Love/Hate

A couple of people have asked me to post this up, so here it is. 

For Flash Prose Writing, which is my elective for the 2nd semester, we were given the assignment to write about 'Hate'. I wrote a non-fiction piece about my experience with hating whilst I was growing up. Reading it out in front of a room of over 30 people was both terrifying and comforting, especially because one of the people I talked about was someone nearly everyone in the room knew. Either way, enjoy, and remember that this piece is as raw as it gets. 

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Love/Hate

I hated my first person when I was only seven. Her name was Carrie, and she was the first friend I made when I started school. We both shared a penchant for furry stickers and gymnastics, and within a month, we were declaring our “best-friends-forever” status. But then one day, I hated her. She was pretty and popular and everything I wanted to be, but never could. At the time, I couldn’t identify envy. I just knew that I didn’t want to be her friend, and when someone asked why, I would declare, “Why do I need a reason? I just hate her!”

‘Hate’ was a word we all threw around, participating in this childish idea that we needed ‘enemies’ and ‘haters’ to really be up there. If everyone liked you, something was clearly wrong. You had to step on a few toes to be successful. So I hated Carrie, and in return, she hated me too. Win-win.

But, growing up, hating started to take on a whole new meaning. I must have been thirteen when I got into a huge fight with a dear friend, Diana, and in my famously irrational temperament, had gone around telling anyone who would listen how much I hated her.

Then, someone stopped me, and said, “You know, if you hate her, you probably love her. You don’t really hate someone you don’t care about.”

That must have been one of the stupidest things I had ever heard and I dismissed it. Yet, six years later, I found myself sitting in my bedroom, crying my heart out, and remembering those exact words. I was crying because I had decided, once again, that I was going to hate someone, but this time, the decision hadn’t been easy. It wasn’t whimsical, and it was killing every fibre of my being to have come to that decision.

I had loved Jason. Or rather, I still did. We had the sort of friendship that I had always wanted, the kind that had virtually no boundaries. I could knock on his door at one in the morning and he would come out, bleary-eyed and flustered, and let me cry about anything. I could hug him for ages, the feeling of safety in his arms the one I never wanted to lose. We had comfortable silences and uncomfortable conversations. In time, I grew to trust and love him. But then, gradually, things changed. There were no longer late night conversations about life. Doors were closed in my face. Hugs were short and awkward. Silences were uncomfortable. Everything I used to love about him started to irritate me. His strong work ethic which I had so admired was now just the reason why he never had time to watch Homeland with me. The many photos he would take of himself on my camera, which used to be so endearing, was now just a stark reminder of easier, happier times. He always said he cared, but that rung hollow in my ears. Actions speak louder than words.

I didn’t know what caused the change. All I knew was that I was left with a dull ache in my heart. So, when I realised that loving him wasn’t going to be enough, I decided to hate him. 

But how do you hate someone you’ve loved more than anyone in the world? How do you wake up one day and start hating everything that used to warm your heart? How do you walk past this person in the hallway and avert your gaze so you don’t even see him in the corner of your eyes? How do you pretend he is dead, when the memories are still so alive? 

Honestly, you can’t and I learned this the hard way. It used to be so easy to ‘hate’ someone. I ‘hated’ Carrie because I was jealous of her, and despite how, in retrospect, that was an ill-founded reason to hate someone, our mutual distaste of each other stretched on. When we finally talked to each other again, five years later, we both reflected upon how stupid and childish we had been. The worst part was realizing that we had lost all that time – all the time that we could have spent on trading furry stickers or doing cartwheels. It seemed so dumb, and to this day, we remain friends. But here’s the thing about all those people I thought I hated – I didn’t care about them enough to actually hate them. I didn’t even dislike them, because that warranted a certain liking. The opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s indifference. And hate, well, it’s love masked with anger and disappointment. When that all falls away, you still love the person you thought you hated. You still want him to be happy. You see him laugh and you smile a little inside, but then you’re hit by this sadness that you’re no longer part of that laughter. 

They always say it’s bad to hate. Yet, you can’t hate someone you don’t love. So I wonder if, perhaps, I shouldn’t love at all.

9 years.

It seems almost surreal that 9 years have passed, that I'm actually still here and functioning and actually doing pretty well for myself. I remember, 9 years ago, thinking that my life had ended. I had lost a part of me and it felt so horribly hollow that I didn't think I could continue living. I cried every night, fingers crossed, waiting for him to come back. I would wake up at 2am in the morning, in cold sweat, from nightmares about the accident, and I would crane my neck to listen for the soft music from his room, or his familiar cough.

Of course, none of that came.

It took me 2 years to accept that he was gone, totally gone, and I would never again be able to fight with him over what show to watch at dinner. At 11, I didn't understand death. Or rather, I decided I wouldn't try to. When people died, others cried, and you never saw that person again. You're told that they've gone to a better place.

I remember thinking, "Why didn't you bring me with you?"

But it's been 9 years, and so much has changed. When it happened, when I watched the last mound of soil cover the wooden prison that encased his body, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to move forward. It just seemed like I would always be in that moment, wet cheeks, red-eyed, light-headed. I didn't realise that all I needed to do was take one step. Then another. Move on. No, it wasn't easy. I came back to school and everyone treaded on eggshells around me. I was fragile to them. I couldn't blame them for treating me differently. Although I seemed fine, I was breaking every other day inside.

So, move on.

People always say that. Here's the deal, though. Don't ever say that to someone who lost her brother, or a parent, or a friend, or, quite simply, anyone. You have no idea what they're dealing with. You have no idea if they've started taking that baby steps. And telling someone to "move on", it just undermines everything they've done to, well, move on. Because even though it seems like we still cry and miss them, we're coming to terms with it in our own ways. I no longer have nightmares. I no longer sit by his grave and break down. I no longer think that I should have been the one who died that evening.

And that, to me, is moving on.

9 years is a long time. But when all you used to know was him, when he was the one who used to carry you in his arms when you were just a baby, it doesn't matter if it's 3 years or 9 or even 20. You're going to miss him. You're going to wonder how different life would be if he was still alive. You're going to have days where you backtrack. That isn't anything to be ashamed about.

When all that's said and done, it's just really so damn easy to miss what we lost. It's even easier to miss them when they used to be such a big part of your life. You can try and try to fill that empty hole they've left behind with work, TV shows or even volunteering. Truth is, you probably will never find a good fit for that gaping hole, because everyone who comes and goes leaves their own unique mark on you.

But what I've realised, a bit late, admittedly, is that there's still so many things to be grateful for. I'm part of an amazing school. I've got some pretty awesome friends who deal with my crazy and love me despite all my fuck-ups, who forgive me when I act out or break down at their doors. I've still got family, and they support me through all the risks I'm currently taking, even though they can't quite express it.

In the words of an old friend, I'm #blessed.

home and family

I was in a cab with a friend the other day, and she turned to me and asked if I call my dorm by its name, RC4, or if I called it home.

I didn't answer for awhile, because I was thinking very hard about what home meant to me. It means different things to different people, but for me, it was very simple. Home is where family is. It's where you feel the safest. It's the place you go to after a long, tiring day and are completely comfortable. It's where you can laugh, cry, throw a fit, and be okay.

And then it occurred to me that whenever I was out with friends, I would always tell them, "I'm going home."

It became second nature to me after awhile, calling this place home. I don't know when this happened. I don't know when I stopped calling this place "RC4" and started calling it "home". Words say so much more than we think, and I realise that this place is my home because the people here are my family.

So I told my friend that I called it home, and said it's where my family is. Somewhere along that sentence, my voice cracked. Family. It was painful to say that word.

"Home is where family is, but I broke that family up two months ago."

In what I gather was a bid to comfort me, she said something about how I've known these people for slightly over half a year, and how that can't exactly mean they're my family.

Well, honestly? I disagree. I really do. I think there's so much more to being family than time. I've known some people for half my life, but they're just good friends. I love some people to death, but they're just good friends. Family is different. Family is a whole new level of commitment. Of promises. Of love, and of forgiveness.

I remember the moment I decided every single one of these people were family. I remember the feeling of safety, hugging a friend by the Esplanade waterfront, and realising I hadn't felt safe for a long, long time. I remember breaking down at another friend's door from emotional stress, and instead of being disgusted, he made me come in, sit on his bed and let me cry it all out. I remember a conversation two friends had in secret (but one told me) where they both expressed how difficult it was to show they loved me, but that they were seized by an overwhelming need to protect me if the need ever arose. I remember sitting by the lift lobby and talking about family. I remember fights and I remember reunions. But most of all, I remember all the love and the trust.

My biggest mistake, though, was deciding that these people were family. Because you don't get to decide. It's got to happen on its own. Words say so much more than we think, but sometimes, they don't say enough.

Sometimes, even family isn't enough.

of unspoken words

Are you alright?

No, I am not alright. I don't understand how anyone would think I am alright with anything that has been going on the past few months. I hate that we have to have it together all the time. Yeah, I'm fine. Sure, I'm okay. No, no, I'm just not feeling well, nothing's wrong. We're so scared of how people would react if we really told them how we were feeling that we just keep it all in, and then when it gets too much, we let it out. And when it comes out, it's never subtle. It's a giant cloud mushroom. It's repressed anger, sadness, disappointment, melancholy, in one explosion of raw, unfettered emotion.

Which brings me to ask the very simple question: why must we have it together all the time?

I want to break down once in awhile. I want to get completely irrational, stay in my room and keep to myself whenever I'm too tired to face the world. I want to throw a bitch fit. I want to be able to get disappointed at the people I love when they disappoint me, without feeling like I have no right to impose my expectations on them.

No, I'm most assuredly not perfect. I have my bad moments. I make bad decisions. I say bad things that I don't mean but can't take back. But I know that doesn't define me. It doesn't mean I'm a bad person. It just means that I don't have my shit together sometimes, and that is alright.

Are you happy?

Yes, yes I am. As far as I can be, I am. I'm not saying that I'm happy with the way things are now. I'm not saying I enjoy passing by our usual haunts and see the ghosts of what used to be. I'm not even saying that it doesn't kill me every time we see each other and we take great pains to pretend we don't. All I'm saying is that as I live day by day, I am happy. I do the things that I know will distract me and I spend time with the people who try their best to make sure I have a smile on my face. I refuse to sit in my room and brood or cry over what has happened. Maybe if this was 2010, that would have been me. But I've grown to realise that you can't hinge your happiness on the people you love, no matter how much you loved them, no matter how much you still love them. You've got to do things for yourself so that when things fall apart, you're still put together. Because the truth is, when you break down, some people will run the hell away, no matter the promises you made to each other when things were fine and dandy.

But no, I am not happy that I've lost a part of me. I can't pretend that there isn't a gaping emptiness somewhere in my being that cries occasionally, or that my heart doesn't long for the familiarity of a long, comforting hug.

Sometimes, I just feel lost, amidst all the ways I'm trying to keep myself busy. Amidst all the tuition sessions and the guitar lessons and the volunteering. I pass by the Esplanade and I think about the night we bared our hearts out and I thought about the simplicity of life and friendship and family. I sit in a cab and I think about the time you said you lost the only family you had when she left to go home and I told you that you always had family here, and you smiled at me in a way that said you were grateful. Then I think about the fact that you both were my family, and it hits me that I'm losing family all over again. Only this time, it was a choice.

The worst thing to realise is that your love is a burden. That you love so recklessly and sincerely that sometimes, you expect more than they are willing to give. That you all said you were family but only you meant it. That they're better off without you weighing them down with your sullen nature and occasionally temper-tantrums. That, no matter how much you love them, you know they're happier now and all you are is a piece of their past.

Well, then, it's time to move on.