Heart breaks easy

I've never tried so hard not to wallow.

The thoughts come, I push them away.

My eyes well with heat, I squeeze them till they know who's boss.

The ache in my heart fizzles through a vein in my left arm. I feel the tingle and numbness in my left hand. It makes me wonder if this is what caused my mum's heart to rip itself apart. Did her heartbreak break her heart? Chance.

As I averted my gaze, I felt his boring into my face. Reading, searching. Trying to make it right by... eye power. He moved his hand to take mine, but my fingers didn't respond. They couldn't. I was a rock. I was a wall. The tears found its own way out, meandering down my steely face. The wall that I was made no effort to wipe them.

"I've been selfish. I put my needs before yours. But you are everything to me. If you asked me to quit this job, I would do it in a heartbeat. I just want to be with you. Please, will you forgive me?"

He was crying too. He's always been a big softie. That's what I love about him. Especially because his vulnerability is a side of himself he reserves only for me.

But I didn't want him to quit him job, sheesh. It's a good job that the Lord has in no certain terms blessed him with. He doesn't need a new job. Just maybe... some perspective.

I love this man. That's the only reason why he could break my heart this badly. So of course I forgive him. I let him hug me—the wall needs time to un-wall. I tell him I need time to heal but in the meantime, we can watch tv.

We will watch tv until the next time one of our hearts breaks--and comes back--again.

Satisfied

It's 2022. I'm back.

So much has happened. Yet, not sure if much has changed. Still fuddled, still muddled. 

That thing with that boy. And today's thing that only wrapped at 3am.

Will I ever be satisfied? Fine, I get that this isn't an award-winning script. It's pretty basic. Boring at best. But where I was from, people had pride and took pride. They detailed the details, they settled for nothing.

You wandered away. You talked grandly about other projects and paid little heed to the project at hand. You rubbed your eyes and shook your head, offering little nothing in your comments and suggestions. You didn't press, weren't precious, didn't push. You didn't seem to care. Why were you even there? Why did we need you? For face? For client confidence? 

Fuck it.

But I know that this isn't the first time I've felt this way. Misunderstood. Overlooked. Unheard. And they've been many a time where I've harboured the same thought: I don't want to do this anymore. If no one else gets it, gets me, then this isn't for me. 

Will I ever be satisfied?

I wrote this script. I had a vision, a plan. I took a part of me and put it in writing, on paper, out there. Why the fuck was it left in the hands of people who had zero fucks to give to bring it to life?

I will never be satisfied.

Not done yet

There's no more time. There's no more time.

There's no more time to do what we want. There's little time to do what we have to.

But we have to. We have to.

And yet all that takes so much time. (It makes me wonder if performing arts is a worthwhile ministry to be in although how can it be denied that time invested in a well put together play will bring more hearts to the altar.)

A senior died recently. Friends bid him rest. For some of them, I know they say that for his parents. For his parents, I know they wish that desperately to be true. How can we possibly suggest to them otherwise?

That he may be in hell - forever?

We went to speak to his mother on our way out. She took our hands and held on softly, firmly. Desperately. As if clinging on to someone who knew him, someone who remembered him, who talked to him, spent life with him, created friendship with him, would somehow make it feel like he was still around. That some part of him hadn't been completely lost in the collision. That some part of him wasn't sentenced to eternal condemnation.

Suffering.

Slavery.

How much anguish a mother must feel to bury a child. To see his body, once perfect, once flawless, soft, innocent and full of hope, now destroyed in a seemingly random unnecessary occurrence.

Without life.

And while many of them wish him rest, wish him peace, I know that their blessings are but dire pleas. For without God, his 'resting place' surely is bereft of all the wellness we hope for him and frankly, for ourselves.

Best in the world

He goes out of his way to make her happy. And I don't like that. He's my boss. Why does he care whether she's happy or unhappy, fussy or gay? Still, like a father coaxes his crying child into fits of laughter, he coos at her, grinning his dorky childish grin and cracking his left-fielded, almost slap-stick, jokes.

Can we say that we are the best agency in Asia?

I wonder if she notices. Or whether she simply turns her nose up and clip clops away, telling everyone in her trail that she's having a bad day or that she's had enough. Huff puff.

"Maybe it's because she behaves like a child." I wanted to believe that.

*****

I took off my glasses and rubbed at the smudges on the lens. Slowly, purposefully. I didn't want to meet gazes, I didn't want to leak emotions. I didn't feel particularly upset, I just wanted to be within myself in that moment. To see within. To feel within.

"Have you seen NINJAGO yet, Nat?" He asked. "No. Why? Have you?" I answered normally. "No. I actually haven't seen a movie in ages. Not even at home." It was a non-conversation, started only because I think he thought something was up with me. Why didn't he address the question to T as well? She's as much part of the account as I am.

*****

He came over to us as we were talking in hushed tones. He told us he'd deal with the script. That translated as "I'm going to take care of it" in my head. He stood tall, authoritatively, assertively. Was this him stepping up and being the leader we needed? He spoke more, I didn't look at him. I wasn't looking at anything. For a second, I wasn't a feeling being. I was space, filling the limbo between planes. Then, he stopped and dipped his head ever so slightly, almost as if to catch my attention. I looked at him. His eyes widened in a sayang kind of "ok?" I managed a wry smile and a nod. I hope he doesn't think I need taking care of. This is work. I'm an adult.

*****

My boss felt like a papa today. Not just to her, but to me. And today I felt like I was a kid who had a spat with her sister. And our papa made it all better.

Levity

You told me I was light. Levity.

You told me that I seemed unburdened. Uncomplicated.

Maybe that was just your father. Perhaps you didn't believe him.

I certainly didn't.

And for a while I thought maybe that was a virtue I should aspire towards. After all, God calls us to be light - the noun not the adjective. But He also asks us to be joyful, to be hopeful. And because you thought that of me, liked that about me, that's what I wanted to be.

But now with what has happened, where does that leave things?

Where does that leave me?

You were wrong before. I make no judgement for your actions now.

All I know is that God is here. He is with me. That has not changed. It never has, never will.

Light or not.

Going down swinging

It's been difficult coming back here.

For many reasons. Professional writing has, indeed, been detrimental to my writing for leisure. And also, the shortcomings of a writer not being able to put into words things she feels is a shame that I haven't yet overcome.

Amongst a list of others.

But I have come back, if only for a short and ineloquent while, for this:

1. I feel disqualified
I can't serve until my relationship is right with God. I can't serve because my relationship is not right with God.

2. I'm a misfit
There are those who are holy. Who have an inexplicable relationship with God. They hear Him, they see Him, they're going to foreign lands for Him, they're speaking from pulpits in His name. I don't fit in with them.

There are those who are young. Their understanding of the bible is shallow. Their faith is but a puddle. Not child-like, just lacking.

I feel excluded from the first group, I'm not edified by the second.

3. I don't care
I find it hard to believe that anyone cares. Because I don't. I want to pour my heart to someone and to not feel ashamed. To not feel as if I'm burdening them. To not feel like I'm a passing wind, to be caught once in a while but to be left for open waters. I want to be heard and understood in ways that I don't even expect, in ways that even I don't understand, let alone be able to articulate.

I know God is the best answer. But... where is God?

It's a big mess and yet it comes full circle. It confounds me and yet, in a sickening way, it makes complete sense.

The devil keeps telling me to give up. It's alluring, the call. I know it's the devil. He is the lion on the prowl, he is the dragon swishing his tail threateningly, smacking his lips in hungry anticipation. He tells me to ask God: what would You do to save me?

Why would You leave it to me to choose You? Especially when the choice now seems so hard.

Scripture comes to mind. The fail-save is kicking in. And yet what does it mean but words that've been drilled into my head over the years? Where is it found in my heart?

I read back what I've just typed and it sounds so childish. The answers resound in my head. I know what they sound like. But I'm going to let this sit. I'm going to let this out.

Dear reader, don't cast judgement on my God. He's good and real to many people I know – and He could be for you too. But this is between me and Him.

To hear, speak.

Today's Thir.st reading:

How do you hear the voice of God? Read the bible out loud.

John 1:1 In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

OK. I try.