on-going mostly unedited stream of thoughts

going against instincts

I’ve been delivering food for more than 3 weeks now and it has been interesting to observe my own behaviour from the beginning till now. I thought these recent years of inner work have made me a lot more zen, but I guess it is easier to be zen when stimuli is removed.

Delivering food however, is all about handling various stimuli. Crowds, people’s behaviour, weather, buildings with poor wayfinding, slow lifts, etc. I did realise I was a lot less frustrated compared my old spoilt self, yet I still found myself constantly anxious, because the mechanics of food delivery is designed to make one anxious. The faster you deliver, the more you earn, sometimes when you take too long to deliver the peak hours or your shift ends and the result is making less deliveries than one expects in a typical period. It is interesting for me because I am not exactly doing it for the money, and yet I found myself getting caught up in trying to “win the game”.

My hypothesis is that our primal brain is just difficult to turn off. When there is a competition we are primed to want to win it, even if we don’t really need to win. I am not typically competitive against other people (or so I think) but I am competitive in solo games and I had also found myself competing against my partner since she works the same shifts as me.

So I have to learn to cajole myself to slow down, to work against my instincts. The first week I was brisk walking on the verge of jogging, I was always running to be in time for pedestrian lights in my favour, I was very anxious to complete the job because the next one is in the queue and if one is too slow to complete the current one the one in the queue disappears (and it may take a long while for a new order to come in again)! I thought it was very funny that I was behaving that way. It was as if I wasn’t in control and once I am thrown into the game, I lost any sense of self-direction and I became directed by the game itself. Sounds like a metaphor of life, huh?I

So slowly I trained myself to walk slower, to ignore the job in the queue, to stop running for traffic lights and to be chill whenever I have to wait for very slow lifts. My original motivation was to do this for exercise, and it defeats the purpose if I become more anxious than I was.

This is bringing me opportunities to exercise my spirit and also to train my capacity to tell my instincts to chill. Every shift is a mini-series of zen exercises. The most important part of this is that: this is done on my own terms. I am not forced into work arrangements against my will, I could also choose to disengage anytime I want.

I got sick yesterday because I worked a little too long and too hard, and it brought me back into a familiar pattern. I guess the hope for self-improvement is to keep trying to do the same thing over and over again with the hope that one day I could respond differently to something that keeps impacting me negatively. I have a hard time discerning when to stretch my limits and when to give myself a break. I think this stems from my out-of-sync relationship with my body. I am just terrible at listening to it.

When I was working in tech it felt a little abstract and without knowing it I probably had a sense of entitlement. That because I worked in a swanky office and did things with the computer I felt like I was special. It made me disconnected from human beings in a not-so-good way. Delivering food snaps me back to reality, to be part of a reality that many people are facing. The fatigue, the stoicity, the challenges, and that includes the perception that food delivery is an unsavoury occupation. There are people who treat us like we’re meant to be ordered around and we don’t deserve respect. So this teaches me to be a much better person than I was in treating other people – I think I was always trying to be nice, but I was probably not very kind, the sort of kindness that comes with genuine appreciation, presence and respect.

Yesterday I made a delivery with a half-spilled Tom Yam soup and it stained the rest of the food containers. It was in a thermal bag that was strapped to the back of my bicycle and I didn’t expect it to spill. Now I’ve learned that spillage is so common that some riders bring their own cling wrap to prevent it. I was very apologetic to the customer and she didn’t make me feel bad even though I know she could. I guess because of the nature of the job there are a ton of opportunities for mistakes and delays, which becomes a win-win situation for me, because when I meet nasty people I practice equanimity, and when I meet gracious people I practice gratitude and connection.

Some people may think that this is a waste of my “talent” and skills, but I have learned that talent and skills amount to nothing if it brings me nothing but misery, sickness, and a contempt for people. I have become very skeptical of tech and it would be difficult ethically and psychologically for me to step back in again. And if I do ever do so for some good reason, I hope my psyche is whole enough to be with the power and responsibility that comes with it.

Else, I am okay with trying to live as best as I can, and to continue working on my spirit – not because I am trying to be a better person, but rather I think the only way to know whether life is worth living or not is to widen one’s perspective and deepen one’s spirit, enough to be genuinely present with the world and not just relating abstractly to it, or trapped in false narratives.

developing equanimity and experiencing goodness while delivering food

I had a hard time understanding the definition of equanimity when it first appeared in my consciousness. What does it mean to be equanimous? It was a zen story that illustrated the concept of equanimity to me at a deeper level:

A beautiful girl in the village was pregnant. Her angry parents demanded to know who was the father. The anxious and embarrassed girl finally pointed to Hakuin, the Zen master. When the outraged parents confronted Hakuin with their daughter’s accusation, he simply replied “Is that so?” When the child was born, the parents demanded that he take care of the child since it was his responsibility. “Is that so?” Hakuin said calmly. For many months he took very good care of the child until the daughter could no longer withstand the lie she had told. The parents immediately went to Hakuin to see if he would return the baby. With profuse apologies they explained what had happened. “Is that so?” Hakuin said as he handed them the child. – source (edited for conciseness)

When I first read this story I felt it was both ludicrous and inspiring. On one hand this feels like a passive way of living, to have terrible things happen to us and yet calmly accept them; on the other hand it must feel strengthening and liberating to be so unshakable by our circumstances.

I had a glimpse of what it means to be equanimous personally when I first started running. It became much easier when I stopped approaching inclines as though they are out to get me, instead I focused on my feet: one foot in front of the other, until I ran past the incline. There were also times when I felt like I couldn’t go on any further because I was in a lot of discomfort, but again I focused on putting one foot ahead of the other. That mentality enabled me to go the distance from 1km all the way till 5.

There were numerous times in the past few weeks delivering food when I felt that the old me would have lost my temper, had a meltdown, or simply give up permanently. First of all it is physically exhausting. A typical day I cover about 12km minimum under the brutal hot sun. Some days my feet feel like they are about to break. But that’s the easy part.

When we are lucky we pick up and drop off food within a ten minute walk. Sometimes it is at least 1km from one point to another, back to back. Imagine walking 1km to your destination, trying to find the vendor in an underground maze of shops, only to find out it has closed or moved. Well, that’s still the easy part, though I think the old me would have been a little boiling at this point.

Then, because of the craziness of the lunch crowd, I meet vendors who are on the verge of a meltdown themselves. They become rude and snappish. I found myself surprised when I didn’t respond unkindly, because my old self definitely would. It seemed like something new in me understood that it wasn’t personal, that they were reacting to the unfavourable circumstances even though I bore the brunt of their frustration. Most of the time they do recover, and they seem grateful that I am there just waiting and still smiling. I do know of delivery people getting upset whenever they have to wait longer than usual, and that too is understandable, because every delay eats into their daily income. Sometimes, that means being unable to pay the bills.

Since I walk in the central business district, it is interesting delivering food to different buildings and people. People receive food and treat me in a multitude of ways. I’ve gotten a couple of tips, some take the time to wish me safety, others grab the food as though I am invisible. You can never judge a book by its cover. I’ve gone into swanky buildings and had the most pleasant interaction with their concierge and security, I’ve also had very difficult times with not-so-swanky buildings which insist that we can only use their cargo lifts. Since only one cargo lift serves an entire 20-40 storey building, it can take ten minutes just to wait for the lift per ride. The people who work in those buildings seem oblivious to these rules, and they insist that we take the passenger lifts, trying to be kind to us but causing us more delays.

So, there is a lot of waiting, frustration, wasted time, unkind treatment. Just yesterday I had to deliver food while being ankle deep in the torrential rain. My umbrella was too small, so I was soaked through. It felt amusing delivering a sandwich while I dripped rainwater all over their hardwood floors. I contemplated asking for a break through the system, but I wanted to know what it was like to continue. At the end I was cold, soaked and tired, but strangely luminous. Once in a while I have to carry food for ten people in two big bags while walking for more than ten minutes. Imagine my internal dialogue lugging all that weight in the hot sun while I contemplate my previous existence as a tech worker.

I wanted to do this for physical exercise, but it turns out that it is exercising my spirit even more. I gradually learned not to rush, to calmly take things as they come: rain, shine, rude people, broken lifts, spilling food. I am now 300% nicer to people when they deliver food to me.

But even though this post is about developing equanimity for myself, the most profound lesson is the goodness of people I have encountered thus far. Most people are really kind. I have met countless people who tried to help me while I seem lost in their offices. Vendors who tell me to be careful, to not be so caught up in pursuing money that I neglect my own safety. Concierges and receptionists who greet me with such friendliness even though I am a lowly food delivery worker. People who stop whatever they were doing to ask me if I need help even though they didn’t have to.

Suddenly, I became aware of how easy it is to be cynical while being cooped up in the isolation and safety of my own hermitdom, when every time I’m out to deliver food I experience such diversity of goodness. It isn’t a rare occurrence, it is actually the norm. I feel so much more inclined to be kind to the next upset person I interact with because things simply suck sometimes due to nothing of our own fault, and I am made to understand again and again how much it means when I receive grace unexpectedly, so it makes me want to pay it forward.

I can afford the space to chill and wait when things don’t go smoothly because I don’t have pressing needs that is banking on the income of this job, but I know I am the exception. That’s why it feels even more of a societal responsibility to hold and give that space for people because they don’t have the luxury of choices I possess.

first impressions of being a food delivery person

I started delivering food last week. At first I wanted to keep it private, but I didn’t want the hassle of having to explain myself if I ever bumped into someone familiar, so I wrote about it on social media.

One of the reasons I felt secure enough to come back to Singapore was because the standard of living is much lower compared to the US (there are many ethical prices to pay, like there is no minimum wage here) and with the emerging gig economy I knew I had more options for work. I figured if I kept my expenses low I could survive with a reasonably paid part-time job – I wouldn’t have to be forced to return to tech again, and I could preserve my creative energy for things important to me: such as this website.

We know that Einstein was a patent clerk, and it turns out that the creator of Stardew Valley worked as a part-time usher for four years before publishing the game:

While I was developing Stardew Valley, I worked part-time as a theater usher, and also lived with my girlfriend who received a grad school stipend. So with our combined income from that we got by. I purposely took a non-coding/art type job so that I could devote all my mental & creative energy to Stardew Valley – source

The point I am trying to make is not that I am aiming to be Einstein or a “success”, but rather that having a creative job sounds like a dream come true, however the reality is most of the time it disproportionately benefits someone else’s profit margins and/or political agenda while we end up burnt out.

I don’t have the stomach to play political games, but unfortunately that is required to do anything of consequence. Having to deal with people’s emotions, psyche and motivations stressed me out so much that I developed chronic physical symptoms.

I choose my health over anything else. Even if the martyr in me doesn’t mind being physically sick, the depression that comes along it doesn’t only affect me, it is toxic to the people around me. I now believe it is not ethical to be in a position of power if we don’t have our psyches sorted out, because every single decision we make ripples far and wide.

So I am now delivering food. At first it was just an experiment to satisfy my curiosity, but now it feels like something I wish to do regularly. It is physically exhausting: the first day I did it I delivered only 3 orders and I felt like I was about to collapse – I walk, by the way.

Yet I feel alive. I feel alive because I am now interacting with so many different people every day, it gives me a visceral feeling that I am an interactive node in the giant web of humanity. I encounter kindness and generosity. There seems to be a shared understanding that we are all facing similar challenges in the work we do, so people try to help each other out. A friend tells me that this seems to be also anthropological for me.

For me, there is also a theme of ableness. For years I struggled with disability as I developed painful migraines, anxiety and eye pain whenever I worked with the screen. It was very disempowering to not be able to work, especially when I really wanted to. It felt to me like it was the only outcome I had to accept, that I may never be able to work for the rest of my life. But apart from physical soreness, I seem to not be exhibiting any of my chronic pain symptoms. Yet. I tend to jinx myself. For now it feels good to be walking 12-20km every day without waking up feeling like I want to die. I think my months of running helped.

I am still dealing with the physical fatigue, but I hope to get my body acclimatised and get into a sensible rhythm where I can split my time between food delivery and my creative projects.

Another unexpected side effect is that this seems to have a positive effect on my depression and anxiety. Obviously there is the physical exercise aspect, there is also a meditative aspect where I am too focused on getting from point to point instead of spiralling into my over-thinking. I was never really aware how much of my overthinking is toxic to me, but somehow this year I have developed the capacity to catch myself in these thought spirals and how much they paralyse me.

I also spend less time on screens and social media now, which helps my mental health too. I am slightly worried that this physical exertion will disrupt my fragile hormonal balance. I’ll be having my monthly cycle soon, so I will know.

Ironically there is a sense of freedom, delivering to these gated tall offices made me keenly aware of how much I don’t want to be in them again. I may be profusely sweating, carrying a big thermal bag of food for a fee that will never be anywhere close to my previous rate per hour even if I worked 10-hour shifts, but in return I am free from being somebody’s political pawn and a desk binding me. My eyes are thankful.

I am not sure how long this will last, but even a short-lived romance is worth documenting. I am also aware that I am privileged to be able to have these choices. I am not romanticising a job that is physically demanding and requires long hours if one needs a full-time wage to feed a family, but I am still grateful that there are options like these now, whereas previously I would be limited to inflexible part-time shift work that is location-binding. From the group chats that I am participating in, this is a sentiment shared by many others, they are earning more than they had in previous work, with the added flexibility of choosing how much they wanted to work.

(There are issues like the protection of workers etc, but we have limited protection here in Singapore anyway…since this is an emerging industry I hope it will continue to develop in a humanistic direction. What if the food delivery industry collapse one day? Well, in my opinion there wouldn’t be safe industries any longer because of climate change, so we have to do whatever we can to adapt.)

Do I care about what people think? Honestly, I did. But I choose myself: the choice that would allow me to expand wider in my becoming. Perhaps more about that in another post.

how do we dream in the face of climate change

There was news last week that CO2 on earth has reached 415ppm, the highest it has been in millions of years. Our permafrost is melting at an unprecedented rate. The projections are depressing: even if we emit zero carbon now for the rest of our lives, we will still be facing dire climate change effects for at least the century to come:

So even if carbon emissions stopped completely right now, as the oceans catch up with the atmosphere, the Earth’s temperature would rise about another 1.1F (0.6C). Scientists refer to this as committed warming. Ice, also responding to increasing heat in the ocean, will continue to melt. There’s already convincing evidence that significant glaciers in the West Antarctic ice sheets are lost. Ice, water, and air – the extra heat held on the Earth by carbon dioxide affects them all. That which has melted will stay melted – and more will melt. – source

Our food chains will be disrupted as insects, fish, etc die out, and it is a matter of time we’ll be facing food shortages, diseases and unliveable conditions.

So I find it disturbing that most people are still going about as though nothing is happening. I wonder what is truly needed for us to stop in our tracks and think seriously about how we are going to live. I am not even talking about dropping everything to become climate activists or changing our consumption habits dramatically. I am thinking of how do we plan our lives, even if we want to live a self-centered existence, when climate change is looming over our heads?

Say saving or investing for example. The conventional wisdom is that we invest our savings in an index fund and watch it compound at an interest rate of at least 4% for decades to come. But I’m really skeptical that investment instruments and assets will be afforded the space to grow for the years to come (central banks are already sounding the alarm), especially if we’re facing times of political and economical instability. So the question is: how much longer can we invest traditionally, what will be truly valuable when everything goes to shit?

In the letter published by the Bank of England on Wednesday, Mr Carney and Mr Villeroy de Galhau describe “the catastrophic effects of climate change” already having an impact on the planet, such as “blistering heatwaves in North America to typhoons in south-east Asia and droughts in Africa and Australia”. They say that “these events damage infrastructure and private property, negatively affect health, decrease productivity and destroy wealth”. – source

People seem to think that we wouldn’t be experiencing the catastrophic effects in our lifetime. I think we’re misled by looking at things linearly. I personally believe it will hit a tipping point and suddenly it will look like the apocalypse. Wars may breakout because of resource shortages. But everyday I encounter people talking about the lives and plans as though there is all the time in the world. We’re still celebrating the IPOs or fundraising of companies that are toxic or do not add value to society. Our governments and media are obviously not sufficiently alarmed.

I find it difficult to plan for my future. I am looking at a ten-year path into psychotherapy and I am not even sure what the state of the world would be like in ten years. Someone wrote in his newsletter about Ted Chiang taking four years to learn about linguistics in order to write “The Story of Your Life” – the short story which was made into “Arrival” – and my immediate reaction was: yes we’re sorely missing the time needed to craft something of substance, but how many four years can we now afford?

How do we dream? Of writing that book, of improving our craft, of stepping into that career in our mid-lives, of doing that PhD, when everything seems so unstable? Do we go wholeheartedly into doing something we truly want to do regardless of the timeline, because we don’t know when and living to the fullest in spite of existential despair is the best response? Or do we give up our dreams because dreams do take time, and instead we should use that time to love? To spend our last years of relative peace with the people we love, the nature that is going to die, the cities that may no longer be preserved in their beauty?

I would like to know what you think.

on the effects of being sick

I missed publishing a post last Sunday, because I was down with a cold turned migraine. I haven’t been sick for this amount of time since a long while ago, and it served as a reminder as well as a trigger. 

I started reading a lot of zen and buddhism at a time of my life when I was constantly sick, because being sick forces a person to learn how to let go. There is no choice, and the only thing I could do is to learn how to sit with the fact that I am powerless over the state of my body. I am still not very good at it now, but I do notice the effect such studies have had on the rest of my life during times when I am healthy. I am still not very good at being healthy either, but I know that I am less antagonistic overall, less of an enemy to myself. 

Being sick is to sit in endless frustration. There is the very noticeable pain, the discomfort of the entire body, the inability to do anything meaningful. I gradually learned to be more okay with being useless while being sick so often, though I definitely did not choose this lesson. But the past few years have been very enlightening on how much I saw other people and myself in terms of our productive value, and how much is actually left when the ability to work is taken away. I thought a lot about what does it mean to live, what does it mean to be a contributing member of society. It gave me the time I wouldn’t have taken to contemplate why things are the way they are, why do we seem to be swimming in endless vicious cycles. I am not sure what kind of person I would have grown to become had I not been sick so much. I think I would still be running headlessly around, trying to do more than I can do, hopelessly trying to build my sense of self-worth through professional and social achievements without stopping to think what is the whole point of it all, if upward progression is something I truly wanted, if that was the life I must live. I would continue to hurt a ton of people through the careless management of my relationships because I was simply drowning too much in my own feelings to truly consider theirs and their positions. I would still have a short temper that I would have no control over because I had never realised how terrible I was at regulating my stress and emotions. I would become old and bitter, without really understanding why, maybe then in the twilight of my years it would suddenly dawn upon me that I had exchanged my self-respect for societal approval, and what I mistook for self-respect was actually the silent soothing of the fear that I would be abandoned by my society.

I dislike being sick, and I cannot describe what it is like to try to sleep feeling as though a dull knife is cutting through my brain, but I have to say I am profoundly grateful for it. It cuts through all the bullshit and forces me to reevaluate my life.

I wrote in previous entries that I have been starting to contemplate of this is simply my new normal. I have been trying to get better for years, and days like these make me feel like I am not having much progress. I came across a lawyer on twitter who tweeted that migraine is considered a disability in the US: 

I think a lot of work I have done in the past few years is working up the self-compassion to accept that I may be living with a disability and yet I am still a whole person. Also, to cope with the profound loneliness that comes with people not understanding the limitations I have to live with or worse, people who simply don’t take my illness seriously. I often have to put up with the frequent jokes that my illness is a result of my imagination. I mean, first I have to put up with people telling me my depression is imagined, then the pain of a dull knife sawing through my brain is also deemed to be imagined. I would love to tell them why psychosomatic illnesses are real, but few people would take me seriously enough to sit through a 30-minute neuroscience pseudo-lecture.

I have disengaged a lot from people in the past year or so. I have realised that my issues are my own and therefore I have no obligation to explain my decisions to most people (well, except my patreons which I do send them updates).

I have to work through a lot of feelings of guilt and grief. I am grateful for this point in my life to reevaluate who I wish to become, but still I grieve over the person I was. I was a person who would work as hard and as long as I chose to, and that was such a part of me I cherished – mostly for the wrong reasons but it is really nice to be able to work long enough to enter the flow without feeling my head is going to split apart. 

Now I am a person who has to regularly police myself. Each time my migraine occurs I interrogate myself on everything I could have done wrong: sleep, diet, exercise, stress, over-exertion, stimuli, etc. Who knows? Was it the pasta I ate? Was it because I chose to stay out a little while longer? 

A lot of life is about being able to sit through things without letting it frustrate us too much, to be able to face things full on. My illness has taught me an invaluable lesson in sitting through difficult feelings and still trying to live as well as I can despite whatever is happening. Unfortunately I think this would be useful in the time to come because of climate change. Not only do I have to accept that I have little control over my body at times, I will have to learn how to live in a world that is decaying as we speak, to deal with the knowledge that I am also complicit in its decay, there is so little I can do about it, yet I have to try to do whatever I can in my limited power to live with my head held up high.

I would like to be able to look back at my life and know that however I lived, I met my life and the world with as much lucidity as I can muster, without denial of the truth.

on metaphysical beliefs and the determination of worthiness

I was having a conversation with my partner – I can’t remember what exactly I was responding to, but I said something along the lines of, “That’s why I try to cherish our time together now, in case this is actually a dream I wake up from and you’re no longer here with me”. She asked, isn’t it the opposite? If it is a dream and all of this is not real, wouldn’t all of it be worthless?

We launched into one of our long philosophical debates of: what does “real” even mean in the first place, and does an illusion have less worth because it is not “real”? Will we ever know what is the ultimate reality, whether we are the dreamers or the dream?

I asked her in return: if one day she were to realise I wasn’t real, would she think whatever we have shared in this time together, worthless?

I used to believe in reincarnation for a long period of my life. It gave me comfort: a reason for my existence and suffering. After a lot of reading – I guess that is why they say knowledge and questioning can be poisonous – quantum physicists argue that time is not linear or that time may not even exist; I am not even sure if the universe that contains us is the only universe or is it simply a child of an infinite series of russian doll-like universes, or like what tech hippies like to think: we are just a simulation of an advanced civilisation.

We could probably think of infinite theories, or for some people they believe in an absolute truth of their own choosing. But what I’ve concluded personally is I may never know, and it doesn’t really matter.

How can it not matter!? Personally, no matter how I think, whether there is an absolute truth or not, should not alter the way I choose to live my life. If I am a good human being because of what awaits me in an afterlife, am I really a good human being? In my opinion, the point of being human is the capacity to exercise agency, and agency requires free will, and a choice made freely should not be governed by the promise of reward and punishment. Isn’t the point of having consciousness the potential to develop the capacity to discern what right, wrong or grey?

And so what if there are multiple lifetimes, parallel existences, or not? Even if there is an infinity of lives, the life I am living now is the only version of the one which will exist. This is an assumption that the set of variables and conditions will never be replicated in another lifetime. If they are being replicated exactly, it doesn’t mean the outcomes will be the same, with the assumption that every entity capable making of choices in that lifetime has the capacity to have a range of responses to the same stimuli.

Let’s say we don’t actually have free will, and everything is replicated a million times, in the exact same way – we wouldn’t absolutely know anyway, so for our own sanity it is better to err on the side of caution, that we have free will, and therefore, responsibility.

That being said, I don’t necessarily think life is innately precious because there is only one perceived version of it. I don’t think scarcity should determine worth. There is an abundance of oxygen and water (for now), that doesn’t mean it is not precious. And just because no two snowflakes look the same doesn’t mean we have to find a way to freeze all snowflakes permanently.

Neither do I think the realness of life should determine its worth. Our consciousness is still being transformed whether we are living in a simulation, an infinity of universes, or a single planet capable of sustaining life. Similarly, if one decides life is meaningless, would it be enough if we tell them they are the consequence of a billion years of evolution?

I want to live in a way that I could live with, regardless of metaphysics. Because along the way if I knew that I didn’t live the life I could have lived and wanted to live, I would be slowly dying, not living. It wouldn’t matter if there was nothing or something after the end.

While having the argument with my partner it suddenly occurred to me that I was arguing for the worthiness of life, even if temporal or illusory. I guess what I was really arguing for is the worthiness of our time together, but the deeper question to myself is: would I relive this life all over again just to have this time with her?

I am not sure. Maybe if I am lucky enough to live long enough, the answer would unfold itself. If not, then perhaps it is enough for the question to exist.

rare lucidity

In my last post I mentioned that out of nowhere while travelling I could feel a discernible feeling that my depression had lifted. It returned for a couple of days before and after I came home, then I felt it lift again.

There is a lucidity I feel that makes me know when I am in a non-depressed state. My mind feels clear and light, not foggy and weighed-down. There is no sensation of discomfort around my chest area, a sensation I typically associate with sadness. Being an experimental person I actually tried to induce my depression by thinking of things that used to make me depressed, but I could hardly remember those things, even if it was just a few days ago that I remember feeling so.

I am confused, and I don’t really understand what has happened or what happened. I also know due to my personal experience that my current state is not permanent, that there is a high likelihood that I will slip back into a depressed state. But I regularly document those states, and I would like to write about the one I am currently in before I slip out of it.

I have been happy before. Usually they are associated with extreme external circumstances. Being in SF for the first time made me happy. Living in SF made me happy for a very long time – the longest stable period of my life I can recall. Being in love obviously made me happy, but I am skeptical of those states now.

But it is hard for me to be happy now. Back then I was a person trapped in our narrative-driven world. I could be happy as long as “good” things happened to me or if the life I was living fitted the narrative I had about life and my self. Then I discovered everything in life is a story we make up. We could believe in God, in evolution, in meaning, in virtually anything we want as long as it made sense of life and made us feel at peace with living it. For some people it means pursuing happiness. For others it meant living life with a self-derived meaning. A lot of times I have found that “meaning” for many meant living a utilitarian life. Work, purpose, service, material achievements, being a parent, being a good human being, etc.

I am not in a position to really comment whether that is the right way to live or not. But I knew I didn’t want that for myself. I didn’t want to live because of a purpose. Because everything changes, we change. More often than not our imagined purposes change. I don’t have a stable sense of self, so finding out that I have outgrown whatever meaning and purpose I have decided for myself was particularly traumatic. I lived entirely based on a belief that I had a purpose. What happens when that belief gets taken away, sometimes against our will?

The common thing that people say to suicidal people is: think about the people who love you. But from my perspective, it is really depressing to hang on to life because of other people. When life is always about other people or doing something important so there’s value, it is difficult to foster an inherent will to live. Is there nothing inherently worthwhile in our selves?

I don’t feel particularly depressed now. I am not happy either. But I am lucid, or what I label as lucidity. The depressing thoughts that used to plague me seems to have gone into hiding somewhere. I eat, I read, I write, I talk to my partner, I sleep. There are no stories haunting me. There is no obsessive compulsive anxiety. It is really unexpected, because I am supposed to be PMS-ing right now. I am not eating particularly well. I am not sure how long this will last.

I have a few theories. That somehow being away was a much-needed break from my typical policing self. I stopped controlling myself so much. Away from the cities, I witnessed how other people live. It was a particularly powerful lesson to know that what we obsess about in certain environments are not being obsessed over in others, but once in a while I needed a reminder. Every human being tries to find a way to cope with life, once in a while I’ll have the luck to witness one’s beautiful way of living. These days I don’t admire the trailblazers or the people who appear in press interviews. I admire people who go on quietly living their lives with as much aliveness as possible, in the ways they know how.

In psychology they say having the courage to meet our shadows is the first step to integrating our whole selves. In a similar vein, to admit one’s fears or weaknesses is a step in reducing their power over us. I feel like what contributed to this particular period of lucidity is the knowing that I am no longer pretending to be who I’m not. I am okay to be uninteresting, unsuccessful, irrelevant. I don’t try to force myself to be a good person anymore. The older I grow, the more I don’t know what good means.

I just know we live in cycles, and plenty of vicious ones. Sometimes good intentions become unintended ripples. Sometimes we are unaware that our shadows are making us expressing ourselves in unhealthy ways. Sometimes we don’t know that caring for a friend is causing them hurt instead. I am learning to tread lightly on this world, and not make everything about me, to not leave my heavy footprints everywhere I go. I am learning to know myself without the stories.

I have this suspicion what we need as human beings is not happiness. It is having the space to live, to not be compressed into a generalisation or statistic. To not feel like we’re always trying to live out a story we cannot fulfil, and/or very commonly, trying to live out a story someone else has decided for us. But again I don’t think I am in a position to comment for other people but myself.

When I first started reading zen, it felt to me very abstract or very reductive. I have now learned (and am still learning) that it is because we live in a very intellectual world. And I don’t mean intellectual in a good way. We try to intellectualise everything, we try to explain every phenomenon in words or formulas, we try to explain people’s behaviour with economic theory or evolutionary science.

I actually love that. I love finding explanations and learning about all the possible science and theories why we are the way we are. But that is not the complete experience of life. There is something what zen calls “direct experience” that I couldn’t comprehend and only now that I feel I am beginning to. Sometimes trying to put an explanation to everything creates an unbridgeable distance. Some things just have to be directly experienced, and some experiences are just very individual. I find deep beauty in seeing the elderly doing public group exercises. I cannot articulate why, and I don’t wish to. Articulating it will only reduce my experience.

I feel like I am giving more space to all the different parts of me that I have previously denied or repressed. Sometimes I am just uncaring and mean. But I’ve learned that I’ll rather be outright uncaring than to try to have the emotional capacity for something I am not equipped to deal with. Meeting limitations truthfully (not critically or negatively) opens up space.

This is very much a stream of consciousness post. There is no particular agenda, except to document my current state truthfully, as much as I can be truthful. Perhaps for this while I feel like I am not splintered into ten thousand pieces because every little piece feels disjointed.

It is new, rare, and I want to see how this develops.

on coping with life

Last week there was a very lucid moment when I realised my physical depression had been lifted off, and I got momentarily confused. When I travel I can’t exercise or be on a healthy diet, so I tend to get worse instead of better. I tried to think of reasons: was it the act of travelling itself, the novelty effect? No, because not all my travels made me feel better. Now that I’m back in the city center I think I have a working hypothesis: crowded cities make me feel depressed. I thought I was imagining this, but initial fMRI studies seem to reaffirm my suspicion.

I think we’re in very early stages of researching how the human body can be stressed by over-stimuli, and I believe one day the science will clearly demonstrate this. I am just not sure if I’ll see this in my lifetime, not because of the lack of technology, but rather the lack of an economical incentive. We as a society just don’t prioritise human well-being enough, it seems like only rich people can get concerned enough to buy Peloton bikes and go for expensive retreats.

These days I tend to differentiate between what I term as “physical depression” and “existential depression”. Physical depression is when the body itself gives up: there is a lack of energy, motivation, and a general sense of malaise. We could probably detect physical depression with MRI and appropriate blood work. The brain atrophies, the immune system is chronically under attack, and hormonal levels are all over the place.

Existential depression for me, is the philosophical belief that life is suffering and no amount of health hacks can fix what we perceive as the existential truth.

We generally try to “fix” depression, seeing it as an illness. I think it is an illness when you actually think life is precious and meaningful, and you want to live, but somehow your body goes into a state where you can’t feel positive about life anymore. I think there is a small number of people like me who struggle to believe that life is worth living even at the best of our states. I often wonder if this is a neurological state or is this an existential truth that I perceive? Am I existentially depressed because I’m born with the neurological lack of ability to feel pleasure from life, or is it because I can’t unsee the unpleasantness of this world?

I can’t help but feel the sinking suspicion that the “happiest” portions of my life were periods when I can be distracted enough with personal developments (like a new relationship or the hope of a new job) enough to forget about everything else that is unpleasant. To be happy, one has to actively filter out knowledge. In a way we have to take what is good about our own lives and try to ignore that a large part of the world is dysfunctional, unjust and full of suffering.

I oscillate between these phases. I get so depressed at times that I know the only thing I can do is to keep myself alive, one day at a time. So I try to eat, sleep and wake up to see another day. I keep repeating to myself the oxygen mask theory, that we need to take care of ourselves before taking care of others. Other times I feel profound sadness for the suffering that exists and on top of that, existential guilt that I exist and I’m lucky enough to be privileged enough to have a certain level of mobility and comfort. It is this part of me that I know for a certainty that I feel this way not because I am ill. In fact, it is probably my feelings about this world that is making me ill. The existential depression leads to physical depression.

People tell me I have very much to be grateful for and therefore I should be optimistic and positive. What they don’t understand is everything that I am grateful for becomes an existential weight that sometimes feels too much to bear. Why is it so unfair that some people are born into poverty, discrimination and lack of opportunities to rise above the circumstances?

Do something about it, people say. Don’t just sit there and complain. I’ll just come out and say this: I am not existentially strong enough to withstand whatever it takes to “do something”. It is perhaps a source of shame to admit this, but I’m really fragile. Maybe if I was born 500 years ago I’ll be dead by now, because natural selection will just ensure my early death. I’ll be socially rejected by my tribe because of my mental weakness and be left out to die. I mean, in some ways, this is still happening in modern times, the stigma against people mentally disordered people. (Although sometimes I wonder who are the mentally disordered ones, is it really a sign of health to be okay in living in an oppressive world?)

But I guess on a meta level, this is the issue I see with the current state of the world. We perceive strength in a narrow way, and we believe only the strong should survive. We celebrate usefulness and discriminate weaknesses. Perhaps physical strength was what that enabled us to survive thousands of years in the wild and that inevitably came with violence and aggression. Without those traits we may be killed by tribes or animals with more violence and aggression. Oppression was a “good” thing in the survival game, because fear is a powerful tool to make other living beings afraid of us and not try to kill us.

Isn’t that depressing? We have somewhat naturally selected into a species of violence and aggression, because the peaceful ones couldn’t put up much of a fight. I mean, we just have to look at the course of history…

So today we are stuck with these people in power who are mostly there because their power is inherited and/or because they were power hungry in the first place. We keep trying to plead for human decency in these people, but the mistake we make is believing they are just like us. Everyone has a conscience don’t they? What if it is the ruthlessness in evolution that has eradicated that trait in them? I think in order to gain power it is inevitable that we have to silence parts of our conscience, if not the entire thing. These people thrived precisely because their conscience is not functioning.

The tragedy is that they are also the ones who designed the systems the rest of us live in. They are the ones who get to decide the education we undertake, the type of financial conditions we commit to, the conditions of our employment, the necessity of employment in the first place. To have any hope of changing this status quo, there are some of us who bravely participate in a massively unequal fight that will invite a lifetime of fatigue and abuse, if not incarceration. We will have to develop a thick skin and be as aggressive as our ethics and conscience allow us to get, debate with illogical unintelligent opponents, try to fight above the belt whereas the opposition will not hesitate to kick us repeatedly under the belt. Well, I can at least say that at least in modern times it is somewhat harder to just outright kill us off. I guess that is progress?

There are bright spots. Like some of the brave women and/or minority politicians out there today. But it is still painful to see the abuse they have to endure. I think there is a heavy psychological cost for this bravery. We have to silence parts of our humanity for humanity. We can have hope in humanity, in the long view that as a species we will evolve. But evolution has no conscience. I don’t believe the universe has a natural long moral arc of justice. Justice is a human concept and we aspire to be just. Yet it doesn’t mean we will naturally evolve to be compassionate and intelligent enough to not self-sabotage.

What can I personally do, as a thin-skinned, physically weak and chronically unhealthy person? I think part of coming to terms with long-term ill-health is the acceptance of my own limitations, no matter how personally shameful it feels, even if knowing the fact that I even feel shame is a consequence of our capitalistic society. I don’t think I’ve fully accepted them yet, based on the number of guilt trips I go on every day. So I do what I can. Like keeping myself alive, because at the very least I should not do harm to people who love me, but this is only possible because I still retain much of my logical faculties, and I just want to make it clear that I remain in solidarity with people who are so haunted by their own brains that there is just no way out except choosing the end. I don’t believe that life for the sake of simply living is ethical, I think life is possibly worth living if we have the possibility to have individual power and agency.

I participate in my own personal rebellion. I try not to perpetuate what I think are unhealthy capitalistic values, as best to my conscious knowledge. I fail sometimes. I am a hypocrite most of the time, like how I am typing on an iphone now. I like my material creature comforts like the bed I sleep in. But I no longer think it is congratulatory for people to raise billions of dollars or to grow disproportionately in power. I find it disturbing that at the verge of ecological collapse we are still not yet questioning our roles and still celebrating Uber-esque IPOs. We are celebrating the people and companies who are destroying us. And we still love power more than we love ourselves.

I think it is very difficult to be an ethical human being in this day and age. No matter where we turn, how we choose, we are inevitably complicit in a system that perpetuates unnecessary suffering. We are interdependent, there is almost no way to opt out of this complicity, the hope lies in collectively improving the system. But I think it is important to bear the entire psychological weight of making choices. Use money, but know what we are paying for, what we are complicit in. In Singapore, by all means vote for the incumbent party if we prioritise certain values, but be conscious what that vote comes with, and what we are giving up.

I don’t believe in absolutes, and I think sometimes in order to have less suffering we do have to choose the lesser of evils, but I believe we have to know what we are choosing.

I don’t pretend to know the answers, or know what is the best way to live. I can only continue to question, challenge and think. I think this is the least I can do with my thin skin. I just want to acknowledge I’m a hypocrite, and maybe admitting it makes my existential guilt a little lighter and doesn’t serve any moral purpose, but for me being human is about bearing the guilt that comes with existence and participating in the web of life. To deny the suffering, to simply focus on the good, I think it invalidates the lived experience of many sentient beings.

I wonder if there will come a day where I can be physically healthy enough to bear my existential depression in the most equanimous, least destructive way possible, or the ill-health is an unavoidable consequence of witnessing, knowing and feeling suffering.


I write one of these every year. I read last year’s and was slightly amused how serious I sounded. But this is typical of me, I oscillate between thinking I take myself too seriously and not taking myself seriously enough.

Perhaps it is the consequence of reading too many psychoanalysis, psychotherapy, and zen books — in recent times I have found myself observing myself in a third-party observer mode. Maybe it is the start of developing true empathy and compassion for myself. It is not the self-pity and outrage I am accustomed to, but a sort of sadness and acceptance in noticing my behavioural patterns and understanding why they are the way they are. At times there is confusion because I have become aware I was expressing an unhealthy pattern, but I still remained helpless to its unfolding. I feel like I’m watching a movie play out on the screen, knowing what is to come, and yet unable to change the script.

In therapy and zen they say true self-acceptance is the precursor to transforming ourselves. I have found that self-acceptance is not a linear journey, like most parts of life. Maybe it is more like a repetitive commitment akin to physical exercise, some days we get ourselves to do it, other days we sit there unable to move out of a stationary impasse.

I am a self-quantifier, for years I have believed that with enough data and well designed habits we can make healthy changes to our selves. It is still true to an extent, but it is not the complete picture. I think we as a human race are so obsessed with improvements that we fail to see that failures, mistakes and helplessness is very much part of being human and the human experience.

I like the taoist belief of yin and yang: that everything must co-exist in a healthy balance. Too much of anything is not healthy, even improvements. It is like the Buddhist idea that being attached to anything is not desirable, even grasping for goodness is still seen is a desire.

I now see that one of my major themes in life is demanding too much of everything, including myself. Even in learning to be less of a workaholic I demanded myself to be better at doing nothing. There is very little compassion for myself, that I needed time and practice to shift behavioural states, especially chronic patterns that have existed for most of my life. I have also realised compassion for ourselves in directly tied to true compassion for the other. All of us need space, time and practice, but the current reality doesn’t allow most of us that space.

If we study neuroscience just a little, even on a very superficial level, there is a mix of bad and good news. The bad news is that it is really, really hard to change fundamental human behaviour because a lot of it is hard wired into our brains. Some people believe our brains are simply designed that way so that we can survive (I guess traditionally it is easy to believe we have to kill our competitors so that we ourselves can live, which is depressing because it means genetically nature favours violence, so in a way we can never get rid of that predisposition since it is the thing that allows the human species to perpetuate), but there is a minority (myself included) who believes that we are a young species and hence our brain is still evolving.

The good news is we have recently discovered that our brains are actually plastic, with the right interventions the brain seems capable of learning a whole lot of previously unimaginable things. It is not impossible like we thought, but it is not that easy, and yet it is not that difficult.

But again, most of it requires time and practice. Most people don’t have time. I have more time than most people, but the practice is hard.

But above time and practice, there is a question of priority. We as a society don’t believe personal transformation is important, so we have designed society in the opposite direction: a society that oppresses everything based on competition. We are so competitive that we don’t see that we are slowly making ourselves go extinct while trying to compete each other to our deaths.

So why am I ruminating about society’s ills in my birthday post? Because there is an intrinsic relationship between my society and me. I am a consequence of the society I am raised in. To believe otherwise is hubris. From the moment we are capable of thought we are raised to believe we must be better than other people, we must constantly strive upwards, we must acquire power so we don’t suffer.

I have believed the opposite since I was capable of basic reasoning, but still I was not spared the unconscious conditioning. People judged me constantly, I judged myself constantly, I imagine people judging me constantly. I don’t know a single human being who doesn’t judge themselves based on some societal-defined value. The more obvious judgments are based on material wealth and status, the subtler and perhaps more insidious judgment is based on morals. Am I a good enough person?

Too much of anything is not healthy. Look what we have subjected people to because of our own moral beliefs. Believing in a different God is wrong. Not believing in God is also wrong. Being suicidal is wrong. Believing in the right to die is wrong. Believing in the right to terminate our own pregnancy is wrong. Being depressed is wrong. Being gay is wrong. Being an artist is wrong. Not earning enough money is wrong. Mot wanting to be a 9-5 slave is wrong. Not being interested in capitalism is wrong. Believing in social welfare is wrong. In some places, being raped is also wrong.

I don’t know. Maybe if you were told your entire existence is wrong you would also be suicidal like me.

I am reading a book based on a twitter friend’s recommendation. In that book there is a monastery, and there is a belief that out of the monastery the food they eat raises the level of something in their blood that takes their true feelings away, keeping people happy and placated. The monastics don’t eat the same food, and hence they have to cope with a lot more mental and emotional disturbances. Some of them kill themselves, unable to cope with truth. But there is a promise that true happiness awaits.

Many times in my life I have wished for myself to be more “normal”. Why couldn’t I just be like other people (well, apart from being gay. I like being gay). There is this deep-rooted struggle within me: wanting to be authentically who I am versus what society expects out of me. I wish I can say that I love being myself and who cares about what people think, but that is not true. Most of my life I feel like I have no choice but to be myself and yet I hate myself for not being “normal”. There is this complex pride that I still chose to be myself regardless and also this deep shame.

But I think the thing with ageing is that if we are lucky enough, we start to find out that it is all a ruse. The things they say are important didn’t make our lives feel much better if not worse; that at some point, we really start to truly feel that people’s opinions matter less, and we start to think of what is the life we truly want to lead?

Turning 38 today, I write this with awareness that I am constantly evolving, that my views change. That is why it is interesting for me to do this as a ritual, to witness my own becoming. I also think it is funny to laugh at my old selves for being so serious. But this is where I am now: I don’t believe true happiness awaits nor do I believe it should be the goal of life. In fact I don’t think there should be goals of life except the act of living itself. I think what is important is to figure out what works for ourselves — that everyone is different so don’t make the mistake of making someone else’s life our own. I mean, what sort of universe this is if every one is the same? So I believe there are people who love life and thrive on it, there are some who are okay going through life like everyone else, and then there are grinches like me who often wonder if non-existence is a preferred mode of existence.

I am not like the people in the book who can be happy and placated eating their food (or soma in Brave New World). It is not like I didn’t try. Something inevitably rebels in me and feeling intensely suicidal is the response to trying to live like everyone else.

So I hope with time and practice, with enough self-compassion along the way, I can rise above my internal conditioning and live life as it is, not as some dysfunctional narrative repeating itself in my head. It is hard for me because I get upset with myself very easily and I go into spirals, but I want to be okay with that too, because I am human.

They say suffering is the disconnect between reality and what is expected. Perhaps to secret to living life is a combination of acceptance yet having the capacity to harbour hope, coupled with the empowerment to take small steps towards wherever we hope to be, or the courage to stay if that is what we want. The demand for too much is a form of violence and it creates violence. I can only hope to remember this as I grow older, to be a little less serious, to become a person capable of treating myself like I would treat a child when she stumbles: a bit of amusement, a dose of empathy, a pat on the back, the willingness to pick myself back up, and to be brave enough to stumble again. And to be okay if all I want to do is to sit there and cry for a bit.

I feel like I am also more accepting of myself being a not-so-good person. That I can be self-centered, greedy and unkind. I think believing myself to be a good person has caused a lot of suffering in me, because I end up doing things I am not capable of doing and end up building resentment for them, in addition to all the guilt-tripping and admonishing to myself in the head.

I am who I am because of where I am. Personal growth is not a pretense, not simply an acting out of a narrative I want to believe in. I am okay with being not-so-good, because I am starting to meet myself where I am, so I can walk along with this person, instead of trying to make her bridge an unrealistic gap and then being upset at something that she was never set up to do in the first place.

Our relationship with ourselves is often a microcosm of our relationship with the world. When I recognised everyone is stumbling in their own ways, everyone is responding to their conditioning, what arose out of me isn’t disappointment or judgement, but a sense of compassion and relatedness. That’s where a true relationship can start.

I don’t embody this thought every minute of the day, half the time if not more I am angry with both the world and myself, but it is never easy to start learning to love something authentically. Not just loving the idea or the best parts of it, but the wholeness and complexity of it all.

the center cannot hold

I finished reading “The center cannot hold” in three consecutive settings. It is an memoir written by a conventionally successful professor on her journey struggling with schizophrenia. I guess it says a lot that these days I can almost only find comfort in relating to depressed philosophers, reclusive hermits and people with mental disorders.

In the book she wrote considerably about the profound isolation she felt because of her mental illness. In her life, perhaps there was only one person she felt who understood her: Mrs Jones, her first psychoanalyst. I don’t think I can recall one living person whom I felt understood how I feel in relation to the world (apart from depressed philosophers but in some way you can only get a tiny slice of a person through reading their writing, a tiny but deep slice nevertheless). So I sort of clumsily understood why Mrs Jones meant so much to her, why she couldn’t deal with their separation when she had to return to the US from Oxford, the depth of her grief when Mrs Jones passed.

It was Anthony Storr, a well-known psychoanalyst who wrote after seeing her once, that for her it is analysis or nothing. She was hospitalised twice, after threatening harm to both herself and other people, and she would often hallucinate and have extreme delusions. But she acknowledged throughout her book that while it was medication that helped manage her disorder, it was psychoanalysis that gave meaning to her life. It was being in analysis with Mrs Jones that she credited for enabling her to finish graduate school at Oxford, and set the foundation to her being in analysis permanently, eventually cumulating in her undergoing psychoanalytic training as well. For what it is worth, she has two philosophy degrees and one law degree, completed alongside while she suffered through the worst periods of her schizophrenia (and she readily admits that her privilege allowed her the space to cope, because she didn’t have to cope with any financial worries).

The memoir is written with a lot of detail, and I can’t help but wonder how she managed to recall so many details when she was undergoing perpetual brain fog during those times. But I appreciate it nonetheless. It is her professional standing that allowed her to write something like this without having to suffer serious professional consequences, but it is also her professional standing that was at risk when she made that choice. Many of her colleagues were unaware she has schizophrenia and would make discriminatory remarks about mentally-disordered people in front of her. Imagine working exceptionally hard to have a semblance of professional success in her life, only to have it permanently tagged to the label of being crazy (her word, not mine). But she has had an impressive body of work published prior to her memoir to serve as her record, and if someone like her cannot reduce the stigma to schizophrenia, nobody can, she thinks, and I concur.

That was similar to how I felt when I started writing about my chronic depression more than 10 years ago. I was only a moderately successful freelancer, but I believed that if I couldn’t survive coming out with a mental disorder even though I had a visible body of work in a forgiving industry, then where is the hope of a regular person? The stigma causes more isolation on top of the isolation that already comes with the disorder, and it often snowballs into a loneliness that pushes a person into a untenable corner.

I have friends and a loving partner. There are multiple parts of me, and people know that part of me I present as my front. I would say that is the most superficial part of me, the part of me raised and conditioned by society. To be capable of jokes, self-deprecating humour, smiles, no matter how I was feeling inside. Then there is the part of me who is chronically suicidal, often thinks that life is meaningless, feels profoundly empty and sad no matter what goes on externally. I often feel that most people don’t truly know me and they would rather see me as the superficial self I present. Now, is that the truth or is that an artifact of my depressed brain? Am I depressed because of my depressed brain or because of my fundamental philosophical beliefs? Can an improved brain chemistry change someone’s philosophy?

These days I don’t interact with people much, by choice. I find comfort in taking my own pain seriously for once instead of belittling myself, though it is a constant challenge. I have a ton of self-pity combined with self-hatred, because I feel guilty at not being able to love and appreciate life when I know there is a ton of people who would do anything to live a little longer, whereas I think about cutting mine short all the time. That in itself is a kind of deep existential pain, the belief I am taking up precious space I don’t deserve.

I don’t wish to be my superficial self anymore, but I don’t know how else to be when I am physically with people. So I opt out of the whole thing. I think I am only beginning to learn how to be authentic even to myself, to not be dismissive of my own feelings.

I don’t wish to become a happier, more optimistic person, which is something difficult for people to accept. I just wish to be more coherent/congruent as a person, more accepting of myself, less of splitting into superficiality and defences. I often thought of sparing people’s feelings, so I starved mine. I still want to spare people’s feelings but I no longer want to starve mine, so I limit my social sphere to my partner and I.

It is only with her that I am capable of being who I truly am. A frightened, anxious, insecure child. Yes, I’ll be 40 in a couple of years, and I am publicly calling myself a child. At this point I am not sure if I’ll ever grow up.

The author loved her Mrs Jones like no other because it was only with her that she felt she could be authentic with her very disturbing thoughts. I have something similar with my partner, an unconditional acceptance of the perceived ugliness within me. But I would like to find my own Mrs Jones one day: someone who is able to see me for who I am without the emotional investment of a life partner, someone I can be fully ugly with without having to be protective towards.