Coming home to an empty house today, for the first time in a very long time, was accompanied by a sense of solace rather than fear. Okay, maybe a little bit of fear. It’s been a while since I’ve been left alone with myself and my thoughts. But maybe tonight, I can understand just a little, the goodness in the ‘quiet me-time’ that people so often speak praise of.

I didn’t use to be like this I don’t think. I remember a time when I was comfortable, just me, myself and I. In its own right, perhaps it is true that it was a much darker time. Having just recovered from losing someone I shared most of my everyday with, friends passing and going, finding my place in a new crowd; in the face of change and transition, in fear of the volatility and fickle-minded nature of people, being alone was the safest.

There would be no room for tempers and tantrums, miscommunication or dramatisations, no chance left to the possibility of disappointment in the absence of inflated expectations. Little did I realize that in shutting everyone out, I was creating space instead for a kind of self-righteous anger, an ugly bitterness that swallowed the faintest hope for something new, anything better. How stupid and petulant I sounded then, pinning my pride on this defense mechanism that was instead destroying everything that could be, a self-sabotaging machine if you will. I believe because of it, many opportunties were missed, many memories tainted.

Things are different now. I finally belong to someone that I love, even if I’m not entirely sure at this point if he feels quite nearly the same about me. I have opened myself up to be vulnerable to those same untrustworthy people, only to have found precious friends in them. Somehow, some of that anger dissipated, and after treading (oh so very cautiously) out of the fortress I’d built up around myself, I had learnt to take chances again – to be okay with the fact that I bruise easily, to learn that you can pick yourself up after taking a fall, to take gambles even if it means risking it all.

It was probably the greatest lesson I ever learnt, and life could only really begin after I had understood.

But somehow along the way, I also think I began to lose a bit of the strength that angry little girl of ‘05 had. Don’t get me wrong, I have no intention of reverting to the person that I was. There is no glory in pride, nor prizes to be won in thinking that you are all that you need. But you got to admit, she was at least a little bit cool. In spite of it, there was a certain streak of self-respect, a quest for self-assurance.  You see the trouble with having people around all the time, is the trap of dependence. And there is a fine line between letting people in and being contigent on them. I know this because I have trouble entertaining myself when my boyfriend is doing his own thing – whether he’s out and about, or whether we’re in the same apartment – without being eaten up alive by insecurities running amuck. I know this because I have become so uncomfortable with the idea of sleeping in an empty house. I know this because I collapse into a mess if I go a whole day without seeing Devon.

The other thing about people, is the noise. See I learnt this once in a jeep an old friend used to drive us around in. We were heading back into the city, and packed to maximum capacity in the vehicle. I remember that there were two distinct loudmouths in the car, but in chorus with the normal chatter of the other four, it was a ruckus. And I wanted to scream, I wanted to holler a thunderous ‘SHUUUT UUUUP’ in their faces, but all I could really do was draw up an imaginary soundproof bubble in my corner of the car, and will my ears shut.

So yes, noise. Sometimes, it gets so loud that you can no longer hear your own thoughts, let alone the voice of God. So much so that now, I can no longer seem to string together a sincere prayer, nor muster the discipline to sit down and write a coherent piece, or to reignite a much loved pastime of my childhood, pick up a book, and read it from cover to cover.

By now, I think I’m starting to recognize the value of this. Just this – me at my desk, music playing quietly in the background, thoughts translated into text. More pertinently, as much as I am desperately convincing myself that I am the only person in this apartment, that there is nothing lurking in the shadows waiting to get me, the truth is that I’m not alone.

I sleep with the twinkling lights of the city beneath me. I sleep knowing that my beloved is tucked in his bed just 3 minutes down the road, and our best friend settling into his new apartment just across the corridor. I sleep resting in the love of family who is wishing only the best for me many miles away.

I sleep protected by a God who holds my world, the world, in His hands. And I think it is in silence, that one can most tangibly feel the warmth of His embrace, and hear most clearly, His small still voice.

Something always brings me back to you.
It never takes too long.
No matter what I say or do,
I still feel you here ’till the moment I’m gone.

You hold me without touch.
You keep me without chains.
I never wanted anything so much,
than to drown in your love and not feel your rain.

The past five days have been illuminating; as absences of you always prove to be. It is always a harsh lesson in identity, where strengths I never knew I had are called to the fore, and weaknesses long forgotten, rear their ugly heads.

Jean put forward an interesting distinction while we were having lunch in the graduate common room the other day, on the very different, almost oppositional effects of distance on a relationship. “Is it a matter of ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ or ‘out of sight, out of mind‘?” she boldly queried.

And I didn’t know quite what to answer.

The answer was plain to me of course. The former, for sure. It’s the only thing that could explain these feelings, this irrationality, this inexplicable attachment.

And then it occurred to me, that I had no idea what his would be.

Old friends come knocking on the door as the evening wanes, and promise to sit with me through the night.

I am still the same girl as I was last year. In spite of status changes and perhaps more outward shows of newfound affection, the insecurities linger, and I am trapped in the wild fears conjured by a restless mind, not quite sure how to picture an accurate reality.

So this is my lesson in surrender, and I will be all the stronger for it.

You loved me ’cause I’m fragile,
when I thought that I was strong.
But you touch me for a little while,
and all my fragile strength is gone.

Set me free, leave me be.
I don’t want to fall another moment into your gravity.
Here I am and I stand so tall, just the way I’m supposed to be.
But you’re on to me and all over me.

Sometimes, it doesn’t seem fair that it hits me so much harder than it does you.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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’

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.

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.