Choosing the responsible life

Two thousand and six.

That was the year when everything became apparent to me. The fact that life isn't as rosy as it seemed when I was a child. The fact that more often that not, people have bad intentions and hidden agendas. The fact that even though the world wars are long gone, people all around the world are fighting their own battles every day. 

-

I have my own battle scars too.

The scars on my wrist remind of a time when I was young and reckless, using physical pain to overpower the emotional pain and emptiness that I felt inside. The scars on my fingertips remind me of a time when I knew not how to remain calm in face of intense pressure and anxiety. The scar just above my left brow reminds me of a time when I thought I couldn't survive a night without getting intoxicated.

Those days are long gone. When you have a family of your own, there's no other responsible way to live but to flee from those battles. Selfish and irresponsible. That's what you are if you let those battles weigh you down. 

-

It started as a musing. At that age, depressive thoughts were romanticised; in books, film and music. 

And then, I found that I had a predisposition for melancholic tunes, sad endings and philosophical pessimism. I could spend hours ruminating about how fleeting life was, and wondering if there was even a point in living another day. I indulged in my depressive thoughts, a lot, and walked around with a dark cloud over my head. I didn't seem to find a problem with it, as I continued to fulfil my obligations as a good son, friend, and worker. 

Not until I fell in love and started a family of my own. 

It's funny how it never crossed my mind that I would ever have to bid farewell to my depressive thoughts. They had been a part of me for almost a decade. I wouldn't call it an addiction. Perhaps, a disposition; a way of life. And I guess I made the mistake of presuming that this is me; and to love me is to accept me for me.

When I first saw her tiny hands and legs, I knew that what my wife had been saying for the two years of marriage was true. We couldn't raise our kids in such a pessimistic environment.

-

When I see my baby girl running around in the garden, playing catch with our Goldie, the sides of my lips curl up as I know for sure that I did (and am doing) my best to raise her in a healthy environment.

But sometimes, just sometimes, as I take a long walk around the neighbourhood, I still let the dark thoughts creep in for a second. In that split second, it feels as though my heart is being ripped into pieces and the tallest building in the distance seems so alluring. Thankfully, I time my walks such that I always make it home in time for bedtime stories, before the darkness takes me to a place I never want to be. 

And seeing her sweet and restful face is always the emotional pat on the back that I need.

The Gin Parlour

The Brass Lion Singapore Dry Gin. It wasn’t her number one choice. She would’ve preferred a Botanist or Four Pillars, but it wasn't too bad for a Happy Hour drink. 

She had been wanting to go to the Gin Parlour for some time now. For someone who claims to be a gin connoisseur, she thought that it was slightly strange to have only gone to the parlour a decade after its opening. It sits across the Marina Bay Sands, with an unobstructed view of the flyer, the ArtScience Museum, and arguably the greatest Feng Shui building in the world. She counted the number of windows that were lit up at the hotel, and pondered about how lovely it would be to be on a Staycation. 

But this was not too bad either, she thought. Sipping gin at one of her favourite areas in town on a Friday evening, all by herself. 

She usually spent Friday evenings with friends, chugging pints of beer and playing pool. It was nice, too, but wasn’t her, her. She was a gin person; she wasn’t one for small talk; and she would choose reading a book over playing pool any day. 

Today, she was unusually tired. Perhaps it was the five reports that she had churned out the past week, or the fact that her social battery was low. Either way, she said no to pool and beer; and boarded the bus to nowhere in particular. It was only fifteen minutes into the ride that the idea of visiting the Gin Parlour popped into her mind. 

She spent the entire evening there, sipping gin, reading The Queen’s Gambit, and taking in the scenery. As the hours passed, she felt more and more tranquil. She was free to be herself and enjoy the things that she loved. And she knew that she needed more of this in her life. Perhaps a Friday a month, at the Gin Parlour, by herself. 

But with that sense of peace came a profound sense of loneliness. And it then dawned upon her that the price to pay for freedom seems to be loneliness.