I now present to my most revered readers a chapter by chapter report on my Compartmentalization 2004, complete with appropriate headings and footnotes. I will try to keep it as objective, clinical, precise and concise as possible (although I will make no promises about my dry humour or lame attempts thereof). Feel free to comment in my tagboard and respond in kind.

Pain (Chapter 1)

I had an attack today.

One of my greatest lessons learnt was my capacity for pain and how I deal with it in different situations. Observe the careful way I handle it (gloves, tongs, mask, cage with one-way door, Cisco security) when it is my own. Observe my careful documentation (precisely marked charts and figures, I even know the precise cycle of my pain). And even my ability to differentiate what will potentially be a cause, actions to take and foreseeable consequences (with some friends I will never share, with some others I will inevitably whine. I have aggregated my friends into the different kinds of response they provide, hence saving me the burden of trial and error).
When I was still in the early stages of this whole "event", I simply told my friend that I wanted to give up, simply to save myself the pain. She answered,

"Women always say that, but eventually we will do something that will cause ourselves pain again. You can't avoid being hurt. But we are also a lot stronger than we think: we get hurt, but we also have a strong ability to recover."

And so I pressed on. The effect of which was that I made discoveries about myself, about my capacity to feel when I thought myself no longer capable of it: to experience additional pain, and yet persist, leading to more pain.

In October this year, I was shopping with my mother at Mango in Tampines just after lunch, when an acute pain shot through my chest, the centre of which seemed to be my heart: it pierced like a needle going through the centre of my heart and seared like an acid burn, causing immense pain. I didn't want to alarm my mother and kept on walking silently. All too soon it became unbearable and I was forced to sit down as the pain grew and all sounds were blocked out. I measured out my breath in eight counts, and staring at the cold, shiny, white tiles, forced myself to relax. At that moment, it suddenly hit me that I might die. I closed my eyes and waited for it to come.

But I didn't die that day. The attack went away after 5 minutes, and I was able to go on again, as if nothing happened.

Today I had another attack, a much milder one: so mild, in fact, I kept on watching TV while I counted out my breaths. Somehow it seems increasingly wrong to me to express pain to the outside world. I would like to smile and go on with what I do. To politely refuse my own emotions existence. To bravely surge forth with my head held high when inside I am crumbling with the weight of pain. Is it pride or foolishness?

But at the least, my foolishness has led me to many experiences, many lessons, to meet and love new people. I open myself to hurt, undoubtedly, but also, to this brave new world. That I might not be the John in Huxley's classic (one of my favourite books), but a fully instituted and knowing Miranda, who exclaims in "The Tempest",

"O wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world
That has such people in't!"

My latest, and last choice coincides with a careful deliberation of my priorities. In the end, I cannot compromise the happiness or freedom of another person, just to get my way. I accordingly chose to be hurt. I felt no reason to escape it. Life is a package trip with no manual that you get upon arrival, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't make the best of it.

Meanwhile, cause of action decided is, as I told my friend "to move on with as little emotional baggage as possible". I shall laugh and pretend nothing ever happened. It will take time no doubt, but I have absolute conviction that I am doing the right thing, and never to waver, come what may: the pain only serves to remind me to maintain the strength of my resolution.

The only way it could end otherwise is if I manage to get amnesia without killing myself. I almost wish it would happen.

Beautiful

I went to Rhea's wedding at the stately Raffles Hotel today: I ran into Charmaine and Melissa, two Seniors from school, in front of the East India ballroom where we waited for the solemnization to take place. There were wooden side tables scattered around, with candles and flowers. The guests mingled in small, close groups.
"Those ladies over there, they're Rhea's sisters aren't they?"
I looked over and realized the ladies at the reception did look exceptionally like her (as usual, I was too clued out when i handed the wedding gifts, a pair of Laura Ashley champagne flutes from Ben and I, to them). Charmaine and Melissa also directed me to the photo album and I leafed through. Inside were images of dreams captured in an instant. One that struck me was of Rhea gazing out into space, as if dreaming: like an image from a fairytale, how whimsical and beautiful!

At that moment, Peter's voice came on, and announced the beginning of the solemnization which (I found out later) was conducted by the Justice of Peace. I am still a young lamb who has yet to be initiated in the ways of the world: but I was awed by the love overflowing. The goodwill from everyone, the quiet Christmas air, the carefully constructed paradise as the night fell in that beautiful courtyard, and of course the couple's obvious love for each other, so aptly expressed by the theme "Blessed Union of Souls".

The moment the doors of the ballroom opened, there was a heady scent of the bouquets of white roses and lilies that were set in wreathes around candles at each table. Ford, Eric, Charmaine, Melissa and I found our places next to each other, and spent the rest of the night talking. Once, Ford, Eric and I caught ourselves talking about work, and we went outside to finish our conversation. I knew they wanted to extract information from me, but it was merely personal and harmless information: proposals to what changes they needed to make immediately to secure student confidence. There was still a hint of bitterness, a hint of disillusionment, maybe even a hint of ruthlessness, but also a burning will belied by their calm nonchalance.

At the end of the night, I managed to hug Rhea and give a few words to her, affectionately expressing my hope that we could have tea together when she returned from KL. I had earlier in the day written an email to her, already wishing her the best. Charmaine and Melissa who had already talked to her, waited for me a little, and the three of us walked out to the porch. I bade them both goodbye and merry Christmas, then strode out into the night, filled with the incense of frangipanis in full bloom, and yellow lights dangling from the branches as my curtain. Back into the streets, the onslaught of cars, the press of crowds, the pollution, the hard lines of the city. Smiling at the tiny, delicate wreath in a box that was our takeaway from the wedding.

I wonder what 2005 has in store for me.

The Summoner's Dream

It was a huge warehouse. All I remember was that there was a massive game going on to hunt out the civilians and kill them. They were playing games with us: Driving us to pure mental hell. The sounds of killing all around us, and all over this warehouse was these huge flat screens, with a player in the front. The only way to drown out all the sounds of people dying was to switch on the TV and the player and get immersed in the show. And the show was always on, always playing. It sucked out all the pain and torture, it made you forget. But it also made you an easy target: alerted them to where you were. Still you couldn't resist: How could you?

I remember starting out in my house, my mother was lying on the bed, heavy with child. She was in pain, but also smiling, and I smiled at her, held her hand. She handed me a phone and showed me pictures on it: of her and my youngest sister hugging tight together. Mum in a black one piece swimsuit, Letitia in a pink swimsuit with pink floats. They were sitting in the middle of a lagoon with a sandy bottom, and clean turquoise waters that darkened into azure, speckled with black rocks like islands far away. The sunlight shone in spiked, clean rays to the left of the picture, just out of sight in a deep blue sky.

Paradise.

Then the war started. I bolted the door behind me, hugged my mother and quietly swore my life on protecting her and the baby. (The next part is a blank, something bloody happened, but I saved them. Maybe I died and reincarnated. I couldn't tell.)

When I woke up, Wynne and I were lying face down in another part of the warehouse. I woke and saw bodies around us: Instinctively I shielded my sister's eyes with my arm and guided her out of the room. The next room had a television. We couldn't resist. We switched it on, and hid behind some huge cartons. And slowly we lost our senses, curled up like foetuses to each other, being slowly suffocated and drowning in the show. We could hear them coming, but we couldn't move...

I guess we died, because that's where my dream ended. I woke up with a start, gasping for air: my eyes still convulsing in their sockets, the smell of blood still in my mouth, my mind still coiled in disbelief that I wasn't in the war game.

I ran down from my upper bunk: but as expected of a Saturday, Mum and Dad were out at the new house, Letitia was at her creche, and Wynne was sprawled out on the lower bunk. The house was silent. I sat down, pulling my soul back from the other realm, grateful for the peace I am blessed with and the chance to be still alive.

"A dream has power to poison sleep" - PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY