Why I do what I do

The good, the bad, and the ugly.

Achievement motivation

Psychologists put forth significant effort to earn a graduate degree, and we tend to value competency, mastery, respectability, upward mobility, and financial achievement.

Connection with others

Therapists may experience a form of depth and authencity in the therapeutic process we do not necessarily experience in other familial or social relationships.

Empathy or identification with vulnerability

Our own personal life experiences may have provided us with a strong sense of empathy, or even identification, with others who feel vulnerable, hurt, wounded, pained, and undervalued.

Voyeurism or vicarious living

“My life is kind of boring, if you want to know the truth. I don’t really do that much other than hang out with friends and watch television. But I love listening to the crazy, wacky stories my clients tell. I love being able to ask them personal questions without them getting offended, things I could never ask people in any other setting. “So what’s your sex life like? “What possessed you to ever do anything like that?” “What is your deepest, darkest secret that you’ve never told anyone before?” I just really enjoy being able to peer inside the windows of people’s minds and hearts. Everything else in my life pales in comparison.”

Prestige and respect

” I don’t make nearly as much money as my sisters do. I don’t have the fancy office or the sports car. But people do look up to me. When they find out I’m a therapist, they treat me like I’m important, like what I do matters to people. I get respect and I like that a lot. It’s worth all the money in the world. And you know what? I respect myself. My sisters and my friends might be successful in business, raking in the bucks, but I know what I do really matters. And at night, I sleep like a baby because I know I’m doing my part to make the world a better place.”

And perhaps most relevant of all, and something I feel I must set aside in a category of its own:

Rescue dynamics

“I grew up not feeling very important or very good about myself. I didn’t feel useful to anyone, least of all myself. But now I get to save people. I know I’m not supposed to believe that or say that, but that’s the way I feel. Every time someone comes in miserable and leaves better off, it’s because I did something that helped – or that’s what I’d prefer to think. I thrive on being able to save people like this, and it makes me feel important.“

Motives acknowledged by clinicans according to Baker, 1992; Disclosures by clinicans by Kottler, 2003.

His-story

So there has been a topic I’ve been breaching for weeks. Actually, about 8. But yesterday, as I was gushing to D yet again about another information-loaded day at school, an idea sparked and this is me attempting to give it form and figure. I was lamenting about the fact that as riveting as the material presented in lectures, seminars and workshops have been, it’s been a tad overwhelming. An onslaught of information so fast, so furious, and yet so terribly fascinating, that integrating it all and making sense of what I’m being taught has proven to be quite the challenge.

And then I forgot my old friends – pen and paper, and words. So here are the beginnings of my first clinical notes, I suppose. The exercise of scribbling down short snippets of observations and points-to-note, now to document what I’m learning, and later on about my patients, certainly appeals strongly to the annotator in me.

I want to just start by saying what an enormous privilege it is to be where I am, at this stage of my education. I will unabashedly exclaim that I’m one of those people who have been blessed with the opportunity to potentially make a living out of what I love, simply, to put passion into practice – and I hope that this is a gift that I will never squander, nor take for granted.

So perhaps I should start with the first lesson that I feel compelled to write about since beginning my clinical training. It was an epiphany of sorts in one of the early workshops on history-taking. It’s a really simple one, in fact. At risk of stating the obvious,

Everyone has a story to tell.

And if you dig deep enough, implore hard enough, are daring enough to let curiosity ask the difficult questions… there are no boring bits either. No matter how bland you think you are, or how dull you think the person next to you is.

So on that particular day, I had to share one of my own. One very close to home. I was strangely at ease with it. Although, I’ve often noted this (slightly worrying) comfort derived from my open book policy – but perhaps this is a conversation for another day. In any case, I put my hands up to play client, and found myself slipping on Dad’s shoes. They were black, but had lost their shine, and were worn at the edges. And clunky, oh so very heavy. And as the flurry of questions came, his many worries and troubles pervaded my mind, his thoughts of hopelessness and worthlessness took turns to batter at my esteem, his words spelling defeat and impending doom became my own.

And I daresay, almost like it was the first time, I really listened, and understood.

The afternoon saw us doing another activity. We were asked to get into pairs, draw our family tree and share with our partner about our histories in whatever propensity we were ready to.

So my partner was one of those people in the cohort whom I would simply label ‘colleague’. Those that you don’t talk to beyond ‘Hey, how’re you going?’, unless there is work to be done collaboratively. Sometimes, I catch myself staring at her traditional garb, covering her from top to toe and find myself wondering (perhaps rather condescendingly) – How could I  begin to understand her world? What could we possibly have in common? How could we ever relate to each other?

Well, my partner surprised me.

Without going into too much detail, she shared in vulnerability and honesty.  She explained her genogram, all the boxes and squares, intersecting lines and crosses painting a rich, vivid history of the drama and dysfunction that marks every family. That she was so forthcoming with her issues, took me aback. But I relaxed a little in my chair when I realized – We’re all psychologists in this room, after all.

No wait, we’re all human.

And it is our pain that knits us together, and our weaknesses on which we build strengths upon.

I think I conclude, at this very early stage of my career, that one of the most fundamental qualities of a good clinician is an inherent interest in other people’s stories.

I hope I’ll never tire of them. I hope that I will always respect the sanctity of each one. I hope that I will never cease to appreciate the beauty of the complex, multi-faceted, and highly individualized nature of every story I come across.

So much more to say, lots of lessons past that I need to recount and catch up on, lots of skills that I need to process more deeply and make second nature. Stay tuned.

GAD

I question with a nervous, sheepish laugh, that I don’t know why I do these things to myself.

I woke up this morning, transfixed in a semi-state of panic, washed by a wave of feverish anxiety almost, at the abrupt realization that I forgot that a possible bias in thinking and reasoning of Generalized Anxiety Disorder is:

The over-estimation of threat/danger of the situation at hand, and an under-estimation of the ability to cope.

Sigh, talk about over-catastrophizing.

And they say, that it is a thin, fine line between sanity and insanity, normalcy and abnormality.

I can say I believe it now.

Catching Up

I’d like to think that I haven’t been writing because I’ve been busy out there living my life

It would be an understatement to say that “things have changed around here“. I remember thinking to myself, about one and a half months in, that I had forgotten what it was even like, living I mean, before this. Things seem to have come a little more alive these days. From stacking groceries in the black basket swinging off an arm, scurrying around the aisles of Safeway, to meticulously mincing garlic over a chopping board, to labouring over a stack of dirty dishes with soapy hands – The little mundane activities of my everyday seem to have taken on new purpose.

And I have this sneaking suspicion that it is because everything is for a certain someone.

Of course, a wave of apprehension briefly catching my breath, just ever so slightly, when I realize the weight of my statement, and check myself before I utter the next. Then again, it seems silly to talk it down, to undermine the true quality of this experience I’ve been blessed with.

I am happy.

For the most part of it, anyway. And I’m determined to make that the part that counts.

So now, we’re approaching the next marker of 2. It’s still small, and very, very young. It hasn’t been perfect. It hasn’t been without its tears. And yet, it’s a moment nonetheless, significant in itself.

It still is a little unnerving to me though, how time seems to have taken on the elastic nature of a rubber band – months in name, years in actuality. On hindsight, it now seems like it was a progression so natural, that it would have almost been absurd if today hadn’t arrived. That small voice that insisted on persistence in the face of seemingly overwhelming odds is now amplifying a loud “I told you so”. And the better (more cautious) half of me scrambles to stifle it, like a superstitious granny wagging one finger disapprovingly, the other hand rapping the table, all the time hissing sage old sayings along the likes of, “Touch wood!” and “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch!” or “Pride comes before the fall!”

I think it would be wise to take heed.

On another note, I seem to be accummulating a small fortune, maybe the better word is backlog, of latent unresolved issues. A well-meaning friend gently nudges, nags, and then not so subtly prods me to speak up, to air my mind. So  I keep setting myself deadlines, scenarios that I conjure up in my head that would be most condusive, when he would be most receptive.

And I know it’s tired, but the truth is I really don’t know what to say. For heaven’s sake, where do I even begin?

After all, I’ve had 2 years practice in being what I’ve affectionately dubbed, a ’silent sufferer’. There is this curious part of the human condition that seems innately conflicted with the natural tendency to seek pleasure, or to pursue a self-centred happiness. I guess, you could call it, the act of ‘martyrdom’ for dramatic poise. And dare I say, some days, it feels like the martyr in me is almost working full-time.

But hold your horses. Is it? On closer inspection, I think I’ve misattributed my denial of self and meekness of character to a notion grander that it really is. Fear masquerading as sacrifice. Cowardice hiding behind selflessness, a facade so magnificent that the shameful face of the former is completely obscured.

Righteousness, or perhaps, the act of ‘feeling righteous‘, can be blinding.

Maybe what I really mean to say, is that I’m afraid to lose this, to lose you. It seems more convenient to sweep everything under the carpet, a quicker fix to haphazardly shove the mess into an old forgotten closet, almost temptingly easier to just pretend that everything is fine and dandy.

It’s just that I get so damn tongue-tied when I’m around you. It’s just that your straight lines of cold hard logic bore holes through my already-ineloquent discourse, exposing the gaps and inconsistencies, uncovering unfounded yet deeply-seated flaws and insecurities, dismissing emotionally-laden words and statements as erratic and, well, crazy -

… when all this time, what I’ve been trying to teach you is that love is anything but rational. I’m sorry to break it to you, but I am one of those crazy, neurotic girls you vowed to run the opposite direction of.

I dream of a day to come where the words aren’t so hard to come by, and to speak freely, without fear of repercussion. I would like it if you could ask the questions sometimes, just so that I know you’re thinking about it, that ‘we’ at least hang somewhere in the periphery of your mind, if not at the forefront. I wish you were that little bit more intuitive to the way everything you say or do, deeply affects me. I anticipate the day you find it in yourself to go extra-ordinarily out of your way for me, like I do for you, only when you’re ready.

But everything in it’s good time, yes? I think I have enough hope in me yet to let things , to wait for you to catch up to me in certain respects, to continue trekking through this passage of life – me learning from you, and you from me, trying to put the destination out of my mind for now, and move along, ever-forward, thinking of nothing more, doing nothing beyond simply,

putting one foot in front of the other.

So for now, I shall release myself into the bliss of the right here right now, and to baby-back ribs.

Realize

Take time to realize,
that your warmth is
crashing down on in.
Take time to realize,
that I am on your side.
Didn’t I, didn’t I tell you?

But I can’t spell it out for you,
no it’s never gonna be that simple
no I cant spell it out for you -

If you just realize what I just realized,
then we’d be perfect for each other
and will never find another;
Just realized what I just realized,
we’d never have to wonder if
we missed out on each other now.

Take time to realize,
I’m on your side.
Didn’t I, didn’t I tell you?
Take time to realize,
this all can pass you by.
Didn’t I tell you?

But I can’t spell it out for you,
no it’s never gonna be that simple
no I can’t spell it out for you.

If you just realized what I just realized,
then we’d be perfect for each other
then we’d never find another;
Just realized what I just realized,
we’d never have to wonder if
we missed out on each other now.

It’s not always the same,
no it’s never the same
if you don’t feel it too.
If you meet me half way,
if you would meet me half way,
it could be the same for you.

If you just realize what I just realized,
then we’d be perfect for each other
then we’d never find another;
Just realize what I just realized
we’d never have to wonder.

- Colbie Caillat, ‘Realize’

Sunshine and Sand

I haven’t had this much reason to be happy in a long time. And yet, the sombre voice of reason and realism always issues the same stern caution to a ludicrous and foolhardy heart – that, more often than not, these episodes are but short-lived and fleeting.

As if in retort to my complaints of a seemingly boring and doldrum-y 2007, 2008 has indeed begun with a bigger bang than I’d ever imagined. Then again, maybe I did run through all the possibilities in my mind, indulged myself in its every guilty pleasure, but laughed it off as nothing but a silly daydream.

Hm. But well, well.

I never picked myself to actually have the opportunity to witness the thrills and spills of a ’summer fling’. Although now, slowly waking from the heady intoxication of the sunshine and sand, I am slowly but surely mentally fortifying myself for the very real possibility that I may be a victim of this phenomenon I’ve only seen played out in movies like The Notebook.

I still can’t seem to trust you. I still can’t say for certain, statements laden with belief or wishful hope. I’m still haunted by the shadows of your past, feeling the sting from your scars, and deathly afraid of how that might taint, discolour and discredit the sanctity of a future.

So I still don’t know what this means to you, but as the song goes, I’ve learnt, that -

Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

I sincerely hope that this isn’t some conquest to you – one that you know you’ve already won. I pray with all my might that this isn’t some sick game – the one you picked up and read all those years ago and have now relegated to a far corner of a dusty bookshelf.

Because I’m more than just a pawn. I’m not some dispensable piece you can sacrifice for some greater victory. Surprise, surprise, I was never that selfless.

I want to be the last one standing when we make it through.

At the end of the day, love reduces us to nothing but a place of brokenness. It is like a bottomless pit, or perhaps for the more idealistic, a well that never runs dry; its sole purpose but to give, and give, and give some more. Every new day, bringing renewed patience and refreshed hope, no matter how deep and thick the darkness of night may fall.

Well, I think I can safely say that I’ve given everything I’ve got. It takes a particular kind of utter vulnerability, to strip yourself of everything in front of and for another; and I mean that both figuratively and literally.

When you’ve reached such a point, of stark nakedness, there is nothing left to do, but cry for mercy.

So here I am, at the mercy of your hands, and Your hands.

To you: I really want to believe that you’ll pull through this time. For my heart is fragile, and can almost bear no more.

To You: Have Your way, oh Lord. And having just said that, I’m so afraid of You doing just exactly that, if it means that I have to surrender the pictures and plans that I’ve wilfully drawn up for my life. I’m sorry for the things that I’ve made, if they have indeed been of my doing. I still cling to the hope that You have had a hand in the transpiration of recent events. But just for now, would You give consideration to a desperate plea – Soften his heart, oh God, and if not, give me the strength to find another way.

So let it be.

Downtime

I sold myself to a multitude of pain for a moment of bliss.

Should I be worried? Because it is in your arms that I’ve found a somewhere I’d like to rest, at the end and beginning of every day. And I meant it, when I whispered softly, “This isn’t good. I think I’m getting used to you”. At the same time, clutching myself tightly to your chest and feeling a wave of sobering fear ripple through my consciousness. Morning would come, and with it the desperate wish that it could always be like this.

So I grasped fervently at every minute, hung on your every word, lingered in every tender gaze, suspended in every circle your dancing fingers swirled and swished over my back, breathed in the intensity of every kiss; but waiting on tenterhooks for your hand to pull out of my clasp, or your body to recoil from mine.

But you didn’t. You came back for more.

Perhaps that’s what I needed to know. Maybe, all that I needed to know, for now. That Sydney wasn’t just a one night stand, a cruel trial, an un-redeemable mistake. That you could perhaps, on some level, find me desirable. It would be a sign, that there was something keeping you here – a residue of feeling somewhere in there that never went away, an ounce of courage to take a stab at the future, a sliver of hope that you might step up, a hint of some repressed love you never dared to attest to.

Things have changed. “This is good. Lots of talk, lots of sex,” you murmured into my earlobe in jest. So I can’t help but notice the subtle shifts in our strange relationship, both said and unsaid. You no longer shudder away from me when my fingers brush against yours, or when our skin touches when I lean ever so slightly against you on the bus. We’re now able to engage in the cheeky banter and playful flirtation I’ve often found myself all too often envying, as I watched but was never able to participate.

And there’s no reason why things shouldn’t have taken the slightest of turnarounds. I’ve as good as given myself to you. After all, I’ve felt you, and you’ve felt me.

And now that I know… I feel like I can taste what it means to be loved. And if this is but a mere foretaste, what people might deem a cheap imitiation, a pariah breed of its real form… I suppose I can only begin to imagine the fulness of love in all glory, the day it arrives.

Even if life inevitably drives us down divergent paths. If a day should come when I no longer have the strength to hold on. If you should ever forget what we shared in these 8 days. If you could ever find it in you to leave me for good. If my heart should ever find another -

It was worth it.

There are a million reasons why this was wrong, and why it wouldn’t and could never work out. And yet, all I can think about, is when I’ll see you again, or when I might next wake to your sleepy smile.

Evaluations and Forecasts

I write one at the end of every year, so I thought I might as well start earlier this time, so maybe I can actually post it on time, rather than leave it simmering in my drafts-box too long overdue when the newness of the new year has somewhat waned.

//edit: Oops, haha. Too late.

“So, how are you?”

I feel the prickle of irritation on my skin at the question. And yet, it is unavoidable. What else do I really expect people to say when they haven’t seen me for months? Conversations that take place within a text-box and safely behind a screen are very condusive for diluting the truth of the matter, or to hide the blemishes. You can essentially choose the image you want the other person to believe. You reveal what you want to reveal, pick’n'mix the facts and figures according to the message you’re trying to preach. Everyday media journalism.

Yes, how am I? A part of me instinctively cringes on cue whenever the question we come to ask as a default form of civility escapes the other’s lips. I think it’s because I stop for a moment to decide whether to tell the truth or not. And more often than not, resign to the latter.

I’m good, thanks. I’m alright, I guess. Yeah, I’m okay.

I let the standard response utter itself. It’s better that way. Fewer questions asked, less explanation necessary. Still I will never be able to betray what I know to be the truth by peppering it with juicy detail of every little thing I should be ecstatic/thankful about or for. But the good ones always know how to tell the difference. And when they probe further, it all comes tumbling out, in cascades. I sometimes wonder whether they ever wish they never asked.

But I’m detracting. I notice my prologues seem to be lengthening of late. It’s like I need to warm-up, and haven’t even figured out what it is I meant to say. Anyway. The end-of-year question is in fact this very annoyance. Only I’m effectively posing it to myself – “So, it’s been a year, how ARE you really?” And the same sluggishness to reply seems to slow the turning of the wheels in my head; the same numbness from hearing the question too many times hardens the heart from expelling the emotion it was made to let overflow; the same obstinance to give an answer straight-up translates into a denial that refuses to stare actuality in the face.

Who ever said reflecting was supposed to be calming and therapeutic. Pfft. No exercise is effortless.

I think … no sophisticated, well-rounded summations in a nutshell of all the lessons and revelations that have hit home this year. Writing a 10,000 (okay, fine, I lied) 12,000-word thesis was quite enough of that.

At risk of tooting my own horn, counting my chickens before they hatch, and any other thing that might constitute the horrendous act of bragging, I’m finding myself at a very interesting juncture here (as people often do, at the end of the year). See, I’ve done it. I achieved my goal. It is by no means the ‘ultimate’ one, nor will it be the last, but it’s still pretty darn pivotal. And that being said, it was by no means of my sole doing. I was carried through by the strength of prayer, standing upon the foundation of hope, resting on the combined beliefs of all the people – selfless parents, ever-constant brother, patient friends, encouraging coursemates, supportive colleagues, well-meaning supervisors – who have stood by me through every episode of neuroses, and every moment of (more often than not) unwarranted panic and despair. Most importantly, lest I ever forget, led by the steady hands of a God who is good, all the time. Whether He gives or takes away, it is the same, unchanging, coherent Will.

Hm, so I’m deciding whether it’s even worth making resolutions. I think by this stage, I’ve faced the rude fact that I’ll never be a rockstar, or a beauty-queen. Maybe I’ll never get around to finishing the Bible. But still, I like to call up the ones I last made and survey which I’ve actually even made headway on. Ah, as expected, most of them still apply. It’s funny how they sound like I’m slowly building my mantra of life – standards I’d like to maintain, goals I’d like to keep chasing up to, bottom-lines I’d never compromise on.  I suppose it would be a good idea to verbalize them…

But before that – I was somewhat right, my fears at the end of last year were indeed warranted. After all, 2007 was a hard year to live up to. Some nights, I still find myself rummaging through old drawers of memoribilia that I’ve stowed away and chided myself into never unearthing. For my own good. Living in the past should not be done, they say. And yet, I am drawn, all too often, to the frozen smiles and unknowing bliss, our heads leant in towards each other, my hand upon your shoulder.

It used to be easier. You used to be better. Even though I probably never realized it then.

2008 was … short and anti-climatic.

It was about cementing some of the relationships I began in ‘07, and beginning new ones that I’m looking forward to extending. I feel more secure in myself now, who I am and what I’m about. It’s easier to build friendships now. It’s no longer too daunting a task to strike up conversation with a stranger, or to mill around a room filled with people, cocktail glass in hand. Mildly unpleasant, but not crippling.

It’s also funny, I don’t remember working particularly hard on anything (although I probably did), save maybe the last hungry afternoons when I attempted to fast from lunch; and sleepless nights tying up loose ends as the midnight oil burned. Every year I seem to push the limits a little bit more, spread myself a little further across many things. And I’m quite happy to report, that it’s possible to have a life – to not compromise on people, activities of service, or those precious deep-and-meaningfuls you’d rather engross your time in. Caveat of course being, that you don’t scoff at deadlines too much, they are still very much to be feared; And of course, never taking lightly the power of grace.

Sure, the year was not without events. Little spurts of it scattered at regular enough intervals to drive time ever forward. Yet, after build-ups, climaxes and winding-downs… I still can’t seem to remember for certain the words exchanged or what they meant. Everything seemed to lose itself to ambiguity, so here we are. Again. Having just clambered out from the funnel of another spiral; at the end and beginning point (if there ever was one) of another cycle, only on a different plain.

And at the end, the budding signs of young beginnings, days and evenings that I wish could have been longer drawn out, wistfully hoping against hope that they might never change. But for the most part, all seemed to have washed over me. Maybe because I kept waiting with bated breath for the big things – for you, for zeniths and breaking points, for my world to come tumbling down and then self re-generate – and lost all that time in between.

Note to self: Must remember never to do that.

Now, one thing I am most certain of:
The winds of change will come again.

And I can choose to resist it, grit my teeth and resist with all my might, in my vain efforts to defy the course of nature. Or perhaps I might throw up my hands in surrender, and let the breeze filter through my hair, and wash afresh over my face.

You’re going to start work, begin your climb up the corporate ladder. I’ve said it so many times, each a hapless effort to drum it into conscious awareness, in hopes that I might be better prepared for it – but you’re going to become a different person. I’m not going to see you as much as I’d like, if I had it my way. The day I most fear may be much closer than I think. I’m going to lose you, even though I never had you.

As for me, I’m going to drown myself in some work of my own. Live and breathe my Psychology, as I used to say. Now, I actually will have the chance to put that into practice. And what an immense opportunity this is, indeed. There were are, a lot of things riding on this – the apartment, a job, permanent residency, whether to go on a plan for my phone (haha)… my future? I saw the decision as a turning point, really. A chance for God to stop me in my tracks, and with a mighty hand, sweep across the board, and corner me into building again from the ground-up, elsewhere.

Or, perhaps – There is work yet to be done here. People yet to meet. A story unfinished.

I sincerely hope it is the latter. I don’t want to be guilty of satisfying a self-fulfilling prophecy, or a scrounging of all the reasons to justify why I’m still here. There’s an unsettling air of apprehension surrounding the whole notion of setting down roots in this place. It’s like, the path was too straight, and every step along the way was satisfied in an easy, almost, mechanical fashion. Okay, maybe I’ll take back easy. But still, it was like check, check, check and check. Now, it’s crunch-time. I’m doing this. It’s like the lead-up to a commitment ceremony and I’m getting a small case of cold feet.

Needless to say, I know what I’m missing. I know what it’s going to take to seal my future, to tie me down to a specific point on the map, to make it right. The cherry on top the icing on the cake. It doesn’t need to be said, you and I both know. It’s greater than any academic accolade, any fat paycheck, or any cushy comforts a world governed by materialism and entertainment can offer. And it lasts for a lifetime. Despite better sense, there are some days where I am convinced that I wouldn’t mind trading anything in the world for it, to know what it means, to feel how it must feel.

But there’s something else I also do know. And it by no means negates my desire for love or my need to feel wanted and beautiful. And that is that,

I Am.

I am complete. All in my little old self. I have already within me, or what has graciously been bestowed upon me, all that it takes to live a life that is full and sufficient. With or without anything, anyone attached.

Because for too long, I’ve been preoccupied by a fruitless search for something that is out of my control. Just the thought of being without it has had me side-swept. It had me distracted and disoriented. I honestly cannot remember a time when I wasn’t chasing the unrealistically impossible, or pining after possibilities that had out-lived their plausibility. Although really, who can say? But perhaps it’s about discerning where best to invest yourself into, and knowing both when, and how to bow out gracefully.

And so I approach 2009 with a few important ground-rules to add to the ones I’ve made yester-year:

#6 Immerse yourself in every person, every life that crosses yours. Just as you have in the last 5 years, give it your all. This is your life now.

#7 Priorities, priorities, priorities. Know which to put first. Some things need to give. Some people deserve your time and energy more than others.

#8 Never forget where you came from. Distance is a dangerous thing. It can wash away intensity of colour into bland shades, and water down rawness of emotion to jaded ignorance. Never allow yourself to be that far removed. Remember to care.

#9 Be open. Take chances. Revisit past mistakes. Rewrite possible regrets? The story can have a different ending, but happy all the same. There is more than one definition to happiness.

#10 Don’t hesitate. Just do it. Give as much as you have the capacity to. Love fiercely. And if it’s still not enough, that’s okay, you died trying.

And on a parting note, I just have to affirm how much I’m going to be staging a rebellion against stagnancy. It is mandatory that every year has to bring something new, something better, something more.

So if this is the best there is yet to be, no, I simply will not settle for it.

Excerpt

And yet, I found that I could survive. I was alert, I felt the pain – the aching loss that radiated out from my chest, sending wracking waves of hurt through my limbs and head – but it was manageable. I could live through it. It didn’t feel like the pain had weakened over time, rather that I’d grown strong enough to bear it.

New Moon
- Stephanie Meyer

Goodbye,

Every time, is a slow and agonizing exercise of having to tear myself away from the things, the places, the memories, the someones, that have been seeded and now implant themselves in my heart – whether by painstaking, back-breaking efforts to sow, nurture and cultivate; Or the ones, like stubborn weeds, that have slyly managed to escape my notice and take root all the same, more resilient than ever.

I can’t say how much I tire of this annual ritual of severing and re-attaching, breaking and mending. Both ways.

It’s really quite brutal.

I wish you knew how incredibly hard it is for me to sit out (again), to miss yet another milestone. Sometimes, timing can be such a bitch. Second time fate seems to have dealt me a cruel hand. Each blow seems to be a confirmation how this just, maybe, is wrong. Just isn’t meant to be.

I also wish you cared that I wanted so much to be there.

I realized that it’s been a while since I’ve travelled alone. For the past 2 years, there was the reassuring familiarity of you – jostling around in the same bumpy taxi ride to the airport or in the seat next to me, donning headphones and eating my share of aluminium-tinted plane food. And again, this dangerous dependence decides to un-cloak itself, revealing the extent of its destructiveness. Whether I leave you at the arrival hall, or at the door to my apartment at 3.30am, the goodbye is still haphazard, still tentative, and still very painful.

And this time, there’s a sense, which has hit me a little all too late as I sit here sleepless on the eve of my flight, a half-empty suitcase sprawled in the middle of my living room, that I bid fare well to an era that will pass and never return.

Quite honestly, that scares the hell out of me.