Myers-Brigg couldn't diagnose my Mr Hyde

Just a couple of week ago, I asked my boyfriend who majors in Psychology if he thinks I might have a split personality. "You? Of course not," was his prompt reply.

I read the classic, Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson, last year and I remember making a mental note that the moral of the story, to me, is that everyone has both Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde living inside them. I particularly enjoyed the novel because by embodying our inner thoughts in the actions of Mr Hyde, Stevenson sheds light on the vulnerability of our human nature.

Like most enlightening novels, which give you a better glimpse of the world (and of yourself), I read it with great pleasure, made a mental bookmark of my favourite quotes, and shelved it as soon as I flipped to the last page. Never did I expect the story to strike a chord within me a year later.

I've always prided myself on being a confident individual. My Myers-Briggs personality profile screams 'Confident Individualism'. I don't speak up a lot in big groups but that is not because I lack the confidence; on the contrary, it is because I don't feel the need to air my views unless I feel strongly about something that is being said. I let the negative things that people say about me get to my head, but not my heart; and I'll do whatever it takes to prove them wrong. I am almost never in a state of panic because I know, deep down, that things are under control. At least, that's what I thought.

In the past few months, I have caught myself occasionally tearing up at trivial comments made by someone dear. I have found myself wide awake at three in the morning feeling just too edgy for slumber, apprehensive about what tomorrow will hold. I have gotten way too emotionally affected by (repetitive) dreams that make absolutely no sense in reality. And I have, countless of times, felt slightly utterly disappointed when I see someone performing better in an area that I pride myself in.

This is a side of me - let's call it (pardon me for plagiarism) Mr Hyde - that I've never seen (or maybe acknowledged) before. I mean, I've been emotional and insecure about certain things but they are usually things that warrant a huge reaction - an anomaly and not the norm. I've always got Mr Hyde under control. I was the dominant person in this body that we cohabit; and I could always command Mr Hyde to take a back seat just before he started getting out of control. But these days, he seems to be the driver while I, the passenger.

Mr Hyde is not someone whom I like; no, he's someone whom I absolutely abhor. He is the part of me that seems to be a tremendously ugly stain on that almost perfect piece of painting. A side of me that I wish to brutally murder, to permanently remove from existence.

But to kill Mr Hyde is to kill myself. For he is I, and I am him. As I called to mind the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, I realised that I had misunderstood the main message of the story. Truly, everyone has both Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde within them but it was because Dr Jekyll had tried to bury Mr Hyde deep within the recesses of his mind that it resulted in the brutal actions of Mr Hyde. In the same way, my Mr Hyde has been deprived of self-expression for far too long, as I tried with all my might to be the person that I have always been known to be. And this caused him to create a thundering scene each time he surfaced - at first, once in a blue moon, and then, almost every other day.

It was only when I acknowledged his presence, when I stopped shoving him to the backseat, and when I started learning to co-exist with him that I realised he wasn't so bad after all. When I gave him the freedom to express himself, he was able to do so in a beautiful albeit raw and sometimes startling way.

Myers-Brigg couldn't diagnose my Mr Hyde. Indeed, I am confident, independent and full of faith. But I am also insecure, sensitive and full of doubts.

My boyfriend was right. I did not have a split personality. What I was experiencing was the backlash of trying to force myself into my personality type. Yes, I am dominantly INFP-A, with emphasis on the (extremely high) A. But more than that, I am human. I am a volatile, unpredictable, and indefinable human being.

Military training through a woman's eyes

When I was a child, the girls in my neighborhood would bring their Barbie dolls to each other’s homes to play dress up. I would stay at home with my little brother to play Hot Wheels and Beyblades. When I was a teenager, my girlfriends would babble all day about the latest episodes of Desperate Housewives and Charmed. I would raise my brows in bewilderment, wondering how on earth could they be as fascinating as going to the arcade to play Time Crisis. In high school, when we were asked to share our aspirations, the girls in class said that they wanted to become businesswomen, teachers, and journalists. I wanted to become a soldier. I was convinced that it was one of the most respected jobs in the world. Yet, all I received were the snickers of my male classmates.

It didn’t bother me. After high school, I went on to inquire more about a career in the military. Instead of finding more incentives to become a solider, I was consistently cautioned about the gender inequality that is pervasive in the military. Being the stubborn person that I am, I went ahead to enlist with the military in spite of the multiple warnings. It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.

Our society tells us that women shouldn’t be rolling around in the mud. Women should smell like daisies in the summer, not wet soil after rainfall. Women should apply facial supplements to maintain their complexions and not camouflage cream to avoid enemy detection. Women should learn social etiquettes and graces, not how to brutally murder their opponents.

If that’s the case, I went against every aspect of societal norms for women. Instead of going to the spa, I went out to the field without showering for days. Instead of healthy greens and protein, I fed on combat rations. Instead of carrying handbags and clutches, I held my rifle and a field pack. Instead of the comfort of a velvety bed, I slept with the ground beetles in my shell scrape.

As time went by, my fellow military comrades started treating me as a brother-in-arms, rather than a lady. Although some found it pitiful, being seen as one of them and partaking in the same experiences was precious to me.

One of the most common warnings about being a military servicewoman is the lack of respect received by male colleagues. The fact that we aren’t as physically inclined as men makes it harder for us to earn their respect. Speaking from experience, it is true that no matter how hard a female solider trains, it is almost impossible that she will be as tough as a male solider with the same amount of training.

Route marches were agonizing for me while it seemed like a breeze for my section mates. Digging a fire trench took me almost twice the amount of time taken by my buddy. Fast marches were equivalent to cross-country races for me, as it required two of my tiny steps to compensate for one of my male comrades’. Physical and combat training never failed to push me to my limit.

Yet, at the end of the day, no matter how hard I pushed myself, I could not outshine their physical performance. It was only during one of the route marches when my fellow platoon mate encouraged me that I realized that it didn’t matter: “It’s so damn tiring! I wonder how you girls do it. I’m so huge and I feel like I’m about to die. I don’t understand how you can carry such a heavy load with that tiny body of yours. You have all my respect.” The fact that I wasn’t as physically able as them didn’t diminish the respect that they had for me. It was the determination and resilience that mattered.

One of the most aggravating comments that never fail to make my eyes roll is “females get it easier in the military.” I can’t comprehend why but assumptions are made that commanders slacken their expectations for women. It is not true. I was the only female cadet in the professional term of my Officer Cadet Course. Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t given any leeway because I was a woman. I was assigned to one of the most challenging assignments and received twice the reprimand from my Commanding Officer each time I made a mistake. As much as I persuaded myself to stay true to my faith in the military, I was becoming extremely depressed and discouraged. The warnings were true after all. There wasn’t any room for women in the military.

As I was plagued with more and more unpleasant situations, I started considering the option of leaving the military altogether. It was not until I confided in a fellow female officer who was years ahead of me in the military that I was reassured of my convictions.  “As a female in the military, your every single action warrants twice the amount of attention – regardless of whether it’s good or bad. When you perform, your colleagues are going to show you twice the respect. When you falter, you will receive twice the contempt. It’s up to you how you react to such situations. Make use of them as opportunities to prove your mettle and worth.” 

Ever since the conversation, I’ve been earnestly holding on to her piece of advice. I stopped hating the attention and pressure that were on me. I refused to believe that I was being picked on because I was a woman. Instead, I saw those situations as opportunities – opportunities to testify that women not only deserve to have a place in the military but to also be looked upon as valuable assets. I wouldn’t say that I have been completely successful in each attempt but I know for sure that the military isn’t as it was years ago. More women like myself are breaking the stereotypes that women aren’t made for the field, and society is becoming less and less appalled at the news of a lady joining the military.

The military is a special place. It is not for everyone, but it is definitely a fallacy to say it is not for women. There are women out there, like myself, who harbour similar or different aspirations that are against social conventions. To my fellow sisters, do not be afraid of what society tells you. Do not let anyone or anything belittle your ambitions. In the words of Mariah Carey,

“There’s a hero 
If you look inside your heart 
You don’t have to be afraid 
Of what you are.”

Alabaster jar

My love, do you not love me anymore?

You used to greet me every morning with your smile that would light up the world. You used wrap me in your warm embrace that my heart could never grow cold. You used to whisper into my ears how much you loved me; I knew you could never be too far away.

But- where are you today when I need you most?

They tell me that I am not loved; that I am nothing but a speck of dust in this vast universe that you did not create for me. They push me against the wall - so hard(!) that it takes the breath out of me - and ask me where in the world are you.

You see me - don't you? I know you're watching, my guardian, you always, always watch over me. Then why are you not coming to me? Does your heart not hurt to see me naked and bruised, lying on the floor like a helpless babe?

I know you're somewhere out there watching over me; I've heard my friends say that they've seen you. I know, I swear I know. But I need that sturdy arms of yours to lift me up. I need to hear you say that you love me, so that I can learn to love myself again. I need you to stitch that broken heart of mine and so that it can, once more, start beating for you.

Here I am, take me.

Winter paranoia

It's 12:57PM and the skies are grey. In about three and a half hours, it will be completely dark outside. I sit and watch, as darkness creeps into the room - minute by minute. I have barely started the day but it is almost time to draw it to a close.

I turn on the lights, turn up the heater, strip off my Primark jumper and PJs, and put on a fresh set of tank-top-and-shorts. Maybe, this will feel more like home.

But it doesn't. The impulse to smash the fluorescent lightbulbs grows bigger and bigger, as I come to realise that summer is not something that I can conjure.

I need to lie flat on the sand, to let the intense heat of the afternoon sun scorch my pale English skin. I need to drown myself in perspiration, and choke myself with humid air that makes it hard to breathe. I need to know that the sun rises at 7AM and sets at 7PM every day; that I have 12 - no more and no less - functional hours. I need to step out of the house in my army admin tee, FBTs and flip flops and not shiver like a wobbly plate of jelly on an amateur waiter's hand. I need to crave for a refreshing cup of iced black tea macchiato - not a warm cup of Earl Grey, damn it - after a long walk under the sun.

But for now, the least I could do is to put on my Spotify playlist and write. At least this feels like home.

23

My good friends would probably know how much I love Facebook's "On This Day" function. Occasionally, I would send them screenshots of pictures that have been uploaded many years ago - sometimes to celebrate our age-old friendship but most of the time, to have a good laugh at how silly we used to be.

Today, as I perused the pictures that I took and words that I said four, five, six and seven years ago, I was taken aback by what a completely different person I used to be(!) The me today would shake my head in absolute disapproval at the attention-seeking, edgy, and sometimes insecure person that I used to be. Yes, the girl who put on a pair of black tights under her mini almost-butt-revealing skirt before stepping out of the house (just to please her concerned mother), only to take it off as soon as she got to the bus stop. The girl who went to school without her textbooks just because they couldn't fit into her handbag. The girl who was always, always, always on her headphones because she needed to shut herself off from the rest of the world, listening to Simple Plan-Green Day-Linkin Park on repeat and feeling even more angsty than before. The girl who refused to obey when the discipline mistress instructed her to unpick the ends of her pinafore (to bring it back to its original length), leaving the teacher with no choice but to unpick it for her. That girl was me.

But I wasn't just that girl.

I was also, a couple of years down the road, the girl who studied day and night just to prove the principal wrong; to prove her that despite emerging at the bottom of the class in almost every exam and never passing A-math, I did not have to take her advice to drop the subject. By the grace of God, I emerged at the top of the class in the actual O Level Examination. I was also the girl who joined the army with a lofty aspiration of becoming a scholar and making a significant contribution to my country. I was also the girl who cried for a whole day when I received my poorer-than-expected A Level results, which stripped me of my scholarship.

But who am I today, at 23?

I think,

I am a confident (although sometimes misunderstood as shameless) individual. I am (still) driven by my ideals, but no longer defeated by setbacks in life (I hope!). I've learned to pick myself up, say "it's okay", and just keep swimming. (*hums* Dory's tune) I am not a huge fan of authority and I (still) occasionally make a passive-aggressive retort when my bullshit-radar is activated but I've understood how to show respect where respect is due. Angst and insecurity are emotional states that I rarely find myself in these days. I no longer search for happiness in human affirmation or material success because I've found my permanent source of joy. I try not to judge others because I know everyone, like myself, has a story behind who they appear to be or the things that they say. But. I continue to struggle with trying not to repay an eye for an eye. I still find it hard to go an extra mile for someone that I frankly don't give a damn about. And I, despite trying to be non-judgmental, cringe at people who see things in black-and-white, albeit knowing that it's a mere personality trait.

The person that I am today seems like a complete stranger to the person that I was four years ago, better yet eight years ago. Yet, they were all different versions of me, at different seasons of my life. Who I am today is an accumulation of the past 23 years of human experience. As I turn 23, it seems like I've finally arrived at the point of self-actualisation. 23 years of human experience have culminated in what seems to me as the best version of myself thus far. Of course, there is still a lifetime of experiences awaiting me.

Yet, who knows what tomorrow will hold? Perhaps at 30, I would indeed write another reflection on how much I've learned in the past seven years. Or perhaps, the pressures of the workplace and a new family would nullify the years of presumed enlightenment in my early 20s. Let's hope it's the former. I pray for wisdom.

Remember now your Creator in the days of your youth, before the difficult days come, and the years draw near when you say, "I have no pleasure in them"...
-Ecclesiastes 12:1

Beauty in brokenness

I sit at the edge of the bedroom - the one and only bedroom in this small apartment that was built for newly-weds - and watch my siblings crawl out of slumber. Before I left for the UK, my sister and I shared a room to ourselves in our old home. My brother had his own room while the two young ones slept with our parents. Although it may sound like a crowd - trust me - it was beyond comfortable.

I came home for the summer after my first year in the UK. Despite all the mental prep that "we had to downsize to a smaller home", "you won't have a room for yourself" and "you might not even have your own closet", I could not get used to the fact that I no longer had my own privacy, let alone a proper place to unpack my clothes. I have to admit, even though I tried to be a good daughter and refrained from grumbling, I was, at many times, frustrated. Moreover, the drastic change from having my own room to "squeezing" in a shared room of the same size made it all the more unbearable. Mind you, we are a family of seven.

When I came home for the summer after my second year, I was told that a loft has been built for my sister and I to share. An aircon was installed as well, probably because my mum knew how hard it would be for me to sleep in such intense humidity. Perhaps, she had sense my discomfort during the previous year's summer after all. The second summer was considerably more comfortable since I had my (makeshift) personal room space.

This is my third summer back at home. My mum asked if I would prefer to sleep in the loft or in the room. I chose the room. I don't know why I did that, but I chose to sleep where my baby sister would roll over to my side and steal my blanket in the middle of the night, where my mum and brother would snore through the night in perfect harmony, and where I was in the midst of five other warm bodies. (My dad lovingly gave up his spot for the couch.) Am I uncomfortable, though? Not at all.

It takes me an average of one to two hours to fall asleep in the UK, regardless of how tired I am. On bad days, it could go up to three, or even four. At home, in the presence of my family, it takes minutes. This, I cannot explain.

What I can say is that even though things have gotten tougher for my family, things have not gotten uglier. Despite the initial discomfort and occasional grumblings, we have gotten closer as a family.

I guess there is beauty in brokenness, after all.

Be satisfied but don't settle

It's 2a.m. in the morning. I had a really long day at work and what's worse? Instead of heading home for a nice and simple meal whipped up by my mother, I was obliged to have a couple of drinks with my colleagues at our same old hangout. As usual, the "couple of drinks" turned out to be a night-long conversation about office gossips, the latest season of Rick and Morty, and our future ambitions if we ever decide to leave the military. Again, as usual, the 15-minute train ride home felt like an eternity. "If only I could teleport... If only I could teleport... If only I could teleport..." I chanted in my head, dying to go home, get clean, and hit the sack.

It's 2a.m. in the morning. I am finally in the comfort of my bedroom, surrounded by the familiar sound of my baby sister's breath. I am just about to put an end to my rather mediocre day when my second sister starts whining about her high school woes. She is one and a half years away from having to decide what she wants to do with her life. (Well, not her entire life but what she wants to study in university, which would - sort of - dictate direct the subsequent years of her life.) Problem is: she's got absolutely no clue what she wants! We spend an hour throwing out career options and the relevant degree programmes, while I struggle to fight off the strong desire to drift into slumber. Another hour goes by and we seem even more confused than before. And then, silence. I guess she fell asleep. Or maybe, she just needs time to think and process everything. It's probably time for me to return to my former preoccupation.

I am still very very tired but somehow, my mind is not ready to call it a day. I drift into a semi-conscious state. I go back to my high school days, when I was filled with ambition, like my sister, not knowing what I wanted to do with my life but convicted that I wanted to do many meaningful things in this lifetime. My university days flash across my mind, like blurred images - those you have in dreams, in the final hours of sleep, just before you are greeted by the morning sun - and a sense of pride fills my belly. I have come a long way, indeed, and I'm sure my 18-year-old self would be proud of where I am today.

I linger on that sense of pride and attempt savour every bit of it but it fades away too quickly. I am suddenly overtaken by a tinge of regret that, within seconds, manifests itself into an overwhelming sense of dread. Yes, my 18-year-old self would be proud of where I am today but my 80-year-old self wouldn't. "What happened to that determination that got you through military training? What happened to that excitement that got you typing away after every dream, and experience, and epiphany? What happened to that YOLO attitude that motivated you to do silly things that you now and then look back and laugh at?" These questions flood my mind with an unrelenting determination. Tired? I am no longer tired.

I am turning 23 in three months. Without realising it, I have succumbed to the demon of adulthood. When I was 18, I had lofty dreams about backpacking Europe. I have been in the UK for three years now but have NEVER backpacked Europe. "Why backpack when you can afford a comfortable room to sleep in?" the demon of adulthood whispers in my ears. When I first joined the army four years ago, I told myself that I must jump out of a plane one day. I begged and persisted, and begged and persisted, for a chance to be put on the Airborne course but the reply was always, "wait." Four years on, I find myself discouraged and no longer even asking. "Just focus on your career," the demon of adulthood slaps me in the face. When I was 19, I discovered my passion for writing and I could spend hours narrating a story for my handful of readers. Now, (I think) I would very much rather spend the evening on a brainless show after a long day at work."What's the point in spending so much time on something you're not being paid for? It's not worth it," the demon of adulthood lectures me.

But tonight, I will not be seduced. I will not turn the other cheek. And I will not be lectured. Let me tell you, I will backpack because I am 23 and should do it while I still can. I will try again and again to pursue the experiences that I've always wanted, even if they do not value-add to my career, because one day, I will regret if I didn't even try. And I will invest my time and effort in my passion even if it doesn't pay because THAT IS WHAT PASSION IS.

-

For those who are reading this, whether you are 18, in your 20s, 30s, or even 50s, it is not too late to pursue what you've always wanted to do but have yet to do so. Of course, there are career decisions we have made and cannot undo. There are seasons of our lives that we did not cherish and can no longer relive. There are mountains that we have always wanted to scale but no longer have the stamina to do so. But- There are also many other things that you've jotted down in your mental bucket list years ago and may have neglected. For those things, I shall steal Emma Watson's quote (and yes, take it out of context), "if not me, who? If not now, when?"

That near death moment

Have you ever had that near death moment that they always talk about in novels or TV shows? Yes, that moment when your entire life flashes before your eyes, and you're overwhelmed with the sudden realisation that you should've treasured the time you had with your loved ones.

I've had it.

I shared my testimony in 2014, about how I miraculously survived a car accident four years ago. I was hit by a car while crossing the road, and at that moment - and moments after - I thought I was going to die.

It has been seven years (and two months) since the accident, and I still vividly remember what went through my mind in that 'dying moment'. I thought about the fight that I had with my little brother in the car that morning. I thought about how rude I was to my mother because she took his side. I thought about how awful it would be if I didn't have the chance to tell them that I was sorry. I thought about how much it would've broken their hearts if that was their last memory of me. Unable to prop my body up into a kneeling position, I laid there, on the ground, begging my Maker to give me just one more chance.

And He did.

I'm writing this today because I've almost absolutely forgotten how that near death moment feels like. Sometimes, I argue with Marcus and hesitate to say the words 'I love you'. Sometimes, I reject my baby sister's Skype call because I'm too busy with assignments. Sometimes, I try to avoid a hug from a friend because I don't like physical contact.

But today, the thought of another near death moment brings me to (literal) tears. What would come to mind? That 'I love you' that I should've said? That call that I should've answered? That friend that I should've embraced with every ounce of my energy?

I guess I will be looking back at this post from time to time, for the years to come.

"How many pull ups can you do?"

"How many pull ups can you do?" This ranks as one of the most common questions that I receive in the military. While it may sound like an innocent question, there are many hidden assumptions behind it - correct me if I'm wrong. You can only earn the respect of men if you can do pull ups. You have no moral high ground to command men if you can't even do pull ups. You can't defend the country effectively if you are not strong. The list goes on.

To prove my point, I would like to share something that I found two years ago, which I've kept mum about.

I'm not sure how many of you remember my blog post, I'm not pro-PAP, I'm pro-Singapore. It was a short write-up that I posted on our country's 2015 National Day and it received an overwhelming response from the online community. While I received many compliments, I also received a good deal of...how should I say it? crap. Among these crap was this forum thread on hardwarezone.com, which my batch mate alerted me about. 

Although its content is no longer there, I managed to get a screenshot of the title. To break it down for you, I did some googling and found out that "gpgt" is a lingo that means "got picture got talk". "Military Expert 4" is my rank-to-be when I return from my studies and "keyima" is the mandarin pinyin for "can or not". In this context, I suppose it means "can she make it?" In plain English, I guess they are trying to find out if I can make it in the military, based on their judgement of...a picture of me. 

Of course, the conclusion wasn't exactly promising since "she looks like she's from the NCC." (The National Cadet Corps, for students who are still schooling.) Well, I can't blame them since I look so damn tiny in my oversized smart 4. Just look!

And to be fair to them, it wasn't JUST based on my picture. They were rather inquisitive, I have to say. "How old is she?", "How many pull ups can she do?", "What business does her father do?". (Although I still can't understand how these questions have anything to do with my capacity to serve in the military.)

OK, I think I've more than sufficiently proved the point that "how many pull ups can you do?" is not an innocent question. At the back of the questioner's mine, it is a measure of how much respect the respondent deserves as a woman in the military.

With more and more women in the military the past few years, I felt compelled to write this. Most people that I've met in the military would deny that they are prejudiced against female soldiers. But honestly, based on my personal encounters, I can confidently say that the military is freaking sexist. 

Men and women have different standards to reach in the physical fitness test. Before it was reformed, a male soldier below 25 years old had to complete the 2.4km run under 9min 30sec. For a female soldier, it was under 12min 45sec. I completely understand this (although I hope it was stricter), and I accept that most women are naturally less physically inclined than men. But what I couldn't understand was the reaction of some, not all, of my male counterparts when they heard about it. "What?! 12.45?! I can run 2.4 on my hands in that timing." OK BITCH, SHOW ME. 

During my training days, I remember being sent to a female officer for "counselling" because of my attitude problem. (The same one that women MPs have when they offend their male counterparts in Parliament - yup, that problem.) I remember, clearly, her wise words. "As a female in the military, your every single action warrants twice the amount of attention – regardless of whether it’s good or bad. When you do well, your colleagues are going to show you twice the respect. When you do badly, you will receive twice the contempt. It’s up to you how you react to such situations. Make use of them as opportunities to prove your worth." In other words, "you need to fix that attitude of yours, woman."

And I did. Hah - thought I was gonna say something inspirational like "don't let anyone define your worth" or "it's not about excelling within the system but rising above it"? Nah, I still need my pay and promotion. No matter what I say, the military is still going to be a safe space for egotistical male officers who can't get enough assurance at home that they have to use their rank to demand respect. (okay, i am pushing it. really. this is just for comedic effect.) But the point is, the military is sexist. Suck it up - you chose this life.

So, finally, to answer the main question, I couldn't do any pull ups back then but now I do eight. (!!!) Sorry it took two years to answer. Now, can I get my pay?

(I wonder which offended person is gonna ask me to watch my words. Come, show yourself.)

Am I a psychopath? Or am I just human?

-This narrative, as with all other narratives that I have written, is based on both actual experiences and events that I've conjured-

I rest my fingers on my keyboard, watching the text cursor blink, and blink, and blink. This is the third time in the week that I've tried (and failed) to translate my thoughts and emotions into words. It used to be so easy. Happy thoughts, sad thoughts. Sometimes about love, sometimes about that deep burning hatred for humanity. But these days, it's just a mixed bag of emotions that, really, can hardly be stringed into coherent sentences.

This morning, I watched a video of refugees dying while seeking asylum and I bawled my eyes out as though I was their sister, lover, or friend. In the afternoon, I got mad at my relentlessly argumentative neighbour that - if God had permitted - I would have tore her sorry throat into pieces.

While I work towards the fifteen thousandth word of my dissertation, I turn on my speakers and put my favourite playlist on shuffle to break the deafening silence. And then, I turn it off because the noise frustrates me and I start to lose concentration. I turn it back on again when the silence gets agonising. This happens on a daily basis.

As many have told me, my confidence is unparalleled and I have no lack of self-assurance. Even towards the most senior person in the room, I am unable to bite my tongue when I have a passionate retort. Yet when it comes to tutorial groups, I find it so bloody difficult to put my hand up and fight - against the sea of hands - to offer my two cents worth.

To me, one of the most precious things in life is to spend time with the people I care about. Quality time ranks as my top love language, alongside acts of services; and nothing beats a good ol' catch up session with a friend that is dearly missed. As long as it's not more than two hours. (The average time that it takes for me to start feeling overwhelmed and in desperate need for a social timeout.)

Honestly, I don't know why I'm sharing these anecdotes. Or maybe I do. I'm puzzled, and yet I marvel, at how I'm capable of possessing such a wide - and intense - range of emotions, within such a short timespan. I love, and I hate. I smile, and I cry. I'm full of confidence, and self-doubt. I want to be left alone, but I want to see you, you and you.

Am I a psychopath? Or am I just human?

The end? The end.

Armageddon.

The raging wind slams

ferociously

against the windowpanes.

Frozen rain pellets hit

the roof

of my bedroom –

relentlessly.

I wait

for the night to be

over.

I wait

for the rising sun

to usher this nightmare

away.

But it goes on

And on

And on.

I put on my beats.

Turn up the volume.

Shut the curtains

(of my eyes) 

for a moment

of reprieve.

Could this be

the end(?)

The End.

Faith in humanity...seems like bs to me

Be innovative, make a difference, be anything but ordinary... These are phrases that I've been so accustomed to hear. I've always lived with the mantra that I have to stand out from the crowd, make an impact and, maybe, leave a legacy when my time on earth expires.

It was not too long ago that I realised that (almost) everyone has the same mantra. The truth is, hardly anyone wants to be the average Joe or plain Jane - even Joe and Jane hate to be called average! But the truth (also) is that not everyone will be Isaac Newton, Nelson Mandela or Steve Jobs. Why? If everyone stood out from the crowd, no one will stand out from the crowd. For Thomas Hobbes to leave such a lasting legacy, there has to exist mediocre, uninspiring political philosophy students like myself, who cannot conjure a ground-breaking theory such as the social contract theory.

I also came to realise that even if I were to become someone as prominent as Barack Obama, the legacy that I leave today could be obliterated tomorrow. Newton's third law states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The election of Obama symbolised a breakthrough for race and politics in the United States. Yet, the election of Trump annulled any progress made of racial tolerance among Americans.

It seems that at the end of the day, we, homo sapiens, are preoccupied with nothing else but ourselves. Do we truly hope to change the world because we wish to make it a better place? Or is it just because we want to be remembered as someone extraordinary? Do we extend our helping hand to someone in need because we genuinely desire to meet that person's need? Or is it merely because our conscience tells us that it's the right thing to do? Even religion - seemingly the most selfless thing - is selfish in itself. I value my faith because it brings me peace and joy, it grounds me in reality, and it makes me true to myself.

No matter how hard I try, I can't force myself to do something I do not want to. Even if it seems like I'm doing something that I do not wish to do (be it mundane household chores or biting my tongue from making a cutting retort), it is ultimately something that, in the deep recesses of my heart, I know is good for me. It all boils down to me, myself and I.

I've come to accept this as human nature. And with human nature as the basis of our every action, there is no way that I can ever, truly truly truly, make a difference.

I mean, yes, we now understand why we don't float around on earth like we do in space. Institutionalised racial discrimination has been abolished in South Africa. And we now have instant information access to the events that are happening across the globe. These are great! But what I'm saying is that we still cast votes based on our irrational fears and insecurities. We still emit greenhouse gases despite knowing that our descendants are gong to bear the brunt of it. We still purchase items from H&M, Nestle and Apple, despite hearing that they enlist child labour. My point is, it is impossible to change the world. The person that I am today is not that different from the first person on earth, and will not be that different from the last person standing. Faith in humanity seems like bs to me.

Because I've come to realise this, I will abandon my vain aspirations of radically making this world a better place. Instead, I will settle with living a simple and happy life, with the sweet company of my loved ones.

"Behold that which I have seen: it is good and comely for one to eat and to drink, and to enjoy the good of all his labour that he taketh under the sun all the days of his life, which God giveth him: for it is his portion." 
-Ecclesiastes 5:18

Quarter-life crisis?

23. I’m turning goddamn 23 this year. But you know what?

I am still perpetually filled with that teenage angst from 10 years ago.
There are times when I hate everyone around me – with no bloody reason!

Times when I just wanna shut the door, put Simple Plan on replay and turn up the volume till my eardrums are about to explode.

Times when I don’t give a shit about stringing my thoughts into perfect sentences. Or blogging about inspirational i-don’t-know-whats.

Days when I itch for the feeling of unrequited love – yes, I make myself depressed by listening to Jay Chou even though I’m in a perfectly functional relationship.

I still waste days weeks marathon-ing Korean dramas even though I had resolved to read a book, learn a language or go for a run instead.

And then, it hits me that I am no longer a self-entitled teenager, “justified” to do or say whatever the hell I want. (Because someone is gonna catch my back. Anyway.)

I realised that in a couple of years, I will become a wife, a mother, an officer, a... person with truckloads of responsibilities. Someone who is expected to catch the back of others. And it creates this deep-seated resentment for marriage, child-bearing and basically anything synonymous to growing up.

I don’t think I can do this. Is it me or can you relate?

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But I will throw away these thoughts. I will replace my rock music for mellow instrumentals. I will wipe away that smirk and plaster on that befitting smile of maturity. I will tear into pieces my journal of absolute gibberish and instead, make a list of things to be grateful for. I will spend my free time reading up on politics instead of celebrity gossip. I will cultivate a distaste for netflix and savour the beauty of networking.

I will be a fake, impersonal and self-righteous adult. Like most other adults.

10 silly little things that I love about you

Insurance, driving license, a new home... These are things you are forced to start thinking about when you are turning twenty-three. And five years together. When people start (perpetually) asking you, “When are you getting married?!” Life (with your significant other) isn’t just about that white lace wedding dress that you’ve always dreamt about. It isn’t just about a perfect honeymoon on the warm and luscious sand of Santorini. It isn’t just about the names that you have in mind for your future kids. It’s also about the boring, and sometimes nerve-racking, argument-inducing, bits.

This year, we (as a couple) turn five. We’ve reached the stage where the tedious parts of life (and our relationship) are finally wearing us down. We’ve reached a point where date nights, love letters and polaroid photos seem awfully trivial. Anniversaries seem “pretty lame”, petty gifts, a waste of money and sentimental words, puke-worthy. Truth be told, I wasn’t planning on writing this. In fact, since our anniversary falls in the midst of exams, we agreed not to do anything on the 17th of January this year.

But, you know something? I stayed up last night thinking about my life thus far; and a huge part of it was, you – from meeting you for the very first time when I was eleven, to having an unrequited crush (years later) and finally, waking up to the same familiar face that warms my heart every morning. I thought of the sweet little things that we did. The first date that we had by the Marina Bay. I remembered leaning on your shoulder and refusing to adjust my posture even though my neck felt sore. I recalled the first time we did a 10k Nike run together. I remembered how you insisted on running by my side despite me urging you to break your own record, but ended up dashing off when the shot was fired. I remembered laughing my heart out when I saw you waiting at the 7k mark, looking out for me. I remembered the selfies that you would send me every night when I enlisted in Basic Military Training. And I remembered how important these silly little things were in bringing us to where we are today.

So, even though this may cause me to throw up my breakfast when I read it again tomorrow, today I’ll tell you 10 silly little things that I love about you.

1. I love how you add “Mel knows” at the start of every story that you tell someone.
2. I love how you put so much effort into planning me a surprise but (always) end up telling me about it because you’re just too excited.
3. I love how (using the words of our flat mate) you can make a story of a tortoise sound exciting.
4. I love how you tell me that I’m fat and chubby all the time, yet buy me way too much food.
5. I love how you tell me “I love you” as much as you call me fat and chubby.
6. I love how you come into my room every night to give me a goodnight hug.
7. I love how you say Korean dramas are a waste of time, yet you occasionally watch them with me.
8. I love how hard you try to persuade me to eat an apple.
9. I love how I’m the first person you turn to when you need a prayer.
10. I love how you say, “Meeeel, you really know how to push my button,” when I (deliberately) annoy the hell out of you.

The list can go on and on, but I’ll save it for next year. And the next. Happy 5th anniversary, my love. Even when we’re seventy, let’s not forget these silly little things, okay?

Her quest for peace

Peace. In a metropolitan city like London, peace seems to be a rare gem hidden among the rapid footsteps of tardy office workers, the awkward handshakes between newly acquainted colleagues, the turning of a page by an unsettled high school student, and the overpowered whispers for spare change ("please").  

I've been searching every nook and cranny for that hidden gem.  

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Tiny pellets of ice hit the surface of my windowpanes, mimicking the sound of metronomes clicking. This is it; the moment I've been looking for. I make myself a cup of hot chocolate, with extra chunks of marshmallows. I scan through the collection of books that I've accumulated over the years (some of which I actually haven't read). Ah, Wuthering Heights, my all-time favourite. I pick up my pristine copy of Emily Brontë's masterpiece, roll into my duvet and endeavour to experience peace amidst the storm hail. 

"Time brought resignation and a melancholy sweeter than common joy." I read the line over and over again. My hot chocolate is turning cold. The skies are clearing and a couple of residual raindrops trickle down my windowpanes. I get more and more restless by the second. I've done exactly what carefree girls do in Valencia-filtered Tumblr pictures. Yet, peace refuses to open its door.

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I hop on the last bus home. I'm all alone. The silence is deafening, so I put on my headphone and shuffle-play the new playlist on Spotify. Your Coffee Break. "Just the right blend of chill-out acoustic songs to work, relax, think and dream to," it promises. Maybe today I'll find solace in a good piece of music. Ten minutes into the journey and, for a moment, it seems as though peace is finally welcoming me into its embrace. As I take a cautious step into its presence, the screech of the bus tyres snaps me out of my reverie. It's time to get off. I take off my head phones and walk right back into reality.

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We lie down in our tent, with our heads perched out and our eyes fixed onto the sky. I lift up my hand - the one that isn't holding on to his - and reach out for the stars. The clouds are on leave today and the stars are out to play. I can almost hear them chuckling, dancing to the sound of the waves. I tilt my head to the left and observe the outline of his forehead, nose bridge, and then his lips. I think I've found my peace, right next to -- you.

We reminisce about the first time we met at the old bookstore down Charing Cross road. We talk about the absolutely perfect day that we've had, from the moment we opened our eyes to the splendour of the morning sun, to the picturesque view that we were greeted with at the peak of Scafell Pike. We discuss about the future that we envision - with you and I, our children, and our children's children. And suddenly, it isn't as perfect as it seems. The future that I dream of is one that is intricately designed to revolve around him; but his isn't the same. Nature's harmony is suddenly disrupted, as we erupt in words of fury.

I take it back. Screw you. Screw peace. Screw everything.

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The scorching sun looms high above and its rays barge through the curtains of my room to invade my slumber. I put my hands up to prevent my eyes from hurting. Damn it! The sun's up. I must be late for work. I grab the shirt and pants at the top of last night's pile of laundry, put them on and run for the 8:05 bus. I am at peace.

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I prepare a black suit for tonight's funeral. I hear Brie wailing from the adjacent room and it sends shards of ice straight through my heart. Tears build up at the corner of my eyes but I am at peace.

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I walk through the underground station at Waterloo (as I've done so for the past five years). "Excuse me!" An angry commuter brushes past me, as his shoulder slams right into my chest. If it was a year ago, I would've grabbed him by the arm and demanded for an apology. Instead, I let out a gentle sigh and utter under my breath, "bless you." I am at peace.

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Peace. In a metropolitan city like London, peace seems to be a rare gem but its one that I've finally found. It is not in the sound of raindrops on your rooftop. It is not in Yiruma's most tranquil melody, Kiss the Rain. It is not in the steady heartbeat from your lover's bosoms. It is not in a short getaway to the Lake District. It is from within.