Winnie Lim

This is the first time since moving to SF that I’m back in Singapore and I’m not desperately trying to escape the first opportunity I have. I’m still ambivalent about the country if not leaning towards a negative sentiment – still a step forward considering how much PTSD I had – but I wouldn’t be back here if not for my family. The people I miss, the country and all of what she embodies, not so much. I have friends dear to me who care so much about the country that sometimes I wish I can have half that sentiment, just so I can feel better about everything.

Six months on, I have learned that the passing of my grandmother did impact me profoundly. It is not the event itself, but the realization that I have not been very present for the people I care about. We cannot control life’s events, but we can choose how we are with people. Death itself still does not terrify me, missing out on opportunities to be truly present with people break me. We can spend everyday with somebody but not truly be there with them. It is not the amount of time we spend, but how much energy, how much of ourselves we are willing to give in that moment.

I have always given a lot of myself to my work, but having nobody to depend on while growing up made me sort of either detached or insecure with people. I don’t like forming deep bonds, because of the number of times I have to break them as a child in order to survive emotionally. At age 34, I am beginning to realize how much I still do not understand myself or my psyche, how many assumptions I had about myself are turning out to be wrong.

Yesterday, two of my favorite people from Singapore dropped in to hang out with me separately, but due to an lucky overlap in schedules, three of us managed to spend some time together.

These are people I hardly see, once a year if I am lucky, twice if I am extremely fortunate. Throughout the years since I’ve known them, the number of times I’ve seen them barely exceeds the fingers on my hands. I tell them half-jokingly that we have only managed to see each other at least once a year precisely because we live in two ends of the world, if I had been in Singapore, the proximity would ironically allow our work to always be in precedence over spending time together.

It is the distance that makes every time we connect precious, because we know it is really a luxury to be in the same time and space together. People say it is always quality over quantity, I am mostly skeptical because I have seen relationships disintegrate over time, because time is indeed a factor in nurturing most connections. I think that is because communication and understanding between people often do not come naturally, so time is needed to facilitate the strength of a connection. Out of sight, out of mind.

But once every in a long while, the connection I make with someone defies all natural laws and physics, and right from the beginning there exists something that feels truly timeless. It does not matter how much time has passed in between or how often we meet, conversations are resumed where we left off, the sentiment is always carried over, the range of what we talk about never shy, apologetic or cautious.

In a world where there is so much noise and fear, it is rare to meet such people, and it seems to be a silent understanding among those of us – we are connected to an over-arching story that binds us all: a past we had to overcome in order to realize ourselves, and a hopeful future we not only desire to co-create, but a incessant obligation to be responsible towards.

We know the same thread runs through us, inadvertently laughing at each other’s morbid sense of humor, as well as keenly feeling the other’s pain. Their existence remind me that I am not alone in feeling this weight. The heaviness I feel can be very overwhelming, but like yesterday, the universe reminded me that I am connected to people who care as much, if not more.

That even if there is time and distance between us, I am still ultimately very blessed, to be bound to these people by the narrative we are all consciously choosing to be in.

Somewhere out there, tears are flowing for the same reasons, footsteps are taken towards a common destination, dreams are weaved together for a shared vision.

In a world that can feel mostly alienating to me sometimes, there are a few people whom I feel a kindred spirit to. Min and Alam are two such people. Today, I am very privileged to witness their marriage.

Seeing them together makes me want to reverse any cynicism I have about love. I have known them for five years now, throughout the years their love has grown exponentially. Each time I see them they are more bonded than the last. If there is such a thing as soulmates, they would be a testament for it. For they are two amazing individuals who not only bring out the best in each other, they bring out the best in other people, together.

They possess an innate understanding that their being together is not only for themselves, but for their shared purpose towards humanity. It is one thing to listen to them talk about it, and a whole other level to hear them etch that into a sacred formalization through their marriage vows. How beautiful it is – I am at a loss of words to describe – for two human beings who vowed to share that love with the world, on top of their love for each other?

I am only too blessed to know them in person to have experienced their shared love for humanity, and it gives me immense pride to call them my fellow human beings. Being a friend to them is really a huge bonus.

We hardly have the time and space to spend time with each other, but each time we manage share a space, I have felt nothing but love and support from them. Their presence in this world anchors my faith in humanity, they also make me feel so much less alone for believing we are capable of making a much better world for ourselves.

I am actually terrible at keeping in touch with all the people I love, so through the written word, I hope to be at least capable of expressing just a little bit, how much their friendship has inspired and supported me. Thank you, Min and Alam, I know you will both continue to be a much needed force of love.

A photo posted by Winnie Lim (@wynlim) on Apr 26, 2015 at 11:49am PDT

I’ve just finished two books that brought me great comfort at a very difficult time, Stitches by Anne Lamott and Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself: A Road Trip with David Foster Wallace by David Lipsky.

It is telling that in times of difficulty it is not really books of optimism and positivity that helped me, but books that deal with similar tones of existential pain. I am not alone in this, I have to keep telling myself.

I guess there is a same thread running through some of my own writing, in many ways I am paying a really weird debt forward. I have survived and coped by knowing that there are others like me out there, so I want to be part of that effort to keep the circle running. You are not alone, because I am here.

There is always this conflicted ball of feelings when I try to process my feelings about the passing of someone like David Foster Wallace. Not only I understand why, I relate to it and I am perversely envious. Yet my feelings are mixed with some form of despair – does it mean a similar fate await for me; sometimes it does not have to be literal suicide that takes life away, the seemingly inescapable gradual numbing that takes place in order to survive, is a form of death too. There is also a sense of betrayal, for those of us left behind.

We understand that though there is an intellectual understanding that escaping life does not solve the problem, yet there is no point in trying to tell that to us when we are in that terrible depth. It is so easy for people to tell us to stop trying to give up, when they are not the one having to live with that darkness. A darkness that feels so foreign and yet so intimate at the same time.

It is difficult when I am so used to this that I have learned to become highly functional – I can no longer tell which is worse, being so acutely afflicted that there has to be some desperate intervention, or being in this state of chronic perpetual dysfunction that it becomes dishonored. Everything on the surface is great: supportive family and friends, professional work that aligns with personal mission, after three decades of living I have finally realized I do not have to put up with people’s bullshit, blessed with a privileged amount of mobility not afforded to most people in the world. I have a ton of guilt, for not being able to do more when I have so much because half the time I am really trying to breathe, for causing people hurt because I have to be so goddamned honest with my pain.

But it is that same pain and honesty that makes me, me. I would not be able to do the work I do, write the way I write, love the world so profoundly – which still trips me up, why do I love so much of what tries to kill me – without that pain and the precise sensitivity to it. It has become a source of strength and it will continue to grow as one, if it doesn’t kill me first. It is like injecting poison to build up immunity to it. It could either be life-saving or lethal.

There is always a trade-off. I have traded off some form of robustness in order to always be susceptible to the pain, maybe because in the end, it is really the same susceptibility to joy and life itself too. It may not have been a trade-off I was consciously capable of making, because is life truly life to me without the fullest expression of sentience we have been gifted?

I hope I do have the conscious choice of being someone capable of sharing every dimension of me, the pain, the joy, the ugliness, the beauty, the struggles and the celebrations.

In times of fatigue and stress, my mind gets messed up: my adrenals get fried, my hormones are all over the place, I lose the cognitive ability to regulate my thoughts and emotions. I used to blame it on my personality, thankfully due to modern research on neuroscience, I now understand how little conscious control we actually have over ourselves.

During these times it is really important for me to examine my motivations for life itself. I need something to hold on to, because unlike most other people, I don’t find living for the sake of living compelling. This doesn’t change regardless of my mood or state. I question my existence by default, being stressed out just exacerbates it.

In recent years, I have found some meaning in my realization that I have the agency to live however I want to – that the meaning of life to me is that we, as conscious beings, are free to determine our own meanings. If you think the meaning of your life is to procreate or to save the world, no one can argue with that. It is your meaning, only you can decide for yourself what it should be.

This was very liberating and empowering to me when I first had the epiphany. I sought meaning in the faith that I could be an agent for the greater good. My life didn’t seem to be valuable to me on its own, and I wanted it to mean something, that meant finding a cause I could firmly believe in. If I could give myself to the world, that must at least mean something, wouldn’t it?

But it wasn’t enough. Or it was too much, depending on which perspective. I tried to give so much of myself that during times when I had nothing left but an empty shell, I have found it really difficult to believe that I should carry on. I relied too much on external factors and motivation to keep me going.

Intrinsic motivation is what will keep people going when there is nothing left externally. How do I, build that intrinsic motivation when I have no will to live for myself?

Sometimes I cannot help but think, perhaps willfully or irrationally that it doesn’t fucking matter if I cease to exist. These are dark times when I just need to hold on so desperately to convince myself otherwise. I want to have intrinsic reasons to live, but it feels hollow when I have such a flawed perception of myself.

However, once in a while someone tells me I have made a difference to their lives, and although it feels almost narcissistic to me, it does make me re-think my own assumptions about my existence. Maybe I am somewhat useful after all.

In the end, I have to hinge my existence on my family – I have no heart to break their hearts and I can only hope that I will always be conscious enough to remember that, that no amount of darkness or pain will overwhelm my desire to not inflict pain on other people; I also need periodic reinforcement from people close to me, that even if I didn’t value my own existence, they can somehow leverage some use out of me, that I may have brought some comfort or joy to their lives by just being present.

It is extremely difficult, especially during times when I find myself tiring and a pain to live with. It feels very exhausting to cope with my emotions and sensitivity at times. I feel incredibly fragile and unable to withstand shocks, I feel like the world is too harsh for people like me (don’t even want to start on how unjust it is for a whole lot of people) and it makes me not want to be here.

If there is any intrinsic motivation at all, I can only hope that I live well and long enough to make this world slightly better to live in for people like me. It is still somewhat extrinsic I guess, needing a potential outcome to have some vested interest in this world.

Just by merely existing, I hope that others will find the courage to exist too. At least that is the story I try to tell myself, in order to keep on living.

Thank you to those of you who have made the effort to tell me that I mean something to you. It may seem trivial, but you have no idea how much it means to someone like me, who needs very single bit of reason to live.

P.S. yes, I have survivors’ guilt. Knowing that I am incredibly blessed and privileged does not make me feel better, in fact it makes me feel worse.

A friend passed me a book she said she loved, “Behind the beautiful forevers” by Katherine Boo. Throughout the process I thought it was fiction based on inspiration from reality. I had only found out from the author’s note at the end that it was non-fiction (yes, I’m embarrassed). She had documented the stories from Annawadi, a Mumbai slum, for three years.

When I read of people like her – another one that comes to my mind immediately is Christina Lamb – I feel a strange combination of emotions: shame, guilt, inspiration and pride. Sometimes I feel like I want to throw in the towel even from the comfort of my armchair, while these people visit war zones or environments of despair in order to do their part in trying to bring these horrendous issues to our collective consciousness.

I cannot comprehend how they can be exposed to so much ugliness, suffering and injustice, to know and see that the people they are writing about are just as human as they are, and yet persevere without being broken themselves.

I don’t know how I will ever reconcile my own perpetual existential crisis to the stories of pure defiance and resilience arising from people who are born into conditions of despair:

”The slumdwellers I’d already come to know in India were neither mythic nor pathetic. They were certainly not passive. Across the country, in communities decidedly short on saviors, they were improvising, often ingeniously, in pursuit of the new economic possibilities of the twenty-first century.”

More than three years, Katherine Boo spent in those slums, interviewing, investigating, asking, living. It was hard for me to read, her book, and perhaps that is the purpose she wanted to achieve. For people like me to flinch at its contents.

I am really disturbed by the portraits of the slum life she had so beautifully painted and I wonder at the eternal question – why do people have more simply because of the geographical location of their births? In trying to seek my answer, perhaps I am lifted out of the hope that at the very least, I am trying to ask the question.

I find great comfort in the below quote, because it represents the faith I am trying to hold, that even we are perhaps beyond repair, there must lie some hope on the horizon – our younger ones:

”I found Annawadi children to be the most dependable witnesses. They were largely indifferent to the political, economic, and religious contentions of their elders, and unconcerned about how their accounts might sound.”