MY LIFE, IN SO MANY COLOURS
Untitled Document
I don't write how I feel. The problem is not that I intentionally mask my feelings wanting to lie to myself but instead I needed desperately to remain optimistic. Often, I think that putting down my frustrations in black and white would only bring me down, that maybe I would only be reminding myself of my own sadness. I am terrified of falling into depression.
I wrote my first “Dear Diary” at 8 years. I can still remember my very first entry. A poem, titled “The Girl in the Corner” I always had a corner. The persons I came to know all these years, made their corners for me. It was where I was aptly put.
The past 4 months have been pure hell. Now that I have the added responsibility of being a mother, stress, pain, anxiety, sadness, frustration, the works, feels so blown out of proportion. The struggle to remain sane, ironically, could have caused me to go insane.
Initially, I used to think of my baby's birth as a curse, a trigger to all the problems which followed. That was, by far, the most stupid thing I could have ever thought of. I love my mother, but I don't understand her ways. She may not be my biological mother but she's the only one I know. After experiencing how immense a mother's love can actually be, the yearning to be loved that way only intensifies.
I was not allowed to carry my “joy” home from the hospital the day I was discharged. My mother did. I remember how I looked at him, longing to hold him but not daring to say anything in case she got upset. That night, I was not the one who fed him. He had his milk on his back and spilled it out through his nose. The scream, deafening. A friend was there visiting, urged me to pick him up. My mother told her to go home. My first day home with equipped with a new title, not having a clue what to do.
Confinement period it seems, meant not caring for the baby. It was a time for new mothers to rest and for somebody else to care for the newborn. I will never understand this stupid tradition. I felt that she had intentions of taking him away from me. All I wanted was to be able to carry him, and learn how to handle my own baby. I have had NO experience with babies. I am the youngest, after all. Every day was a quarrel. Then came the day she gave me an ultimatum. “Get rid of the dogs or get out,” I remember the dreadful feeling. I felt so tortured, but at that point I had no choice. Baby Wee-Wees was only about past two weeks then, and I was in the midst of experiencing the after effects of birth - I had the “baby-blues” I cried for not reason, was irritable, and had insomnia which of course was a common post-natal effect but I now acknowledge that one would have to experience it to understand. She never did, so, I guess she was not going to tolerate the ‘baby-blues'. Lamaze classes were such a waste. Screaming is my mother's second nature, regardless of her audience. Not even a 2 week old, sleeping infant couldn't even keep her toned town.
One week after, I had a haemorrhage. I bled all over the bathroom floor, and got accused by my mother for not abiding strictly by the confinement rules. My obgyn sent me straight to the ward and scheduled an emergency D&C at 10p.m. It spent the most horrible time waiting the worst night alone. Mark had no choice but to be home. Super Mother couldn't handle colicky baby alone.
At 1 month of age I was told to hand him over to the babysitter both day and night simple because I was thought of as incompetent. I only saw my son from 7 p.m. - 9 p.m. on most days. He developed eczema and digestive problems. I still have the bottle I gave the bitch who claimed herself as the experienced, all-knowing, raise-your-child-my-way, fully reliable babysitter, with the water, still contained. Yellow, with very interesting particles floating around, I can only conclude that it must have been collected drain water. I will keep this bottle and anyone eager to hand over their responsibility of caring for their own flesh and blood to someone else is most welcome to take a look and very much encouraged to have a sip. He was accused , I quote, as being “very clever to cry.” I should think that, considering all that she claimed to be so good at, would have known that babies cry when the feel upset, in pain, hungry or frightened. Mine was just simply being a pain-in-the-neck, how convenient. That constitutes the right, I suppose to underfeed him and leave him in filth, and not be around to tend to him and to be left to wail a good 45 mins. before your fucking sleep-like-a-dead log son opens the door and lets the mother in on a sight to behold. “My children are home'” she says. I can just spit at that. “You know your baby very clever to cry one, you also know” Well, fuck you! I don't pay you RM700.00/month for you to tell me that. I have not had, not even ONE bout of eczema, since. “I'm sorry for the short notice but intensive stress on your mind now is good for your future,” I don't know how many times this has rung in my head. I still cannot fathom how cruel some “humans” can be. To deny a person of their livelihood is bad enough but to involve a 4 month old baby is pure evil.
“I don't want to see your face around here anymore. I don't know about your wife but you can just pack up her things as well and the both of you can get lost. I don't mind flexi working hours at all but I have never condoned flexi working days.” Mark's client wasn't able to get him in the office after a trying few times that one particular day, so news went around that he has the privilege of working “flexi-days” I believe him when he says he called up the director himself to inform of his absence from work for two days, Thursday and Friday which led to the client not being able to reach him in the office, naturally. I know this because I witnessed it. I was lying in the hospital waiting to go into the operating theatre that day due to 2nd degree Post-Partum Bleeding. What a nuinsance I was, wasn't I? What a nuinsance my baby was. A haermorrhage, the 3 month colic, the painful and itchy eczema that never seemed to go away, feeding difficulty due to digestive problems. What a nuinsance.
You plague me with a tremendous amount of work, I find myself trying to complete by resuming work at home until 5 a.m. each morning. I go to sleep for about 1 ½ hours before I have to wake up start the same routine all over again. You stage meetings to bring me down. You claim that having Macromedia and Adobe skills mean squat.
“You know how to use Photoshop, you can work Dreamweaver, SO WHAT?” you say
And additionally, being hard working and sitting at the computer finishing off urgent tasks is in fact, working stupid. A smart worker, it seems, is one capable of getting somebody else to finish the job for them. Your accomplices further degrade me by staging acts just to be able to say
“Hey Marina, I think you really need extra hands. Eh Mike, my cousin just graduated with a Multimedia and Art diploma, you think there's a vacancy for him here ah?”
To which Mike can then aptly reply;
“Where got any need for this type of skills-set here? Carry water and serve biscuits, only- lah. That also got kakak already”
You then make things difficult to solve because it involves the cooperation from others but these others, seem to mysteriously disappear just when you need to get something urgent done. SO you wanted to constructively dismiss me? Well, you failed. BUT, you did exhaust and overwork me, play with my mind and laughed when I cried in the office that day. You smirked when I turned up pale and tired and felt the satisfaction when you watched we trip on my way out due to sheer exhaustion. You even stole my books. Now you have your “bumi” status. You brought in two new account managers, malay of course, to suit your plans. So, you got rid of the Chinese you now considered a liability. You allowed my husband the highest basic salary and commission scheme rate. You claim you treated him like a son only to be lied to in the end. “LIED TO” HOW? By working with competitors? You make me laugh at your stupidity when your web-site describes clearly your channel-partners as 3rd party agents and other training centers, similar to yours. You claim that working together would mutually benefit both parties. You stole by husband's brainchild, the endless days he spent coming up with an pertfect MOU and his suggestion of giving more focus on Channel Partners to gain profits based on quantity, groups and the readily allocated government funds. You gained all that and are now reaping the benefits. Scum.
You worked me to the bone, and you didn't even have the nerve to tell me to leave, face to face. You didn't give me what was rightfully mine and now I see my work being used on your new materials, work which I did on my own initiative for future use. You caused us almost RM16,000 in total loss of income.
I will remember this Chinese New Year for as long as I live. Our savings had to be prioritized for settling important matters such as my hospital bills, pediatrician fees, house and car maintenance, road tax renewal… These are the responsibilities of life which no one can afford to shirk. The Fixed Deposit hadn't reached maturity and besides, it was more appropriate to be kept out of easy reach until then. The first Chinese New Year for my son…and it was such a bleak one. I remember the pain I felt and my heartbreak each time I looked at Baby Wee-Wees. I didn't know if our transaction went through. I packed our bags like a zombie and I prayed for a New Year to happen just for him. I packed just in case we could celebrate.
Then I sat down, and I cried. This New Year meant we couldn't have anything new. Not that this fact really mattered to us. We had to be careful. Who knows how long either of us would have to wait. But it did matter because this year, it was us and one more. I cried because I could not stop the tears. I cried because I thought it unfair that my son had to witness so much torment at such a young age. I cried because I imagined how it would feel like for him, ridiculous as it may sound. I cried for all the nights spent sleepless. I cried because I was thrown out of work simply because I was married to my husband. I cried because nobody stood up for us and that people were so eager to make assumptions based on what they see and hear from other parties. I cried because this was a scene in my life which kept recurring. I cried because I remembered the events of my college days. I cried because I remembered my high school experiences. I cried because my primary years were neither spared. I cried beacuse I am once again reminded that I had been sexually, psysically and emotionally abused. I cried for the frightened little girl cowering inside me. That day I was 8 again.
But God was good, at 5 p.m. on the eve of New Year I could bring my son home to celebrate.
The torture has not stopped, I have been fighting to go on, I am so emotionally exhausted. I will not believe myself as incapable.
I couldn't stand another day not working, I was beginning to be able to feel my brain cells depleting. I cannot stand the fact that a woman's place is in the kitchen, at home and money was a source from the husband. Nobody owns me. NOBODY . I would not ask money from my parents anymore. I have done enough of that in the past when I was bumming around after what I thought at that time, I could only accomplish because I was simply a failure. I am a Bimbo after all. “Blond”, with no brains, I recall being a-matter-of-factly informed, was the explanation of the term. Funny how offensive this label seems, to the general society, and how it has enraged so many people. It is after all, supposed to be a joke…a dumb-blond one. So laugh if someone calls you that. Well, I do. If you can't take it, then don't do it. Really quite simple, isn't it?
My mother paid me a visit quite recently. Only to torture me, I suppose. I have not been able to upkeep the house as I normally would, so I prolonged to process this time to remain sane and avoid adding to the stress. Simply because she cannot stand the pace, I get rudely awaken in the mornings, my son jumps up with fright and I am told yet again to get out. In school, she tells me to get out…now she still tells me that. I never demanded for a place to stay neither did I request for any renovations. I was invited during one of her good moods to move to a more “convenient” place. My reply? “Up to you…if you want,” But, when she gets upset I am given a figure, an amount to my name. When I had wanted to give her money, she had refused to accept. “No- lah , no- lah …don't want- lah ,” Well hell, I am opening a ParentCare account, I recently came across, which is a type of insurance for parents from their children…in case the parent outlives the child. --- (hold on a sec, I have to say this: “YA ALLAH!!” More gimmicks.) A pre-determined amount will be automatically transferred into the assigned parent's account every month. They call it a gift for the parents. I am not taking anymore risks. I don't need anymore torture. I have had enough. I want to keep the peace. I had written a proposal and was offered an on-going arrangement.
I always wanted to start something myself, but was initially confused about whether to forgo the on-going arrangement and go ahead with what I desired. I have Amy to thank for this decision. One talk was all it took to make me think if I could take the risk now or if I should, accept the latter. I needed resources for that. Business plans required time and time a key factor I didn't have… nor was I in a state where planning could be carefully thought out. I needed the security first to be able to have peace of mind. Only then, could I focus on other opportunities. I have to date written and amended 3 agreements, sat in discussions that seemed to be heading nowhere, stressed myself out trying to find the time to write the proposal, crying because I felt so alone without help, argued daily because I didn't feel the support from my better half. I felt as thought I was forced into a battle all by myself. No one seemed to be interested with what I was doing or what was going on, not even my own family.
I start this June. My remuneration, turns out to be of the same range as my previous job, with additional perks. I only need to be present twice a week, for a maximum of 5 hours each visit to consult. My son is welcomed each time with a bevy of babysitters all ready to entertain him. At last, I can't help it if business owners have their funny way of thinking but I am so grateful that Baby Wee-Wees has a place where he isn't thought of as an undesired pest but instead is showered with love and gentle attention he rightfully deserves. Now, I can think of the rest without breaking down.
The best part, I have joined the competitor. Since the strategies used in the previous work place are the same old strategies, I'm ready for some in-your-face-ass-kicking. I am making a come-back.
I have suffered hard and I have tolerated long enough. I have endured the assumptions people have made… that I am a loser, that I could never amount to anything, that I got thrown out of my job because I was simply not up to standard and that I am currently not doing anything and recklessly living life even after having a child. People say that because they can escape the reality when they don't experience it. I don't escape my responsibilities. I take breaks, I need them and I deserve then. But, I respect what I have to do. If I didn't, I think that at this point, I would be living in darkness, without food to eat, my baby, skinny and sad looking and heck I sure as hell won't be able to post this.
Money should not be an obsession, a luxury to have, true, but more often, a necessity for basic living. It shouldn't be recklessly spent, although you should allow yourself to be pampered when you are able to afford it. I like things…I admit…I want things…but I won't have anything if I don't work for the source needed to have those things. Everyone works hard to earn their keep and everyone else should respect the fact that it had to be earned…by someone.
Now I know why I don't write about my feelings. I don't like the parts where I cannot stop the tears from falling. Perhaps I couldn't remember this feeling of freedom after coming to a conclusion and learning from acknowledging the hurtful facts.
There is this quiet realization, that although having a support is vital and helps tremendously, [-- thank you, my sayang Ashie Hun-Hun, for the times you made the effort to really listen …] the only person who can really make an impact is none other than your own self.
I have now decided to tackle my difficulty with shyness and my tendency to appologise for even the most insignificant reasons…wish me luck.
[Thank you, Amy. Thank you, Hun-Hun ]
I don't write how I feel. The problem is not that I intentionally mask my feelings wanting to lie to myself but instead I needed desperately to remain optimistic. Often, I think that putting down my frustrations in black and white would only bring me down, that maybe I would only be reminding myself of my own sadness. I am terrified of falling into depression.
I wrote my first “Dear Diary” at 8 years. I can still remember my very first entry. A poem, titled “The Girl in the Corner” I always had a corner. The persons I came to know all these years, made their corners for me. It was where I was aptly put.
The past 4 months have been pure hell. Now that I have the added responsibility of being a mother, stress, pain, anxiety, sadness, frustration, the works, feels so blown out of proportion. The struggle to remain sane, ironically, could have caused me to go insane.
Initially, I used to think of my baby's birth as a curse, a trigger to all the problems which followed. That was, by far, the most stupid thing I could have ever thought of. I love my mother, but I don't understand her ways. She may not be my biological mother but she's the only one I know. After experiencing how immense a mother's love can actually be, the yearning to be loved that way only intensifies.
I was not allowed to carry my “joy” home from the hospital the day I was discharged. My mother did. I remember how I looked at him, longing to hold him but not daring to say anything in case she got upset. That night, I was not the one who fed him. He had his milk on his back and spilled it out through his nose. The scream, deafening. A friend was there visiting, urged me to pick him up. My mother told her to go home. My first day home with equipped with a new title, not having a clue what to do.
Confinement period it seems, meant not caring for the baby. It was a time for new mothers to rest and for somebody else to care for the newborn. I will never understand this stupid tradition. I felt that she had intentions of taking him away from me. All I wanted was to be able to carry him, and learn how to handle my own baby. I have had NO experience with babies. I am the youngest, after all. Every day was a quarrel. Then came the day she gave me an ultimatum. “Get rid of the dogs or get out,” I remember the dreadful feeling. I felt so tortured, but at that point I had no choice. Baby Wee-Wees was only about past two weeks then, and I was in the midst of experiencing the after effects of birth - I had the “baby-blues” I cried for not reason, was irritable, and had insomnia which of course was a common post-natal effect but I now acknowledge that one would have to experience it to understand. She never did, so, I guess she was not going to tolerate the ‘baby-blues'. Lamaze classes were such a waste. Screaming is my mother's second nature, regardless of her audience. Not even a 2 week old, sleeping infant couldn't even keep her toned town.
One week after, I had a haemorrhage. I bled all over the bathroom floor, and got accused by my mother for not abiding strictly by the confinement rules. My obgyn sent me straight to the ward and scheduled an emergency D&C at 10p.m. It spent the most horrible time waiting the worst night alone. Mark had no choice but to be home. Super Mother couldn't handle colicky baby alone.
At 1 month of age I was told to hand him over to the babysitter both day and night simple because I was thought of as incompetent. I only saw my son from 7 p.m. - 9 p.m. on most days. He developed eczema and digestive problems. I still have the bottle I gave the bitch who claimed herself as the experienced, all-knowing, raise-your-child-my-way, fully reliable babysitter, with the water, still contained. Yellow, with very interesting particles floating around, I can only conclude that it must have been collected drain water. I will keep this bottle and anyone eager to hand over their responsibility of caring for their own flesh and blood to someone else is most welcome to take a look and very much encouraged to have a sip. He was accused , I quote, as being “very clever to cry.” I should think that, considering all that she claimed to be so good at, would have known that babies cry when the feel upset, in pain, hungry or frightened. Mine was just simply being a pain-in-the-neck, how convenient. That constitutes the right, I suppose to underfeed him and leave him in filth, and not be around to tend to him and to be left to wail a good 45 mins. before your fucking sleep-like-a-dead log son opens the door and lets the mother in on a sight to behold. “My children are home'” she says. I can just spit at that. “You know your baby very clever to cry one, you also know” Well, fuck you! I don't pay you RM700.00/month for you to tell me that. I have not had, not even ONE bout of eczema, since. “I'm sorry for the short notice but intensive stress on your mind now is good for your future,” I don't know how many times this has rung in my head. I still cannot fathom how cruel some “humans” can be. To deny a person of their livelihood is bad enough but to involve a 4 month old baby is pure evil.
“I don't want to see your face around here anymore. I don't know about your wife but you can just pack up her things as well and the both of you can get lost. I don't mind flexi working hours at all but I have never condoned flexi working days.” Mark's client wasn't able to get him in the office after a trying few times that one particular day, so news went around that he has the privilege of working “flexi-days” I believe him when he says he called up the director himself to inform of his absence from work for two days, Thursday and Friday which led to the client not being able to reach him in the office, naturally. I know this because I witnessed it. I was lying in the hospital waiting to go into the operating theatre that day due to 2nd degree Post-Partum Bleeding. What a nuinsance I was, wasn't I? What a nuinsance my baby was. A haermorrhage, the 3 month colic, the painful and itchy eczema that never seemed to go away, feeding difficulty due to digestive problems. What a nuinsance.
You plague me with a tremendous amount of work, I find myself trying to complete by resuming work at home until 5 a.m. each morning. I go to sleep for about 1 ½ hours before I have to wake up start the same routine all over again. You stage meetings to bring me down. You claim that having Macromedia and Adobe skills mean squat.
“You know how to use Photoshop, you can work Dreamweaver, SO WHAT?” you say
And additionally, being hard working and sitting at the computer finishing off urgent tasks is in fact, working stupid. A smart worker, it seems, is one capable of getting somebody else to finish the job for them. Your accomplices further degrade me by staging acts just to be able to say
“Hey Marina, I think you really need extra hands. Eh Mike, my cousin just graduated with a Multimedia and Art diploma, you think there's a vacancy for him here ah?”
To which Mike can then aptly reply;
“Where got any need for this type of skills-set here? Carry water and serve biscuits, only- lah. That also got kakak already”
You then make things difficult to solve because it involves the cooperation from others but these others, seem to mysteriously disappear just when you need to get something urgent done. SO you wanted to constructively dismiss me? Well, you failed. BUT, you did exhaust and overwork me, play with my mind and laughed when I cried in the office that day. You smirked when I turned up pale and tired and felt the satisfaction when you watched we trip on my way out due to sheer exhaustion. You even stole my books. Now you have your “bumi” status. You brought in two new account managers, malay of course, to suit your plans. So, you got rid of the Chinese you now considered a liability. You allowed my husband the highest basic salary and commission scheme rate. You claim you treated him like a son only to be lied to in the end. “LIED TO” HOW? By working with competitors? You make me laugh at your stupidity when your web-site describes clearly your channel-partners as 3rd party agents and other training centers, similar to yours. You claim that working together would mutually benefit both parties. You stole by husband's brainchild, the endless days he spent coming up with an pertfect MOU and his suggestion of giving more focus on Channel Partners to gain profits based on quantity, groups and the readily allocated government funds. You gained all that and are now reaping the benefits. Scum.
You worked me to the bone, and you didn't even have the nerve to tell me to leave, face to face. You didn't give me what was rightfully mine and now I see my work being used on your new materials, work which I did on my own initiative for future use. You caused us almost RM16,000 in total loss of income.
I will remember this Chinese New Year for as long as I live. Our savings had to be prioritized for settling important matters such as my hospital bills, pediatrician fees, house and car maintenance, road tax renewal… These are the responsibilities of life which no one can afford to shirk. The Fixed Deposit hadn't reached maturity and besides, it was more appropriate to be kept out of easy reach until then. The first Chinese New Year for my son…and it was such a bleak one. I remember the pain I felt and my heartbreak each time I looked at Baby Wee-Wees. I didn't know if our transaction went through. I packed our bags like a zombie and I prayed for a New Year to happen just for him. I packed just in case we could celebrate.
Then I sat down, and I cried. This New Year meant we couldn't have anything new. Not that this fact really mattered to us. We had to be careful. Who knows how long either of us would have to wait. But it did matter because this year, it was us and one more. I cried because I could not stop the tears. I cried because I thought it unfair that my son had to witness so much torment at such a young age. I cried because I imagined how it would feel like for him, ridiculous as it may sound. I cried for all the nights spent sleepless. I cried because I was thrown out of work simply because I was married to my husband. I cried because nobody stood up for us and that people were so eager to make assumptions based on what they see and hear from other parties. I cried because this was a scene in my life which kept recurring. I cried because I remembered the events of my college days. I cried because I remembered my high school experiences. I cried because my primary years were neither spared. I cried beacuse I am once again reminded that I had been sexually, psysically and emotionally abused. I cried for the frightened little girl cowering inside me. That day I was 8 again.
But God was good, at 5 p.m. on the eve of New Year I could bring my son home to celebrate.
The torture has not stopped, I have been fighting to go on, I am so emotionally exhausted. I will not believe myself as incapable.
I couldn't stand another day not working, I was beginning to be able to feel my brain cells depleting. I cannot stand the fact that a woman's place is in the kitchen, at home and money was a source from the husband. Nobody owns me. NOBODY . I would not ask money from my parents anymore. I have done enough of that in the past when I was bumming around after what I thought at that time, I could only accomplish because I was simply a failure. I am a Bimbo after all. “Blond”, with no brains, I recall being a-matter-of-factly informed, was the explanation of the term. Funny how offensive this label seems, to the general society, and how it has enraged so many people. It is after all, supposed to be a joke…a dumb-blond one. So laugh if someone calls you that. Well, I do. If you can't take it, then don't do it. Really quite simple, isn't it?
My mother paid me a visit quite recently. Only to torture me, I suppose. I have not been able to upkeep the house as I normally would, so I prolonged to process this time to remain sane and avoid adding to the stress. Simply because she cannot stand the pace, I get rudely awaken in the mornings, my son jumps up with fright and I am told yet again to get out. In school, she tells me to get out…now she still tells me that. I never demanded for a place to stay neither did I request for any renovations. I was invited during one of her good moods to move to a more “convenient” place. My reply? “Up to you…if you want,” But, when she gets upset I am given a figure, an amount to my name. When I had wanted to give her money, she had refused to accept. “No- lah , no- lah …don't want- lah ,” Well hell, I am opening a ParentCare account, I recently came across, which is a type of insurance for parents from their children…in case the parent outlives the child. --- (hold on a sec, I have to say this: “YA ALLAH!!” More gimmicks.) A pre-determined amount will be automatically transferred into the assigned parent's account every month. They call it a gift for the parents. I am not taking anymore risks. I don't need anymore torture. I have had enough. I want to keep the peace. I had written a proposal and was offered an on-going arrangement.
I always wanted to start something myself, but was initially confused about whether to forgo the on-going arrangement and go ahead with what I desired. I have Amy to thank for this decision. One talk was all it took to make me think if I could take the risk now or if I should, accept the latter. I needed resources for that. Business plans required time and time a key factor I didn't have… nor was I in a state where planning could be carefully thought out. I needed the security first to be able to have peace of mind. Only then, could I focus on other opportunities. I have to date written and amended 3 agreements, sat in discussions that seemed to be heading nowhere, stressed myself out trying to find the time to write the proposal, crying because I felt so alone without help, argued daily because I didn't feel the support from my better half. I felt as thought I was forced into a battle all by myself. No one seemed to be interested with what I was doing or what was going on, not even my own family.
I start this June. My remuneration, turns out to be of the same range as my previous job, with additional perks. I only need to be present twice a week, for a maximum of 5 hours each visit to consult. My son is welcomed each time with a bevy of babysitters all ready to entertain him. At last, I can't help it if business owners have their funny way of thinking but I am so grateful that Baby Wee-Wees has a place where he isn't thought of as an undesired pest but instead is showered with love and gentle attention he rightfully deserves. Now, I can think of the rest without breaking down.
The best part, I have joined the competitor. Since the strategies used in the previous work place are the same old strategies, I'm ready for some in-your-face-ass-kicking. I am making a come-back.
I have suffered hard and I have tolerated long enough. I have endured the assumptions people have made… that I am a loser, that I could never amount to anything, that I got thrown out of my job because I was simply not up to standard and that I am currently not doing anything and recklessly living life even after having a child. People say that because they can escape the reality when they don't experience it. I don't escape my responsibilities. I take breaks, I need them and I deserve then. But, I respect what I have to do. If I didn't, I think that at this point, I would be living in darkness, without food to eat, my baby, skinny and sad looking and heck I sure as hell won't be able to post this.
Money should not be an obsession, a luxury to have, true, but more often, a necessity for basic living. It shouldn't be recklessly spent, although you should allow yourself to be pampered when you are able to afford it. I like things…I admit…I want things…but I won't have anything if I don't work for the source needed to have those things. Everyone works hard to earn their keep and everyone else should respect the fact that it had to be earned…by someone.
Now I know why I don't write about my feelings. I don't like the parts where I cannot stop the tears from falling. Perhaps I couldn't remember this feeling of freedom after coming to a conclusion and learning from acknowledging the hurtful facts.
There is this quiet realization, that although having a support is vital and helps tremendously, [-- thank you, my sayang Ashie Hun-Hun, for the times you made the effort to really listen …] the only person who can really make an impact is none other than your own self.
I have now decided to tackle my difficulty with shyness and my tendency to appologise for even the most insignificant reasons…wish me luck.
[Thank you, Amy. Thank you, Hun-Hun ]