Saturday, September 29, 2007

Halloween Treats on DIY



Halloween is just around the corner and we have a special crafty treat for you!

On Monday, October 1st our Halloween Special “Witch Crafts” will begin on DIY Network. Witch Crafts is a 5-part mini series and a 1-hour special. The shows will air all month on DIY. Halloween Day, DIY will be running a marathon of all the “Witch Crafts” shows.

For TIVO and DVR users you will need to input the word “Witch Crafts.”

We had so much fun filming and getting into all the make-up.

Visit the DIY website for more info: DIY

Witch Crafts on DIY (times vary)
part 1 - Oct 1, 22, 23 & 31
part 2 - Oct 2,11,23,31
part 3 - Oct 3,11,24,25,&31
part 4 - Oct 4, 12,25,30 & 31
part 5 - Oct 5, 12, 26,29 7 31
hour special - Oct 8, 17,19 & 31

Creative Juice is twice as nice!

Now you can watch Creative Juice twice a day on DIY!

12:30 pm eastern & 3:00 pm eastern

For those of you who are missing us from HGTV. Thanks for all your emails :) Let HGTV know how you feel! Write to HGTV here!

Do you get our newsletter? Wanna sign up? Here is a peek at what the newsletter looks like. cathieandsteve newsletter

Sign up for the newsletter by emailing to newsletter(at)cathieandsteve(dot)com! Don't worry we don't sell addresses.

Have a super October, tune in for tons of surprises and get crafty,
Cathie and Steve

Thursday, September 27, 2007

What it isn't.

So you think it's all about hugs, and flowers and sweet notes.

There's a reason why I don't watch romantic chick-flicks. I'm not impressed by romantic fluff. So you argue movies are based on real-life, and I'd tell you I know enough people who've had enough of their lives ruined because of unrealistic expectations, heightened to ludricrous heights because of a Colin Firth. I defend Disney. People ought to know that cartoons feed our inner child. Children don't have issues with romance. There's no complication when it comes to the number of bouquets, timing of poetry, the level of creativity. It comes with a standard armour and a flying white unicorn. Period.

I like to listen to Real stories. However small or unimpressive the gesture, a real-life act of love beats the dramatic love sequel of epic proportion any day.

So you tell me you've lost someone, the someone I told you to stay away from but you wanted to give it a shot anyhow. You asked me what I thought and I said I didn't like to try such things out. I don't do trial and error. You said it was worth it. I shrugged.

And we all thought it was wonderful, all the hugs, flowers and sweet notes. But these things aren't love at all. They are Romance at best, deception at worst.

Love is not a feeling. It is a choice.

We think we love, so we wrap a part of our hearts in delicate chiffon, tie it up in satin ribbon and give it away, let it into someone else's skin. We think we love, so we give more and more, till it stifles and stunts and sucks away. We like the feeling. But love is not a feeling. Romance is. Love is a choice.

I tell you what it is. Love is self-control. It is restraining yourself so you don't smother someone or something else. It is thinking logically, holding back your words of declaration, putting the other person's best interest first over your own feelings, even if it means giving the other time, space, movement because it simply isn't the right time for the other to hear it. It is maintaining a distance even though your body chemicals crave the intoxicating feeling of a close presence, a perpetual lingering fuzzy feeling, because you know the Physical Touch complicates things. It complicates things far too much. Love is feeling the feeling, then thinking about it with regards to the other person's best interest, then more often than not, learning to take authority over unreined emotions, sometimes even suppressing them, willing them away because it isn't the right thing, or the right time, or so we can test to see if we were really genuine about Love or merely seeking Security instead. Love is being there even if you don't feel like it. If we based our affections on feelings alone, there'd be hardly anyone keeping up with a marriage, a church, a job. Love is discipline, the anti-thesis of emotional indulgence and gluttony. It is temperance, self-restraint, self-control- without controlling the other person.

Love is not a feeling. I am convinced.

"I'm surprised and yet not surprised to hear this from you. I think many people would disagree with you, Wai Jia, especially artists. We, artists, are intense people. Emotional. All this self-control, you all right up there?"

"Yea. Of course I am. It's difficult- it really is. "

"I must say I do admire it though. It's very... ideal. I'd feel trapped though, really. "

" I feel trapped sometimes too. I'm an artist too, remember?"

"Yea."

Being free, doesn't come for free.

It's not a feeling. It's a daily emotional crucifixtion to our basic human instincts to do what's right, whats best for the other person, even if it means putting your blood in the ice for a while. True love goes against your basic human instincts.

Right?

It's the highest art form of all. Taking control of the Emotion and putting it under Will.

Love is a choice.

21 soon.

Scrapes make little girls cry.

Sometimes girls cry for no reason at all, and sometimes they do for every reason, but they don't tell you so you just have to let them. Thank you for letting me cry on your knee today without asking me why, what, who, when, without asking me to explain everything, explain everything, explain everything. It's so tiring to have to explain everything. Thank you for not making me have to explain everything.

How do I begin to tell you how terribly frightening all this is to me, this growing up to become that terrifyingly awe-inspiring thing called a Woman, that knows, does, loves everything. How do I begin to tell you how terribly awkward this is for me, perhaps worse than sticking through a bad-acne-frazzled-hair-and-no-one-invited-me-to-that-cool-party pubescent period. How do I begin to tell you that since the happy childhood ended, I purposefully grew myself up and now, I'm just a peculiar mix of grown-up and little-kid that can't decide which direction is better to grow into.

How do I tell you. That I don't know anything about anything, and nothing about everything.

Too many things happened today. And it wrenched my heart so.

Too many question marks in places that should have answers. Too many empty spaces in places that ought to be filled. People looking for me seeking advice, love and inspiration, and me finding myself increasingly inadequate, small, awkward. They are seeing me as if I am a grown-up, an adult, a Big Responsible Person with Answers and Direction and Purpose in Life, a thing they call a Woman.

And I am but a child, forced to age because of a certain experience, now in a young Woman's body, unpolished, roughened and awkward.

She can travel independently on solo trips to developing countries but can't drive a car in her neighbourhood. She can raise funds for orphanages and projects but she can't earn a cent. She's a medical student, supposedly intelligent, but hasn't a clue about financial management. She's read much about psychology, counselling etc, but struggles with coping with her own emotions day to day. She is the person people turn to for advice regarding their relationship problems, but she's never been in one herself. One part is growing up too fast, knows too much, loves too hard; the other part can't drive, earn a salary, read a map. One part loves too hard, too many; the other doesn't know how.

You think she's matured because she doesn't club, drink, smoke, or engage in the emo-decadent things young people do; you think she's matured because she talks like she is; you think she's all grown-up because she seems to be so. But you don't know, you don't know nothing. What if she's grown up too fast, too soon in some ways, and not grown up at all in others? Have you seen those old, wrinkled aunties in their fifties on the streets wearing tight-fitting, lycra clothes, black fishnet stockings, gaudy gold jewellery with make-up caked onto their faces in inches? Have they grown up backwards? Or in two directions?

She doesn't know why she cried today. She was facilitating a meeting she organised, a very grown-up Responsible thing to do. Then she needed a knee, a scrapeless knee, just to lean on and cry on for a while, like the way a little child throws himself onto Mommy's lap.

Can a person grow up backwards. Or in two directions.

Why did nobody warn me.

This girl needs someone to take her on a carousel ride on a white unicorn, take her for a spin at night for an ice-cream cone through a Mac Donald's drive-through, go swimming in floats, or play on the slide, over and over and over again.

Can I buy some time, please?

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

As a blessing.

I remember what my publisher had told me before.

"You know, you don't have to raise money for every single book. Sometimes, you'll meet people whom you need to give it away to- as a blessing, you know. As a blessing. You never know the extent to which you may bless them. The money'll be taken care of, don't worry about that."

So I listened to him, and along the way, have given away copies to various strangers, people hidden in angels' cloaks whom I meet along the way. A cab driver, Hideo, and other random strangers who become friends.

Some three months back, I was on a train, on my way to visit a church. It was a fairly empty train carriage, and he caught my eye- He, a black man in a pearly white shirt with a large bible clasped under his armpit. Our eyes met, so I smiled.

It was obvious we were both heading in the same direction, so we started talking.

"Where're you from and what're you doing here?" I asked.

"I'm from Johannesburg," he replied chirply. He had a spring in both his step and voice. " I love it here. I'm working at Unilever."

"Unilever?" I said in disbelief. "You mean the company linked to Dove? I'm doing a project for them... well, sort of. "

So we talked. About our lives, work and God.

He asked me what I'd been up to, and so I told him about Nepal, the children whom I'll never forget, and Kitesong. I had a copy with me then, and when he saw it, he asked if he could have it. He wanted to write a book, too.

"Give me your account number, I'll drop some money into your bank sometime," he said.

I thought to myself that I would not blame him if he did not remember, and as I signed it for him, I felt I was giving it away. But I remember what my publisher had said- that sometimes, you cannot measure the fruit of your work in coins and dollars. Some people just need inspiration, he told me, and I ought to give it to them.

Three months passed.

Last night, I received an email.

Hi Wai Jia,

How are you doing? Trust all is well with you. Hope the ministry is prospering. Just to let you know I deposited SGD100 in your POSB account on Sat. No worries, it's a seed I'm sowing into your life and your ministry. Don't bother with a receipt.

Cheers,
C

Monday, September 24, 2007

Walking Home.

Text message: “Hey Jia, Ive a student. She’s been facing eating problems for 2 years. Her kidneys are giving her problems and she has anaemia. She’s having her exams soon and Im meeting her. Any advice?”

More and more frequently, my email and text message inboxes receive messages asking for help. On good days, I take action immediately, sometimes following up with a call back to find out whatever the matter is, and how I may help. On bad days, I take hours to reply- spending that time to let the dust of chaos settle within me.

Unless I’m all right, I can’t do anything to help you. The paralysis is both frustrating and painful.

That day, I met you again, this time at a bus stand. You looked much better. The last time I met you, you were a wreck, and had wanted to kill yourself. This time, your eyes were brighter, there was a certain hopefulness in your smile, and you didnt show me your slit wrists. You told me you took my advice and informed your mentor, and decided to see a counselor more regularly. You were on your way to see a psychiatrist at a private hospital. I told you to keep up with it regularly. "Depression is like Tuberculosis," I said, "If you stop treatment once the symptoms subside, you can be sure of a relapse... It’s like a virus. Latent reactivation. Keep up with the counseling. Make sure problems are solved for good.” I smiled weakly. That sounded like really cheesy advice, I thought.

She understood.

We talked a little more but when we got on the bus, my mind was too preoccupied with the duststorm of chaos that was brewing within me from the day’s events. Also, I was afraid. I always am, even when I don’t show it. I’m not a professional. I can only do and say this much to you. I am limited. And the words, “I come first”, selfish as they sound, came to my mind, as I remembered what others had so often reminded me- that whatever it was, my own welfare had to come first, and I had to love myself before loving others, help myself before reaching out. If one is not careful, Blackness can spread like gangrene.

So, I walked away.

Instead of taking the train together with you, I looked back, said, “See you!” and walked away. Something inside me said I'd done my part, enough was enough and it was okay to walk away.

Later that evening, I received a text message from you: “Hey Wai Jia, you seemed to be in a hurry. Anyway.. Im thankful every time I meet you. Your care and concern for others warms my heart. Hope youll have a blessed day.”

How it stung.

Instead of the warm and fuzzy feelings it was supposed to invoke, the message stung me. At once, my face was hot with embarrassment. It wanted to hide itself under a paper bag. I cannot describe the feeling of wretchedness except to say that it was a moment, one of those moments, which made me mad with a hot fury, and which made me want to leave the Blackness behind.

I walked away because I was afraid.

I purposefully, consciously and deliberately walked away from you. Even when I met you at the MRT platform the last time, I remember I shifted myself strategically away from you because I didn’t have a great day and wanted time to myself. If you weren’t so desperate, I would have completely lost you. I can't believe I did that.

How your message stung.

Not once ever again do I want to turn someone away because I was too busy coping with my own darkness to shine light into theirs. How can I cradle someone else’s if Im too busy coping with my own?

At times like these, I realize how silly, stupid and small my own cares and worries are, how much I really do want to be completely wholesome and free from Blackness so I can be there for someone else instead of being busy being there for me.

I’m so thankful. And I’m so sorry.

I’m so sorry for walking away. And thankful that you're okay now.

I promise to save Stars for you next time.



"Forget not to show love unto strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares."
-Hebrews 13:2

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Betrothed.

People keep asking me why.

Because. Just because.

In some countries in Eastern europe it is believed that if a ring cracks some important event will happen or has happened.

- Wikipedia

Friday, September 21, 2007

Draft 4.

I love sitting in my publisher's office.

Sitting on that wooden chair so low to the floor that your bum sinks backwards, in the midst of books, fresh from the print and worn from time, watching a man busying himself, making phonecalls, checking emails, running around- just, doing what he loves to do, waiting for him with your drafts, anxiously… it’s one of the most unnerving and nicest feelings in the world.

Books all around you. Books that birthed from ideas, desires, Real souls; Books that sit on shelves, pregnant with knowledge and expression; Squares of paper, humble, waiting to be fondled with, delved into. Books waiting to be opened.

To be in the midst of books in the making, is a grand feeling. It overpowers you. Awe.

"Give me some time, I'll be ready soon," he says, in the midst of a million other things to see to. I say, "Take your time," and I smile.

He makes a phonecall, returns a couple of emails, runs over to the computer across the room and finally sweeps over to the table where I’m at, before being called back to his desk by another urgent call.

I love to sit in his office.

And when he is finally ready, ready to look at my work, an intellectual battle breaks out, and I love it. We tug and pull over which pages to edit, which not to, what to excise and what to preserve. We debate about which pages are “necessary”, and which aren’t. He makes a proposal, and I vehemently object to it. He backs down, as I stand my ground, before he comes forward again with a sound argument.

My art and my Being is on the line. His comments make or break me. Here is man I respect making a critical assessment of my art. I love it.

My eyebrows are frowning, our still bodies belie the storm of thoughts within us. Our meetings are full of charged moments We argue, debate, tug and tussle, and yet do all this beautifully, peaceably- we both know, we aren’t doing this for ourselves. We both want the story to help raise awareness about depression and eating disorders, things which people don't want to talk about. We both want to convey a story and a message in the best possible way. We just want what’s best, what’s true to the art, and to God.

Just as we are talking about the project, I receive a phonecall.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. I just need two minutes of your time to listen, to just listen to me. Can you please help me?” a familiar voice almost breaks into tears.

She tells me what just happened, that she cannot cope with the recovery process from anorexia, that she is losing herself. Her voice is urgent and frantic. In her panic, obsession and state of frenzy, she tells me the pain of consuming the equivalent of what a grown-man eats in an entire day in one sitting at 2am in the morning. It is called a serious binge episode, an event triggered by stress, and things deeper. People often undermine these things and laugh it off, but the psychological impact was devastating.

The pain was beyond her. So I listened, and I tried to comfort her, give her practical guidelines on what to do from I had read from books before. I never experienced what she did, but I learnt much from being in the support group and read about it.

There we were discussing whether or not we should use the book to raise awareness about eating disorders specifically or about depression, and a call comes in from her. It stunned us both for a moment. She never called before.

“Why?” I said. “Why.”

“There’s no such thing as a coincidence, Wai Jia. God’s using you.”

Before she called, I watched my publisher take his precious time to look through my paintings, threw my hands on the air and blurted out, “What’s the point of all this?”

There I was, taking up his time to look through my amateurish work. It’s foolish isn’t it, to think I could change anything, make any difference through this, put all my trust in a rainbow I saw that day right after I completed the first draft of A Taste of Rainbow. I must be so silly, to be wasting his time with my little projects, projects that have no promise of what success means to the wolrd. Just doing what I do simply because of this nebulous thing called a calling. How very childish.

What’s the point of all this?

He had been flipping the pages furiously, back and forth, and scribbling down notes on the pages. Suddenly, the paper frenzy stopped, and he looked up briefly at me and said, “ The point is,” he paused. “Did God tell you to do this?”

“Yes,” I said.

“So your question is irrelevant!”

He laughed out loud. The paper storm continued, and he laughed heartily as he scanned through the paintings, jotting down notes at the margins.

“That means God’ll take care of the rest, Wai Jia. That’s what it means.”

I looked at this bespectacled man flipping through the pages. Sitting at his office waiting for his reviews and thoughts, luxuriating in a library of books he published, fresh from the printing press and worn-old, and listening to him, watching his meticulous work, his mind-ticking away within, and suddenly, Time stopped. Sitting there, I was... just remembering the warmth of his hug that day when I went to his church for a fundraising event for the orphanage in Nepal through Kitesong, remembering how he looked like he was going to cry because of the compassion and generosity we witnessed, remembering how it was his wife and he who gave me enouragement during those dark times of depression, how he had more faith in Kitesong than I ever did, and seeing how he still has more faith in me than myself. Still.

I’ll never ask that question again.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

An audition.

We are all on stage. We struggle as artists, because our art must be purposeful. We must be purposeful. Unless the art form points Home, it is only but self-indulgence.

After much struggling and soul-searching, I auditioned for a leading role in a play today.

Line after line, things were morphing- lines into theatre, theatre into life... the anger, the memories, the letting go, all in a page. Crisp, tight, real, and best of all masked in theatre.

Nobody knows, it is when we are on stage that we no longer act, and we become ourselves.

In the middle of the audition, I walked out to breathe for a time-out today, after listening to lines delivered by someone else. Line after line, things were morphing- lines into theatre, theatre into life. The anger, the memories, the letting go, all in a page. Crisp, tight, real. Masked in theatre, fleshed into life.

It hurts to act. And it should, for it is only when we re-enact the past and bring it back to the present do we truly learn to let it go. To be free, truly free, the past must be flogged, re-enacted and re-presented to an audience.

Nobody knows, it is when we are on stage that we no longer act, and we become ourselves.

So I auditioned, because it pointed Home.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Hidden Angels.

" Do you have a minute?"

"Sure, of course I do. What's up dear?" I replied.

You asked me if I was going to any poor country this December. I said yes, I was, I would be, what was the matter? Our cohort of medical students is so huge, 250 of us, and we never hang out in the same communities, so I hardly ever get to talk to you. You're more of a friend's friend, I would say.

You opened my palm and put two hundred dollars in them.

" This is for you, Wai Jia. I want to give it to you. Use it in whatever way you want to help the poor, I don't care how you use it... Contribute to building a school, sponsoring a child's education, even buying sweets for a begging streetkid while you're on one of your trips... whatever. It's for you, use it however you like, as long as it helps someone who really needs it. Yea, I want you to have it. "

Silence.

I thought I saw God for a moment when you smiled back. I barely even know you, so I hugged you. That was all.

This undeserved trust.

As I walked out of class back home, dazed by what had just happened, I met an ex-classmate from secondary school. I remember her giving me fifty dollars for a copy of Kitesong. "For the kids in Nepal, " she said.

"Hey Wai Jia!" she called out to me from afar before scuttling over. "Here. I know it's not much, but I was just talking to a friend about your book and my classmate just wanted to give you seven dollars. It really isn't much, but take it, will you? Oh I don't have change... Here, take eight dollars... I'm rushing for class right now, see you around! Bye!"

Last week, I posted a note on the online medical groups, requesting for second-hand children clothes for the girls in the orphanage in Nepal. No news for days, then suddenly more than 40 kilos worth of clothes poured in. More to come.

S, you drove specially from home to deliver me a bag stuffed so huge and so full of clothes I couldn't reach its end as I hugged it upstairs to my home.

This morning, D called me aside. " I read your blog over the weekend, Wai Jia. I just wanted to say, keep fighting. Keep fighting, because even if you don't win, it doesn't mean you can't inspire change."

Today I was frustrated during the last lecture because I couldn't understand large of bits it and mainly, I was so distracted by some things on my mind that I wasn't even jotting notes properly. I sighed, and K, you saw my frustration, said, "Here, take my notes. I'll go make a copy with you right now before our next lesson and hey, feel free to call me tonight if you can't read my handwriting." You were even more stressed out than me, I could tell, and I knew you would be busybusybusy this whole week and every minute was important to you because you were organising a concert for our faculty this weekend, you were performing, and you had a million other things to do too. You were pretty stressed yourself, you didn't have to offer, didnt have to take the trouble to photocopy it with me, didn't have to so meticulously go through every single point when I asked you for clarification. I thought if someone like me had sat down right next to me during lectures, what an irritant I would think that person would be- the kind of irritant you want to cough up in sputum but can't. Adrenergic Receptor Pharmacology made special because of you.

Cheesy but true.

People always think they have to dream, be at the brink of death or hallucinate before they see angels, white angels with incandescent haloes gleaming with purity and goodness. But look around... they're all around.

Just, hidden.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Outraged.

A friend's family member killed herself lately. Three days ago, a fifteen year-old ex-neighbour jumped off the apartment I used to live in. Two days ago, a girl on an MRT approached me to tell me she had planned her suicide, and she had multiple cuts all over her wrists. When I was twelve, I saw someone I knew hold a knife to her neck, threatening to end her life right there and then.

September 22- September 29 is Suicide Awareness Week. And today, the Dean of Medicine invited some people to give us medical students a lecture about Suicide, so we could be better equipped to help our future patients.

My heart was heavy when I listened to the lecture, and it sank rock bottom when I saw the lecture theatre half-filled, and only half of that half was paying attention. Where was everybody else?

"Oh, I decided to sleep in."

"I was studying in the library."

"I'm sure it's not that important right?"

What did we all say during our interviews? Were we lying when we said we wanted to be doctors because we wanted to help people?

Didn't we say we wanted to help people? Didn't we?

At the next lecture an hour later, the entire lecture theatre was packed. I don't see how a lecture on meta-analyses of data can be more or less important than one on how to spot symptoms of depression, how to help someone suicidal and how to turn people's lives around.

People die not because they want to, they die because nobody intervened. People who need help never do because they feel so ashamed. A Taste of Rainbow is just about that- it's a story about finding your own mouth, about being brave to seek help, cry out, because it's okay not to be okay. Nobody is, really. It's everybody's business to prevent suicide- if only somebody, anybody intervened.

The top 3 causes of death in people aged 15 to 35 years include Suicide. In Singapore, there is 1 suicide a day. The trend has risen steeply in recent years. It's caused by depression. More men resort to it.

We said we wanted to become doctors to help people. But it seems to me now we only want to help if it comes with a white coat, an air of nobility and pompous, sterilised surgical tools. Listening to a lecture on suicide? Too simple.

A girl severely entangled in depression, anorexia and hard-core bulimia told me recently her general practitioner hardly batted an eyelid when she saw him after dramatic weight loss. He never suspected pain, depression, a black soul, and never offered to refer her to a counsellor or a psychiatrist. He ordered multiple blood tests. Period.

We just don't care, do we.

"I'm sure it's not that important right? It's not like it's going to be tested."

Somedays why do I feel like I don't belong.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Dog Costumes

I have not blogged in sooooo long because I am going nuts in book world....

Good News about the Creative Juice book - it is finally shipping into most Barnes and Noble stores. You can do a zip code search for you area here.

The book tour this summer was so much fun! We had a blast at every stop and really enjoyed meeting all the amazing creative people.

I have exciting news.....I just finished my second book! The book is outrageously funny and cute. The working title is Dog Costumes. In the book I have created 2 pattern styles that can be altered into 39 different costumes plus, hat patterns,shoe patterns, bandanna ideas and 20 different leashes and collars. We have plenty of step by step pics so it is great for beginners and advanced sewers.

I sewed my fingers to the bone this summer. We did the photo shoot on Monday and Tuesday (Tuesday was a 18hr day) and my friend Zach (he works on CJ with us) took all the pics. He did and amazing job! If anyone in LA needs a photographer - email me and I'll hook you up with him. Many thanks to Erin, Gina, Jen and EYEleen for helping out!

The bummer news.... The book will be released in October 08... I know it stinks waiting a whole year!

Here are some pics from the photo shoot:



Costumes - all finished and waiting to be shot.



Smile - you are almost done with the book!



Here is the tiny dancer costume.




Zach taking a picture of the Candy Striper's hat.




Here is the Pirate Costume.

Extra-terrestial

“ What you’re doing doesn’t fit into society. I just don’t want you to get hurt. ”

Packing my bags to go off to a developing country and rushing off after every major exam, and letting go of certain things I -really- ache to do here. How do I tell you it hurts, in a teenage kind of way; I’ve made my choice about sharing my experience with clinical depression and anorexia openly to reach out to people, and getting this second book published. How do I tell you that the choice has been met with resistance, and that it was a hard one to make. I’ve had a distant relative tell me I’m too naïve, it’s never going to happen, it’s not as if the world’s going to change, and what on earth happened that made me turn out this way in an entire lineage of decent, conformist, self-respecting people in our extended family tree- She told me, shaking her head, “ What you’re doing doesn’t fit into society. I just don’t want you to get hurt. ” I saw how embarrassed you were, embarrassed with me. I thought I was being brave, you thought it was mild stupidity.

Why don’t I fit in, you asked me. Why don’t I just –try- and fit in, the way everybody else does.

Some days I want to go out in a micro-skirt, illegally short, trashy fish-nets and killer heels and club till the morning, drink myself dead drunk and chain-smoke a pack. Some days I want to follow how I feel, dive into the sugar-rush of heady flings, get attached, and dump the deluded bastard. Some days all I want to do is to take the whole holiday off and go holidaying with a group of friends in Europe instead of breathing fumes in a third-world city. Some days, I just want to be young, just like everybody else. Decadent, unthinking, emotional. With cheap make-up and free alcohol, wasted time and disposable relationships.

But I don't. Not because I'm scared, or trapped. I don't because it's a choice made after weighing and struggling, and sometimes it's hard, but it's also not. How do I begin to explain it.

People tell me I’m older than my age. And some tell me my heart is so young like a little child's. Some days, I wonder: where did all that youth go? Have I redefined youth? I wonder whether I grew up too fast, too soon, as if I’d lived through life a million times and chosen the wiser path. Or not.

Or whether I grew up at all. Maybe I grew up till I was twelve, and just… stopped.

There's a price to pay for doing what you think is right, especially if it's non-conformist and goes against your primal instincts. Sometimes choices are hard, but they're also not. Painful, but liberating, too.

Some days, I feel like a fish swimming in the wrong direction. Somedays, I feel like I’m running alone, against the crowd, like a sharp splinter against the grain of wood.

Some days, why do I feel I don’t belong.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

On the Road

Today I bumped into you at the train station platform. We’d only met briefly before, a short introduction of names and then a ten minute conversation on a bus ride to school previously. I smiled, but wasn't in the mood to talk, so I politely shifted myself.

You came over, and spilled your entire life story to me.

I listened, I always listen, like how I listened to Hideo, Joy, Chloe, Prakash, Saleem, David, Bos, May. You said you were physically tired. And then you told me you were tired of this, that last week you ran away from home because you couldn’t take what was happening, that a few days ago, distraught, you planned your suicide. Then I saw bloody slits all over your wrists and I said, you need to get help.

“I’m seeing a psychiatrist,” you said.

Good, I replied, it’s a good thing. God can send us people to help us.

My insides froze.

We talked. Or rather, you asked me questions, and I answered them faithfully. Why did God let this happen to you? Were you a bad person? What if you decided to give up, let go, enter into the other side? Why were you born into a family like this, and how long more would you have to wait before you could be free of this? Where is God? Did you deserve this? Sometimes you felt you did, you said.

I stood very straight because I was horrified. Your eyebags were bruised with heaviness, and you slumped against the metal pole in the train carriage, will-less. Tears flowed continuously, and you kept asking me, “What if I decide to give up?” I looked at your wrists and I was horrified.

Just this morning, a friend shared with me that she had had it with her family, and had moved into a hostel. The unexplainable madness of home was something we both understood.

So I talked to you, and your eyes were fixed upon me like a hawk’s. I was afraid, because your eyes clung on to my every word, in desperation, clinging. You never broke your gaze, hardly even blinked. Your eyes dug into mine, and as I said a prayer for you, you reached out to clasp my arm, and you held onto me as a man from the edge of a cliff. I was afraid, somewhat.

I reasoned, but I was losing you. Even at the last moment, you still asked me, “Why? What if I chose otherwise?”

I told you my story, that I had to see a psychiatrist, too, when I was twelve, and I hated the anti-depressants. I told you that I understood. I told you that God has a purpose for everything that happens to us, that if we chose to stick it out, search and press on, we would see dawn, light and joy, that if we did, we would see how beautiful Life is. All our experiences happen for a reason, I said, and one day, they would help us to reach out to other people and help them, like what I was doing now. If it weren't for the fact that I'd been through what you were going through, I wouldn't have felt justified to tell you all that I did. It is brave to die, but it is far braver to live. Hold on, I said.

I left you in the train carriage, slumped against a metal pole. You smiled before I left. I still worry.

Why the many random encounters with strangers, why Prakash, why Chloe, why Saleem, why Hideo, why Joy, David, Aaron, Bos, May and you? Strangers spilling out their sorrows.

That day on the train, I lost my balance when the train jerked forward and as I fell, I reached out to grab someone’s arm. That arm belonged to Aaron, and he started talking to me immediately, told me about his occupation as an officer at the airport, his home in Malaysia, and the finally, his problem with lust, drinking, debauchery. “I can’t help it,” he said, “I really shouldn’t, but God understands right?” No, I said, it isn’t right, and with your attitude, no, God doesn’t understand.

Bos, you text messaged me a week ago and told me you were struggling with unforgiveness. I had only met you once at a hawker centre in the city district. Your colleague striked up a conversation with me first, and I was bothered because I was feeling very down and I remember saying to myself, “Not again, please not another Encounter.” But an Encounter it was, because I asked you why you stopped going to church, and you gave me a superficial answer. I probed, the way I do with strangers, because I knew you were lying. And before I knew it, you, a grown man in your mid-thirties, were stuttering and I saw the tears build up behind your eyes, as you said to me, “You are the first person who has ever brought this up to me. You are the first person whom I’m sharing this to. Yes, I need help. Please do help.” After twenty minutes, we exchanged contacts.

Two days ago I received your text message to inform me you had returned to church, returned to the place where your heart and spirit met, where you could find peace in your struggle with hatred, vehemence, unforgiveness. Thank you, you said.

L, I met you at a bus-stand. You had recognised me from somewhere before. I had never spoken to you before, perhaps we exchanged smiles. Then you spilled to me about your struggle with severe bingeing and your problems with anorexia. I looked at you, stick-thin, with the sharp edges of bone jutting out from all your joints, and sallow, orangey skin and lent you a book. You said it helped. I was happy.

Over dinner tonight, my parents broke to me news that a fifteen year-old had jumped off the 18th storey of an apartment building just yesterday-my ex-apartment, the place I used to live in, my old home of 18 years, the apartment building I had contemplated jumping off from when I was a child, during the time I had clinical depression. We lived on the 20th storey, above a swimming pool.

Why God. Why send me strangers? Why all these random Encounters? None of these Encounters were initiated by me. And each one held a profound sadness, a sadness I am too small to cup.

Why.

We are like accidents on a freeway. Sometimes, in the darkness, we can’t help it but crash head-first. We lose control, get hurt, burned, injured. From the burning trash, sometimes we can’t help but lose the will to climb out from a overturned vehicle already up in flames. But please do, please try. We think this road is the end. We think we can't see the end. But this road is not the end- it leads somewhere, surely it does.

Sometimes we lose direction. We lose middle ground. In our drunkenness, the steering wheel loses control, and we spin into the opposite lane, to the left and to the right, against the grain of traffic. Why is there chaos? Why are there accidents? Sometimes, why do we feel we don’t belong?

When you do decide to climb out of the trash, the glow of the street lamps will soothe you. You become supernatural. You walk to the middle of the road, right at the middle, in the midst of crazy, honking, angry traffic, and find peace. It only takes a decision, a simple, Brave one. With one decision, you can make all things right, find the place which you miss, and find the Life you deserve. Right there in the middle, there are no cars, no maps, no lane arrows. It’s a place called Life. Just a safe place, with only one direction to face.

Upward.

Can you see the glow of the stars, glowing for you, waiting for you to Climb out?

To you today, you're Brave enough, I know. Climb out, be Brave. Live.

Lights are waiting for you.

It's a beautiful road ahead to a beautiful place, I promise.







" A road is nothing in itself. Nobody ever built a road and fenced it in both ends and planted posies along it and beautified it and said, "This is a road." They said, "This is a way, a means towards somewhere."
-Attributes of God, A.W. Tozer
*photo taken by Oy.

Monday, September 10, 2007

Train Ride

Once
I dreamt
I was on a
Train. You were with
Me. As the train sped
off, Light into Darkness,
we
talked as
the World sank into
Nothingness. I didn't even notice.

Station after station, We
talked, just a
metal pole between Us,
cold, and
Us, just holding onto it and onto
Each Other.

Station after station, We
talked, our hands on a
metal pole, and
entwined into
Each Other.
Warm.

Our lives sealed on an
empty carriage, and
Our hands consecrated on a
metal pole, cold,
speeding into eternity
Together.

People filing in and out, watching Us.
Just.

And at that fateful station, the
Train stopped and
You stepped
Out,
leaving Me,
behind.

Which station it was, I don't even know.
My fingers caressed a naked metal pole.

What happened?

Me and an empty carriage,
alone.
Me and a metal pole,
Cold.







Sunday, September 9, 2007

For being the Star in the Darkness, for making it Worthwhile.

Hey :)

Thanks for commenting on my blog WaiJia (: Really means alot to me and then I went to read yours. Heehee. I hope you're doing well and just wanted to let you know that you're always in my thoughts though I've only met you once at the eating disorders support group briefly (:

Read about your struggle that day and just wanted to let you know I'll remember you in prayers and I know you can pull through no matter how hard it will be. Once again, something about the way you were so comfortable in yourself that night made me really want to be like you. I know that sounds cheesy but I guess it just means you're a reeally good motivater hmm? As hard as a struggle as it is, know that beating the struggle tastes so much better than living in it all the time. That's really what I got from you that night because really, the way you communicated to everyone and gave encouragement was very meaningful and thanks again okay?

I'm not trying to sound like I know everything but I hope that helps as much as you've helped me :D :D Do take care and I like your drawings too by the way! Heehee.

Oodles of love,
S.

Friday, September 7, 2007

Stargazer.

There are questions people want to ask but don't.

Sometimes, they do. But they usually don't- out of politeness, out of the fear of stumping me and the fear of possibly shaking my very being, out of dignity to avoid seeming overly probing.

But I know. Some of them are questions I ask myself, even.

I know.

Questions like: If her faith is really so strong and God is really as compassionate and loving as people say, then why is she struggling with this? Why the clinical depression, the anorexia, the darkness, why all this drama? How can there be so much struggle and darkness in the life of someone who believes and practises a faith that's supposed to be good? Something is wrong, no? Either with the faith or the person, no?

If God is really loving, then why did all this stuff happen right when you were doing good things to help people-raising funds for orphans, doing Kitesong, visiting the poor, doing things which ou felt were answering your "calling" etc. Don't you feel cheated, betrayed? Is God unfair? Is he silent? Then how come after all this struggle, you're facing relapse? Is he hidden? How can you be sure of someone you're not even sure exists? After responding to what you feel is "God's call" for you in your life, doing all these projects, going to developing countries, wanting to be a missionary doctor, making sacrifices in your relationships etc, and still facing the stark realities less rosy than what the bible portrays, don't you feel toyed with, lied to?

It's so easy for people to believe in a faith that promises good health, wealth, prosperity and abundance of life and sweet victories. People hear stories about missionaries, Mother Teresa and admire their nobility and holiness. I do too. But they dont see the darker side, the side of missionaries facing vicious bouts of depression in a foreign land, facing rejection and betrayal from a people they sacrificed their lives to help, losing their children to native infectious diseases, facing the trauma of seeing all their hard work of planting schools, hospitals, churches, community service centres all wiped out by a single disaster, facing illness because of a deep depression from the isolation and homesicknss. Are we deluded? You'd have to be a fanatic to be a missionary or even want to, won't you?

A fanatic. Is that what people call it these days?

Bad things bringing on the darkness and a Good Faith? Most people can't and don't reconcile the two.

If God is really so real to you as you say, then why do you face all these struggles today? This is the question people ask me, or don't, out of politeness or to avoid sounding heretical. Don't you feel cheated, maybe brainwashed? Maybe this whole faith-concept isnt working so well for you anymore? Or do you have nothing else to hold on to besides using this as a crutch, a placebo, a salve? You mean you can't understand what guilt-free decadence and hedonistic fun is? Is this all you've got? Isn't it a tad bit pathetic to know maybe you spend so much time helping people because you can't see yourself living for yourself, a life of your own? Dont you have your own dreams? Why is everything "God's call"?

Some days, many questions taunt you.

"You be careful, you know. There was this girl in my ex-college whom you remind me of. High achiever, exuberant, always involved, very sociable... She was... well... anyway, you be careful ya, you take care of yourself…”

" Ha..." I laughed, "I'm no high achiever... My grades are okay."

"She committed suicide last year. "

Silence. Then, laughter- or at least mine.

"What? Hello? I believe in God and the goodness of the world and the works. It wont happen to me. Geez, seriously man. Seriously." I laughed it off.

“I don’t get it. You take this faith-thing seriously, don’t you?”

Yes I do. Because things happen for a reason. And Badness has to exist so that Good things can shine through. It’s only in the darkness that we see the kind of light that we can’t see in the day. Is the darkness worth it, worth it just to see the glow of a flint, the golden arc of a candle? Am I to embrace the darkness for understanding a glimpse of Incandescence? Am I deluded to wait for the winter of nightfall to see the stars? Is it worth it at all? Perhaps.

Why can't we just have the sunlight? Because looking straight into the sun can blind you.

The darker the night, the brighter the stars.

God doesn't prevent hardships, but he redeems even them. He redeems the darkness with stars.

Betrayed, deluded, taken for a ride or not, my stand remains the same.

“How come you still have faith in your faith? I don’t get it girl.”

I just do.




"You dont have to sit outside in the dark.
If, however, you want to look at the stars,
you will find that darkness is required.
The stars neither require it nor demand it."
- Annie Dillard.

Thursday, September 6, 2007

Relapse, Almost.

It comes and it goes.

He lurks in the background, shady and opportunistic. The higher the demands of daily life, the closer he lurks. Sometimes, he gets so close it gags you. He clouds the eye, and dams the throat. He lurks in the darkness. He is a robber. He steals… mouthpieces.

I cannot talk without a mouth, and I cannot eat. The robber is sly. He demands a ransom.

The faster you run, the faster he catches up with you.

It comes and it goes.

Today, I struggled. The old feelings returned, and Anorexia tried to force its way back into life. Recovery doesn’t come overnight. There was the loss of appetite, a chockfull of Anxiety bottled up inside, a run that only worsened things and a noisiness inside that drowned out my voice. The old Bad familiar feelings returned, taunting- the feeling of Blackness, and the feeding myself when my body lost its physical sensation. My mouthpiece was stolen today, but I sought to get it back. I sat on Relapse and shot it in the face, fed myself because it was my responsibility, and sat down to listen to silence.

Anxiety. Just.

Today was the 4th time I attended the support group. For the past 3 sessions, I have been touched and motivated by the young people there who share their experiences and who tell me how they’re inspired to see the Possibility of recovery through me. Every time I attend it, I go with joy and the hope of possibly encouraging someone. But tonight I went, ridden with anxiety, because I realize just how real Relapse is. How like them all, I am vulnerable.

3 out of every 100 women suffer from anorexia, many many more from eating disorders. 50% of people in recovery relapse within their first year. Some have been struggling with it for so long, decades, that it has become a part of their lives, the only part of their identity then can relate to, and they no longer know who they are. It is not an issue about vanity. It is about deep emotional trauma often stemming from childhood, trauma that manifests itself in a loss of appetite and a desire to control, especially when one has lost control of the things in life that are supposed to guarantee a child joy- things like family stability, love, and security. Anorexia is a facet of depression really.

There were twice as many people there today. And I struggled to hold back the tears as I watched the young people enter the room, stick-thin, with the bony wrists and skeletal hands I used to have, and hollow faces. It’s the hands that scare me the most, hands so thin you can see the veins and see the hollowness outlining the bones. It was difficult to watch. All of them struggling with a demon inside, calling out for help.

I fight a giant eight feet tall with nothing but a toothpick when I try and fight back the tears. So many emotions, so many thoughts, too many feelings. Old feelings, sometimes.

People stigmatise Anorexia and depression because they think these are illnesses people bring upon themselves. They think: Snap out of it, and you’ll be okay. But come and see these people, understand their histories, what they’ve been through, and you too, will come to respect them. You too will understand why it is an illness, why stigmas need to be fought, how it is stigmas that kill, kill the many, many souls out there who ought to be at the support group but can’t find the courage or means to, because they’re feeling ashamed, stigmas that are the cause of suicides.

Really, I think, these young people are brave.

Brave, not because they’re well. Not because they’ve reached their goals. And brave, not even because they’re hopeful about recovery- because many aren’t. But brave, because they’re trying. They’re trying hard to find themselves amidst this mess. They are young children spun on a merry-go-round accelerated to dizzying speeds by crazy adults who unintentionally tilted their lives out of balance a long time ago, trying to get off it so they can lead a normal, un-dizzied life on solid ground. To get off a merry-go-round spun around on full speed isn't easy. Most of them don't wish to because the world is familiar to them looking like a blur of colour and mess. It takes a lot of courage to leap off onto solid ground. I keep trying to tell them, and myself too today, that life is better on the ground. Life is better on solid ground.

The whole time I felt like crying today. Too many feelings, too many thoughts. But Im such a social bunny nobody ever knows. At the end of the sharing sessions, a middle-aged lady, warded for anorexia, asked me, “How did God help you out of this?”

I told her and shared my experience with her. She had many questions, I answered them. We agreed to meet sometime soon to talk more.

“You feeling better?”

She looked at me, glazed. Then, she smiled, slowly. “Thank you very much.”

Then it all fell back into place. That tomorrow, things will be better. We all have our own demons to slay. And sometimes, it takes a few chops at the same spot to hack their necks off.

Today was a difficult day. Insecurity, anxiety, shame and fear boiling inside a cool controlled surface. I had to sit myself down and listen to silence.

I always say I'm okay, because I know I will be anyways. But I think people shouldn't be afraid to say they're not, you know? There's no need to try so hard to be when you're not. The facilitator came up to me and said, “ Don’t spread yourself too thin on helping other people. Whatever it is, YOU come first.” I keep being there for other people, this time, I have to be here for myself first. I don't know what exactly pulled the trigger but this headache isn't going away. I'm still trying to find out. Yes, things are not okay and I have to be here for me this time. This time, Im not okay. But I promise I will be.

Okay.

Saturday, September 1, 2007

Being a Friend.

“I’m just disappointed, that’s all. I know you’re busy, but I’m just disappointed.”

Again.

I’d just heard that one before, and there it was again, stinging my face. I always apologise immediately. I never try and defend myself first- only later do I explain profusely, defending my ground, trying to make up for it. I am anxious and uptight lest you think I don’t value you enough, strangely relieved you care enough to feel angry, and tired because I am at my wits end.
Sometimes, there’re just not enough words to make up for it. You expect me to be there, to always be there, and sometimes I’m not, or rather, can't.

Today it happened again. Your cold, cold shoulder stung me.

And it makes me wonder, am I not a good enough friend, not a good enough daughter, not a good enough person? Do I have too many friends, do I communicate the wrong signals, or do I have the wrong priorities?

Twenty-four hours. One me. Too many people.

God and family. Then Friends. Then Studies and my service to my community, be it book-writing, community service or church ministry. Are they not in the right order? Priorities are hard.

I always apologise first. Then I try and explain and defend myself, try and tell you that I did try my best and I’m sorry I fell short, that I did my best to reschedule and reschedule so I could be there for the party/outing/chalet gathering/lunch/movie, but sometimes I just can't because there are 3 events to attend to on one night, and only one me. And you are all important so I try to reprioritize but I can only be at one place at one time. And sometimes I try, I try and take a cab so I can split my time and be at two places, and then you ask me why I always have to leave early. I try and explain but it sounds so useless because I see the disappointment in your eyes.

Again.

“Again? How come you always can’t come?"
“ Isn’t this important to you- you mean you can only drop by?”
“You missed my 21st birthday because you had a choir performance, I know- but I’m entitled to feel disappointed right?”
“How come you don’t reply on MSN?”

So many people, so many demands. And I try my best to be a good friend, to be there for people, and to live my life the best way I know how. But there is so much to do, and only twenty-four hours. School, studying, spending time with family, prayer, spending time working on a project to help people with depression and eating disorders, selling Kitesong –still-, meeting friends, spending time with them individually because everyone is precious and how come today there is a regional earthquake and everyone has a problem at the same time, replying to unanswered text-messages, online messages, emails, hand-written letters, keeping people in prayer…

“Woman, I don’t understand. Medical school and all this stuff. How do you cope?”

Most of the time, with prayer, I manage. And then occasionally, more often than I’d like to have, a friend complains howcomeyoudidntcome? wherewereyou? howcomeyoualwayshaveaprojecttodo? Howcomeyoualwayshavetomeetpeople? Howcomehowcomehowcome?

I can’t keep up.

Only the closest of my friends understand. They understand because they know I try my best and we can rest secure in the bond of our friendship. They understand I am human, that when I can’t make it for an outing it’s because I’m at church, or at another outing, or meeting old friends leaving for another country, or meeting people regarding the project, or at a support group sharing experiences with people with eating disorders, or just too darned tired because I’ve to wake up at unearthly hours to travel extra early to school just so I can facilitate morning sharing sessions for our community. They understand and they aren’t disappointed because it also happens that my closest of friends are those who spend large portions of their time helping other people too- so we understand and we let each other breathe. We treasure every minute we have with each other, before we step out into the whirlwind world out there that demands, demands, demands so much of us. When we get together, we just sit and smile in silence. We understand one another's joy and physical tiredness. We never make fun of one another missing outings because we know we each try so hard to make things work. We never blame each other for not showing up. We understand. It’s those relationships, spun on uncertainty, that demand our full commitment so things seem more secure.

But I am human. Twenty-four hours. So many people. One me. Trying.

I wish you understood, understood that I couldn’t go because another friend was performing as the lead actor for a play and it meant a lot that I went to support it; I wish you understood I had to leave early because I was attending the support group, and three girls and two mommies came to say thankyou because of some random thing I’d said, that I couldn’t make it because of my commitment to church on weekends, that I’m sorry I was almost late but a friend was crying and needed to talk. I try to put my family and friends first before serving the community or other people, because that’s the way things should be- right? But sometimes everything wants a piece of you NOW. So many people to call, care for, write to, pray for.

Yes sometimes I can't show up because I am meeting people about the project but can you not see I am not doing this for myself? That from one perspective, what good do I stand to gain from all this? I try to put my family and friends first before serving the community or other people, because that’s the way things should be- right? But sometimes it’s just so hard.

I can’t seem to keep up. So many people.

“That’s why you can only have a few close friends, Wai Jia. Too many, and you wont have time for them all.”

“But I do only have a few close friends. I tell you what's funny, you know, these people who complain... I don't even feel they're my close friends... I dont understand... ”

“Maybe it’s because these people feel you're closer to them than they are to you, and they value you and your friendship. Maybe it's because they feel treasured and want to continue to be affirmed. That’s why they’re disappointed. Otherwise, why would they care?”

Sometimes it feels lonely. Because no one but God sees what a Normal day is, no one but God and my closest friends understand what it feels like to have to be there and present for so many people. Because the world knows how we can be there in person and yet, absent. No one knows the hurt inside when someone casually makes fun that you're not there again, because you've tried your best, youve tried your best, youve tried your darned best.

Twenty-four hours. So many people. One me.

Is there something wrong? What is it.

But I won’t be put down. Everyday is a finetuning process. Everyday I am learning. I just have to keep trying my best, and keep praying for God’s strength to sustain me to fulfill this calling. If it's God's will, then there will always be enough. There will always be enough because his strength is enough.

I can try but I can’t please everyone. But still, by God's grace, I can try.
 
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