Raw

So I shared the video interview I did with Millennials of Singapore in my last post and explained that there was supposed to be an article to go along with it. I don't know why it hasn't been uploaded, weeks after the video was shared, which is pretty upsetting because the article/story gives the video context. I'm going to share it here anyway (and it's a long one). Writing is my respite from life's challenges and I do it to share my story, allow people who relate to feel.......less alone, and to remind everyone to be kind and conscious of how they treat others. Like I said during the video interview, we don't know how much someone is hiding/going through behind their smile. Having said that, if anything I share on this blog resonates with you and you feel the need to reach out to me, don't hesitate, because I understand. I understand what it means to be able to need to reach out and be able to.

Here's the full story I submitted to Millennials of Singapore:

Very little of my childhood remains in my mind. What I do remember of it were the sporadic bouts of violence happening in the household—things broken, punches thrown, faces bruised, crying, and shouting galore; my mentally unwell mother using me as target practice, mothers of my classmates criticizing my parents’ ability to look after me, and threats of being thrown out. I’d like to think that I don’t remember much because of how I subconsciously repressed all the bad memories and struggled to replace them with good ones later in life. I always thought that what I’d had as a child qualified as a broken home, but when I told others that, they’d simply ask me, “Are your parents divorced?” to which I’d say no. And just like that, all my suffering was dismissed, because “if your parents aren’t divorced, then it isn’t a broken home”, or so they’d said.

During my preteen and adolescent years, I struggled to find the meaning of life and love. I had grown so used to not receiving any love in my home that I looked for it elsewhere. After all, everyone yearns to be loved and for their existence to be validated, right? I envied friends who were close to their families, people whose arms and legs weren’t covered in bruises and scars, and strangers who seemed to have it all well put together. I struggled with my studies. I just couldn’t focus. It didn’t help having unsupportive teachers who’d thought I was intentionally being a disruptive student. I remember vividly how one teacher in secondary school had confronted me and said these exact words: “Ya, you did above average for your PSLE, but at the rate you’re going, you are going to end up an attention-seeking nobody”. Since then I had those exact words etched in my mind for eternity and whenever I was experiencing a low I would find those words echoing in my subconscious. You see, the thing is, I was one of those people who only went to school in search of the warmth I could never receive at home. I couldn’t care less about my studies (although of course I wish I had put a little more effort into it) and basked in the love of friends who, albeit never having gone through the same experiences as me, related in their own ways.

Despite the love I was receiving from friends in school, I started skipping school gradually more and more. I found myself in a limbo—trapped in a cycle of constantly being berated at home for being “stupid” or “useless”, and being confronted in school for basically “not being as smart as I should have been”. I grew more and more withdrawn and found it harder to get myself out of bed day by day, but I kept trying. Some days, I’d make it to school and tread lightly through my day. Other days, I’d make it to the bus stop, break down in a state of panic and either head home or miss school to seek a peace of mind at the mall or some park. (I would later in life learn that I had somehow developed an anxiety disorder, but I’ll get to that.) I made the best out of the days that I did manage to set foot in school, even if my attendance was irregular, and at the end of secondary school, I didn’t do too badly. I scored well enough for my ‘O’ Levels to qualify for the diploma course I’d been eyeing on in a polytechnic since my early secondary school years.

My life during my diploma years had become a little easier to deal with. Perhaps it was because I was old enough to know better than to let my past define me (this, unsurprisingly, did not last long). I kept my social circle small during these years and tried harder than I ever have to focus only on studying and working part-time to support myself and my family. It was tough and a relatively lonely journey, to be honest. And at times I’d get distracted. In fact, one of the distractions I found myself toying with proved to be detrimental to me because, in short, I had gotten myself into a very scary situation. Basically, I had met someone who was not only physically and emotionally abusive (sound familiar?) but was also sick in the head. And let me explain why I made such a bold statement; I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was so accustomed to violence and words that hurt being flung at me that, when he locked me in his car one night and proceeded to rid me of my innocence (you get the drift, right?), I couldn’t fight back. I was so stunned I didn’t know how to. And, akin to all the signs of Stockholm Syndrome, I let it happen again and again for almost two and a half months. Rape. Abuse. All of it. Instead of seeking help, I was somehow trapped and I thought pleasing him and doing his every bidding would’ve made the pain a little more tolerable. Boy, was I wrong.

Here I am though, three years later, alive and okay. I left that “relationship” (do I even call it that?) after finally confiding and gathering strength from a close friend. I developed some sort of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of all the things I’d gone through in life, and the anxiety disorder I mentioned earlier has since manifested into an evil of its own kind, but I manage it with medication. I’ve had two full-time jobs, both of which I had to resign from when the anxiety decided to creep up on me and cradle me in its arms (or strangle, rather) for months on end. I have my ups and downs, highs and lows and the likes but somehow, I’m learning to deal with it. How else could I go about living, right? And don’t even get me started on the stigma surrounding mental illnesses in Singapore.

I wrote this in hopes that, maybe, someone could relate. And if someone does, I hope you know you aren’t alone. I’m in this with you. Know that no matter how hard life gets, there is a way out. Hopefully, with this personal sharing of mine, I will be able to start opening the doors to talks about mental illnesses and its stigma in Singapore. I just personally feel like it isn’t talked about enough, or that it’s still considered taboo. When you think of mental illness, or of our Institute of Mental Health (IMH), most people generally think “oh, it’s a place for crazy people”. I really wanna change that.