kind. I went to see the Professional People today, the people who are supposed to understand, supposed to know how to help me.

" We have a lot of work to do, " Miss B said it to me at least three times with the same emphasis in her sentence, looking me in the eye. "There have been a lot of deep hurts and we have a lot of work to do. We're going to take away everything you put your validation in and it's going to be very scary. It's going to be very, very scary."

Seeing the Professional People means I have to be completely honest with them, and not to try and be strong. We talked about a number of things, laying lots of ground rules down- that this would be hard work, that it wasn't going to be easy, and that I ought to be prepared. We talked about why I was in that room, about Leonardo's past work with me, about where we needed to go from here. We talked about how understanding the past can only give you an awareness of your present situation, but cannot help you heal. That was what Leonardo was good at, examing the past and helping me understand why- and that was why his work with me had to be over- he couldn't do anything more. He had helped me to understand the past, helped me to forgive and release certain deep hurts which I never knew existed, but the healing didn't last, because staying in a Big Brick House day in, day out, can wear down your resolve like grated cheese.

Barely 5 minutes into the conversation the tears came. This was hard.

We talked about control, in all the wrong places. About how a little child had absorbed every possible message of feeling unloved and insecure and about how that grew big. Grew like a big, black, barren and wicked tree, I thought.

We no longer use the term Anorexia. We are past being underweight, so Miss B uses the term Ed. Ed, like a boy's name- it stands for eating disorder. "We're not here to talk about vanity or much about food. Ed is nothing about that. We're going to look at the deep hurts and issues that underlie Ed."

Okay.

She said it was great I had made much progress on my own, but still there was still "a lot of work to do", and it was the right thing to be in that room. I was in that room, not because Rainbow didn't happen, but because of underlying black, black roots which made it and many other Tiny incidents such Traumatic ordeals.

We talked about how Ed is like an abusive boyfriend, incandescently charming but ruins your life once it turns abusive. It destroys you in every way, but you return to it, time and again, because of its charm, because of the false ideals it promises you. We talked about insecurity, of feeling unloved in the Big Brick House, and of how everyone needs to feel loved in spite of any circumstance, in spite of whether the right people were loving right, in spite of being unable to change that, in spite of deep, deep hurts.

It was a long session.

This is not easy for me to do. Tomorrow they will decide if medication is necessary. Wednesday. I am afraid the doctor will decide on it, and afraid if she doesn't. I am afraid of taking it if she does give it, and afraid of not taking it. What do the pills mean, and do they make me a different person. They say no, it doesn't. It takes away the illness so I can have more of me back. That's what they say. And then a little voice behind my head whispers to me and suggests- perhaps you really are this way.

I don't believe it, because This is not me. This intermittent intense fear and sadness which punctuates the day, every day, this waking up-waking up-waking up through the night and being unable to go back to sleep, this having to prep and armour myself even to meet people at church... This isn't me.

And then the voice asks: What if this sadness has a purpose? What if the meds take it away, and nothing is solved? You need this pain, you need it to get better, get stronger. You're taking the easy way out, no?

I am tempted to believe this one. Tempted, because many great men of the bible were put through great depression for great purposes. Tempted, because I believe in the glory and strength birthed from suffering and affliction. Tempted, because I tried it once when I was twelve, and it did nothing right. It made crying harder, and I felt stuffed in, and not myself.

I tell myself it is different this time. It is different because This is debilitating me, this crying, and it is affecting the people around me who love me, and whom I love and perhaps it is the responsible thing to do. It is different because we are not using it to run away or solve the problem- Miss B will take care of that- what the meds do is to treat the illness so one can think, respond better to deal with this very, very stressful process and other demands of life. It is different because of what I have on my plate, medical school, and perhaps it is the responsible thing to do so that I can function and cope well enough to be competent. It is different, because perhaps one ought to see medication and treatment as a means of how God heals.

Yes?

I hate the idea. I hate it to its core. But I must write this and resolve to take them if the doctor decides or else I will weasle myself out of it. It is the responsible thing to do. I am exhausted. I can no longer cope with this crying. I usually do so alone, but when I crumbled at school last week, albeit hidden in the arms of a friend, I knew something had gone terribly wrong. I can no longer cope with not sleeping for more than 4 hours straight, no longer cope with This and preparing for the onslaught of 5 exam papers. I hear the little voice say it's taking the easy way out, that I'm too soft for this extent of suffering. This time, I take a knife to its throat and I tell it to shut up because the little voice is not the one having loved ones see it suffer, not the one having to be a medical doctor, not the one who is losing oneself. I use my angry voice and tell it to shut up.

I'm writing this so I'll stick to my word. That if they give medication, I will have to take it. I hate it but I will take it, in spite of the little voice, and work through whatever that needs to be worked on.

I asked God for faith and fruitfulness. And He is teaching them to me, but faith and fruitfulness of a different kind. I always talked about faith in terms of projects, the faith to see God see them through. I always talked about fruition in terms of them too, fruition in terms of money raised, people saved.

Now, I am learning faith and fruitfulness of a different kind. Faith, to see myself healed and Fruit, being the fruit of the Spirit, of love, patience and faith, fruits produced from trials. It is one of my greatest challenges, to see myself fully recovered, in spite of all the negative messages absorbed through the years. But this is true faith- to believe in something the eye cannot see.

I live in a Big Brick House that holds all the memories and hurts birthed from a big, black tree. There is not a single day that goes by without the plagueing doubt that I may never be normal, may never be totally restored, may never have a normal, healthy relationship or a whole, healthy, happy family of my own. My big, black family tree stares at me right in the face, and everything points back to the same big, black roots from which the withered trees grew.

And this is the measure of faith God is challenging me with now- the faith to see myself well, whole, free, and happy.

It was a beautiful dream, wasn't it?

I watched the two black trees being carried away by the little black men, the two big, black, barren and wicked trees completely uprooted by God, with nothing remaining. I wondered what they stood for. For unforgiveness, for black love, for something perhaps known as an ancestral curse?

I watched the giant tree stump planted in place, deep into the crater. There was no rain, no sunshine, no leaves nor fruit yet- just a giant tree stump, glistening, glowing, breathing, rooted deep in that spot, waiting to bear fruit.

It was the vision I could not bring myself to believe.

A beautiful dream-

- about Faith.

It was a good tree.

Drawings by Ty

Isaish 44:1-4

Romans 11:16

Another day.

Somedays you open your eyes and find, in puzzlement, another day awaiting.

Another day of waiting, of struggling, of releasing, of learning, of pressing on.

Another day to get through.

Another day of marching on. Sometimes in candour, sometimes with stoic acceptance- but always with valour.

Another day.

There is no other choice.

Onward and upward we march.

There is no other choice.

The day ends, and the march, the proud, stoic march

Dissolves.


When we're on our knees,

That is, perhaps,

The strongest we'll ever be.

Photo by OY

2 Corinthians 12:10

The Inside Story.

I'd like to talk about the frustration of This all- this This, this This that I do not wish to call by its name because of all the connotation, stigma and misconception people have about it.

The past few days have not been easy. There have been many ups and downs, and coming to terms with the fact that This is an illness. While a good attitude and a close relationship to God can being relief, comfort and a new perspective, an illness cannot be willed away. It is the hardest thing for me to do- to have to come to terms with it, to have to accept that.

Today I want to talk about the frustration of this all, not out of vengeance but because This has been so misunderstood. And I'd like to share with you the frustration of This, the frustration which makes it all the more harder to cope.

It has been frustrating, to say the least, to have a million people give their take on what you're going through. I think you need a more positive mindset. I think you need to get closer to God. No, I don't think you need a doctor. You seem fine most of the time. Have you unconsicously been thinking a lot of negative thoughts-maybe that's the problem. Would you like to read this/do this/do that- I think you just need a new perspective. What's so hard- just solve the problem and you'll be okay in no time. Solve the problem, you're good at that, aren't you?

And the best one is. Relax, smile- be happy.

These are all well-meaning people, people who pray for me every single day, people whom I love and who love me to the moon and back. Therein lies the frustration- that while I appreciate their love so much and am grateful every single waking moment for it, they don't understand and I cannot expect them to.

Aunty Af, my publisher's wife, is the only one who knows closest to what the Full Story is. She told me, "There will be many, many well-meaning people giving you advice and sharing their opinions. But you'll have to forgive them for not understanding because they don't know the Full Story, but they say and do all this out of love."

It is frustrating to feel like everyone's trying to fix you in their own capacity and using their opinion to do so, and even more so when nobody but Aunty Af really knows the Full Story. I'm thankful to tears that people have been so kind, spending time, effort, prayer to show their love, support and concern for me. But it has been difficult, to say the least, to know that few understand. Few really understand.

I want to give you the inside story.

Depression. There, I've said it. When people ask, "have you been a little depressed lately?", they often mean it as an emotion, interchangeable with feeling transiently sad or troubled. They ask because they are concerned, and are eager to help, to console and to comfort. Someone who is truly depressed has been feeling it for weeks, months, years. It is more than an emotion, it goes far back and deep, it is an illness and beyond the capacity of someone less than a trained professional to deal with. A normal person, friend, family can show support, love and concern which is of utmost significance to someone with depression, but they must realise it is not within their capacity to fix or to cure.

This is a package for trained professionals- if you're not trained to sew back the stitches right, don't start the surgery. For all your well intentions, someone could bleed to death.

Tell them to get help. Persuade them, be supportive. But don't take it upon yourself to fix them, because as much as it's hard to accept, it's not your responsibility.

The frustration comes with being misunderstood. The most well-meaning of people believe there must surely be something wrong with your faith or your trust in God, and try every possible method to feed you with sound, biblical teaching. These are the most well-meaning of people, people I love and who love me to the moon and back. But how do you explain that it's not that simplistic, that there're plenty of God-loving people in the bible who had to go through a season of depression- Job, David, Jeremiah. How do you begin to explain that you know God has a purpose for this, that this is necessary as part of the healing process, that it will take time and has got nothing to do with how strong your relationship with God is, or how much you know and love Him.

It was someone else very much older and wiser in God who had to tell me all this- I was burdened with so much guilt.

I cry every night because of This. But I've never tasted the sweetness of God's love in this much fullness as of now, never felt so close to Him, never realised how much one can love Him in times of confusion, distress and not understanding why at all.

It is frustrating enough to have to deal with the questions you have for God- why God, why. But it becomes nothing compared to the frustration of being made to feel like an unfaithful child of God, that there must have been something you didn't do right, there must be some kink in your understanding of God that has caused all this, that surely, if you sorted that out, God would come in and heal you right there and then, faster than making popcorn in a microwave oven. I'm sure they didn't mean all that, but it can and does, however one didn't mean to, sound like it.

I agree some people have a lot of negative thinking which can be corrected. I agree that knowing God can bring you joy, character and strength. I agree that having a deeper understanding of God can bring relief, comfort and healing.

But I also agree that God has emotions. That we go through different seasons in life. That sometimes, it is not necessarily as simplistic as being a result of negative thinking, or losing hope in God. That sometimes, people have deep hurts inflicted on them in the past, and need to go through a period of feeling, of working through the emotions, of resolving them, and of being healed. All of this is healthy. All of this is also painful. Can one say then that he who is struggling with the depression felt during this process must have a lesser relationship with God than one who does not and is hence suffering because of it? We all have different challenges- can one say he who has had to deal with past hurts inflicted on them by no choice of their own but by unfortunate abuse is more condemned than he who has not?

It is painful enough to have to doubt yourself, question yourself with all these questions and struggle with the condemnation you feel- that possibly, could it be because I didn't do something right, that I made God very angry and brought this upon myself?

People have good intentions. And I'm so grateful for their love. But I want to be honest, give you the inside story of the great deal of miscommunication and misconception about this, so you can better understand and not impose this additional pain on someone you love going through a similar experience.

People think people who have depression haven't got it together, that they're weak and emotionally or spiritually incompetent. Can one say one is a lesser being because of the hurts one needs help dealing with because normal human beings weren't designed to accept abuse and need help to release deep hurts? A lot of things need to be worked through.

Forgive, release and let go- you need to pray more. That's when a wall goes up. People who don't understand the degree of abuse inflicted will not understand the process one needs to go through to reach that point of full restoration. One can feel very much condemned when one is told to pray and press in more when one is perhaps praying much, much more than one can imagine. Yes, God is big and faithful and has the ability to heal in a nick of time, I'm sure. But He delays and tarries and allows the passing of human time, because process takes time.

I do agree. That God helps us to let go, helps us to forgive, helps us to do what is seemingly impossible in human terms. But I think in our culture, people want that instanteous relief and restoration. People like us, we don't seem to see or value process as much. We subconconsciously think- come on, let go quickly, commit your troubles to God, and wow, because He's so great and amazing, He's gonna give you freedom, blessings and joy RIGHTHERERIGHTNOW, now and forever more!

And if it's taking longer than RIGHTHERERIGHTNOW, then whoa, you're not pressing in enough! Have more faith!

I think it's hard for people to come to terms with- that this is a process and takes time. I can understand that. Because as much as it hurts me, I know people I love who see me hurt are hurting too.

I can only talk about This with ease with Aunty Af, because she understands. That at the core, I'm impossibly optimistic and love God and do my best to be all right but that this needs professional, possibly clinical help for now, and later on, counselling, spiritual and otherwise- because this is a necessary process I need to go through in order to understand and work through the abuse. That it's not that I'm incompetent, or cotton wool or don't trust God enough, but that different people have different walks because of different circumstance through no fault of their own, and that God uses time, too. He took 7 years with David. For a good reason, too.

I freeze up when anybody else asks me about This. I ask you to forgive me- because I'm so very scared you will not understand, that you might heap upon me a lecture on spirituality or emotional competence, or worse, give me a pep talk. I freeze up because I am so very scared you will not understand this is not a matter of will but an illness apart from me, that a wall will be built between us because of This, when all this while, I just do my very best to be normal and happy with people.

People think- if you believe in God's healing power and all that, then why do you -still- need therapy? Bring it to God. Right?

I have been very, very blessed- sometimes, nobody understands. Aunty Af is a beautiful woman with a deep understanding and love for God. And she understands that This that I have, has not been brought about by pessimistic thinking or not seeking God enough or immaturity or anything I have done for that matter- but simply, something I am dealing with because of the deep hurts that have surfaced from undeserved abuse in the past, that the abuse was not my fault, that this depression is normal, and that God works through process too, that He heals, and loves and restores- not necessarily in that magical instantaneous way that so many of us imagine, but through people, through trained help, through doctors, loved ones, through time, through working through emotions.

Perhaps what makes it so hard is for loved ones to see someone they love in a place of hurting. Please get out fast... No, I don't think it's that serious... right? ... I don't think you need professional help... Okay fine, go for therapy, take the meds if you need to, resolve what you need to- and get out fast okay? I miss you being strong, miss you being dynamic and out-there. When will you be okay? Come out fast, okay?

We missed the point. It's going to take a while, maybe a long while, depending on how things go, what gets uncovered. I can understand why people choose to deny and trivialise the matter- I seem all right and pretty put-together to some people all the time because I make it a point to help myself and help others by -trying-. I'm doing everything I can.

I even asked the doctor, "How do I know if it's really an illness, and not just pessimism or something I'm not doing right?"

"It seems clear to me you've done everything you can, love. Whatever that's still there- that belongs to the meds."

"But I don't want meds. I don't need it... right? It doesn't solve anything."

"It doesn't solve the underlying problem, you're right. That's where the counselling and therapy comes in, to help you work through the issues. But they help you to function, to think better, so you can better cope and better deal with the issues. You've got so much on your plate right now- what with all this and medical school to cope with. But I'll let you think about it, okay? "

Resolve what you need to and come back. Is that not what I am doing. Why do people say it like it will happen tomorrow, or day after, or maybe next week. I am trying my best, doing everything I can. Do you not see.

I'd like to be all right and be a good person and graduate from school and fall in love and be in a healthy relationship and get married and have children and be a missionary doctor- hopefully somewhat in that order- and help people and be happy. I'm doing all that I need to. I will get there, but it takes time. Do you not see that.

Relax, smile and be happy. Deal with it. Lighten up. This is the biggest wall built ever.

If you understand depression as an illness, you will be open to medicine and doctors and treatment, because you understand the medicine doesn't take more of the person away- it takes the illness, depression, away so you can have more of the person back, more of the person to function properly so he can deal with the issues head-on. You respect and support him, because you don't look down on him as if he brought this upon himself, and you see the depression apart from the person. If you see it, however, as an emotion, as a transient feeling precipitated from himself, and see depression as part of the person's personality and psyche, a sign of a loss of hope in God, you will scoff at medicine, see the person as being weak, or incapacitated or not understanding God's ways.

This is part of my frustration. This being misunderstood. Reproach is a suffocating blanket.

What I find ironic is that evidently, God works through process and time, and that thinking He chooses to heal overnight really is not understanding the way He works at all. I'm sure He can if he wants to, but some things are birthed through only time, time and process and waiting on Him.

If you are depressed and no one seems to understand, please know that you are not alone. Please get help. In spite of how other people trivialise your issue, in spite of feeling misunderstood, in spite of all the stigma, please get professional help. Don't let it take you away. Get help.

If you know someone who is depressed, please understand that they are in pain, that it is not necessarily their fault, that they are trying their very best and don't need you to give them a lecture about the ten ways to be happy- they probably know. Please understand that while being close to God and learning about God can bring much comfort and relief and hope, that sometimes, God can put different people through different seasons to learn different things and if they can accept that, it helps that you do too. Please understand that your encouragement about God brings comfort, but that it only helps if you say it out of genuine encouragement and to spur the person on, and not if it was said out of correction, in an attempt to fix, to straighten out. Please understand that you cannot fix them, that it is an illness, that it will take a long while to recover and you cannot hurry them in spite of your own hurting for them- it is difficult for them to let you see them like this. As much as you are hurting, they are hurting more. Please understand that they need you to be there. That your being there and loving, supporting, praying for them means the world to them.

I'm thankful for all the things you've said and done for me, even though I may have felt frustrated and misunderstood- because I understand it was well-meaning and done out of love. Aunty Af says that throughout this process, so many well-meaning people will give me all sorts of advice, and so many will misunderstand, will impose their opinions, will try and fix me, and that I'll have to forgive all of them for all that because they did so out of genuine love, not to cause harm.

Please understand that one doesn't need to be suicidal before one gets help- it is too late by then. That when I smile and have good fun, it is not that I am trying to hide, but that I am still me. I am still essentially me. And that This is apart from me, and not a part of.

Understand that it helps that you support and respect what I've chosen to do, because no one but God and myself knows the Full Story, how serious some of this stuff can be as Aunty Af knows. That as hard as it is for yourself to hear, I may have to take meds, and it is harder on me than for you to have to accept that. That I am battling against stigma and misconception and reproach and it helps that you don't add to that.

For all your love and prayer, I am deeply thankful. This is deeply misunderstood, and so I do not get angry even at points of frustration. This was deeply misunderstood even by myself- I have only gleaned fresh understanding about This because I am in the midst of it. I understand that everything was well-meaning, and done with love. I only write this so you understand the inside story, the truth of the matter, hoping it may give you a new perspective.

As hard as it is for you, it is for me, too. Likely more so.

Understand that this won't be forever. Understand that I appreciate so much everything so many of you are doing for me. Thank you for your patient and longsuffering love, for your messages of affirmation and prayer- to each and every one of you, especially to those of you who have held my head in your arms, who have had to hold me in tears, who have prayed for me every night, who have loved me as who I am, apart from This, who have not tried to fix me, but simply been there for me. Thank you to you too who may have tried to fix me, who may have misunderstood, because you are well-meaning, with good love and good intention.

I know you want me to be better soon. I am doing everything I can. God needs to take His time, too, and He will finish the good work He started.

Thank you for walking with me, and for loving me.

A happy Chinese new year to you. Love.