Why give up your soul to win the world's favor when the Son of God has given up his to already win God's favor for you?

I don't have a perfect complexion.. Or a perfect body, weight, height... Or a perfect job or pay...

But I have an imperfectly perfect group of friends... Hang out group in church..  Trying bunch of members... And an ever perfect God with whom I can and will find joy in.

And it's all good. :)

"This is how Russia manage the game. Planned the game."

With who? The mafia?

How dare they do this to the beautiful game. How dare they.

Had a conversation with someone the other day and we were talking about our past work experiences.

And while I'm not one who exposes my vulnerabilities easily, I'm open with my mental illness past because there is much to learn from it. Plus it's a good way of helping people realize that it's more prevalent than we think.

When the topic of politicking and backstabbing and toxic environments came up, he sighed and looked at me.

"How does one be the bigger person after being a victim?"

I shrugged, "I'm a Christian, above and beyond any other label the world has for me. I'm not a 'bigger person'. I don't like that idea. I'm just a Christian."

He frowned, "easier said than done. Where does one find the strength and the ability to not just forgive, but to also keep the door open?"

"It was never closed. But God gave me strength to not close the door that He opened," I replied. Another sigh and the topic was changed.

The old me would have been vindictive. Angry. Vengeful. The old me would have cut off people in self-preservation and surround myself with people encouraging me to do all that. To even ruin people.

But with all that He's done, old me isn't suppressed. Old me has changed and I am grateful. :)

You're too pessimistic. 

You're too careful.

You're too rigid.

You're too critical of others even if you don't say it out loud. 

You drain people.

You require too much care. 

You don't deserve those around you. 


No more panic attacks. No more anxiety and little rushed palpitations. Yet the voices find their way around the head at the most unexpected times.

So this little dark cloud shaped like a hamster will just have to let this pass, check herself and evaluate her actions and thoughts, and keep chomping on kale chips. Thank God for God and Netflix at times like these.

Yesterday after scolding me about my grab bike experiences in BKK, the pseudo father asked me if I was really okay with attending the work event happening today. I dismissed his concerns with an assurance that it was behind me and a thing of the past.

Yet this morning as I got ready, part of me was filled with a familiar dread. I steadied the breath and prepped with a prayer. On the way there, my mind worked out a million and one ways of backing out.

When I reached, it was awkwardly familiar yet strange. Conversations were had and I was glad for them.

Thinking of what the "father" said, I don't think it's me being a bigger person. Sure, that environment was a trigger (not in the dumbass millennial sense). Sure, the meds were awful and my emotional and mental being were in a mess. The spaceyness and nausea and constant out of body voidness weren't fun. But that was 2 years ago.

I haven't forgotten it. But I'm letting that change me and transform me. If I let it go and pretend that it didn't happen, how I react and respond to other moments in my life would be different too.

And I'm sure I don't want that.

I'm grateful for the time and memories, good and bad. They remind me of how good God is. They challenge me to respond to His love in a way He desires, not how the world "naturally" would.

So I'm not running away. I'm not cutting people out of my life. I'm not erasing anything and pretending that that one year of my life didn't exist.

The door to be part of my life is always open. My heart will just have to be kinder and gentler and stronger to deal with it. And I'm glad to see people wanting to enter again. I am not looking for apologies. But as these people come back to my life, I'll accommodate them and love them the way God demands me to. Unconditionally.

And it's okay. Cos if God can see me through my depression on both occasions, I know He will see me through anything.

During a Sunday morning run, I fell around the halfway mark of my route. I tripped, skidded, and hit gravel, accompanied by watchful eyes of all at the bus stop and a single exclamation of Aiyoh. As I paused to collect my senses and slowly pick myself up in front of the bus stop, it was clear that the several beings I had fallen in front of weren't going to help me.

As I recovered my nerves after cleaning up at the petrol station, the concept of reliability, or at least the lack of it, swarm my mind. But what made me think I could rely on strangers?

Social morals? My mind worked out that there was no room for that. There were no moral rewards to be gain. My fall didn't deserve reciprocated help.

Social graces then? Similarly, moral rewards were not available. (Do social graces demand or expect non-rewards? Something to think about..). In essence, people are not gracious.

That said, when I got home, my mom asked if anyone helped me. I shook my head and the look of disappointment on her face spoke volumes. While she always stressed that charity started at home, she knew that I was that weird child that would help a person who had fallen off a bike. She knew I was that weirdo who would walk to strangers with maps and offer help. She knew I would readily top up someone's cash on the bus for a bus ride.

Behind that look, I saw a mother disappointed that the world had failed in being a better place for her daughter who was trying to make it a better place.

Sigh.

I used to dream a lot as a child.

not dream as in cook up stories in my head and reimagine my life. I do that. a lot. but those aren't the dreams I'm talking about. I'm talking about those that happen while you're sleeping and not necessarily aware of what that is happening.

my dreams had stories. had continuity. which was always odd to me and a little annoying given the dreams that I used to have. and there were four big ones that I always remember.

one was me always getting dropped off somewhere and then me trying to find my way through a haunted house where I had to climb through tunnels and jump down from high places, both things that I absolutely hated and feared. I remember the cold sweat as I tried to get to my final destination before the ghosts would get to me. And every time the ghost got to me, I would wake up and mentally kick myself, knowing that I would have the dream again. And each time I had the dream, I would try a new route, always remembering what I did the last time. When I finally reached the last place I had to be and escaped the place, I woke up feeling ridiculously victorious. and I never had the dream again.

the second was me in the olden days, trying to make it through a single night to get away from the monsters that rose from the ground. it was a mad few months of constantly dying in my dream and then in the next dream, working out a new plan to survive. the very first time I saw the beams of light shine into my hiding place to signal that I had made it, I woke up feeling glorious again, knowing very well that I would never have to deal with the dream again.

the third one was a little more sobering. it would start with a gray stormy day as the family would head out for a vacation. and the entire trip would be beautifully scary, of tall cliffs, jagged rocks in the sea, lightning scattered skies and just the feel of gloom. but yet, I was always with a friend from the dream. and I actually looked forward to the dream. however, there was that one time I fought with that dream friend and therein revealed doubt, confusion, and betrayal of emotions from both sides due to differing expectations. the dream eventually ended in a gorgeous cave pool and clear blue skies with gentle wind. I woke up and cried, knowing that I would never dream that dream again. and it was really the last time I saw that dream friend.

then these serial dreams stopped. they stopped linked and all it started stuttering, the dreams never having anything to do with another. It also coincided with a darker time of my life. for 4-5 years, each dream was disjointed. then the last and final one.

this was weirder and probably due to a strange phase in my life. it was literally about my dream boyfriend. like boyfriend in my dream. and it was the same guy over and over again. I would wake and never remember how he looked like or sounded like but whenever I entered the dream, I would recognise him and the dream would start. after a few months, when I had the serial dream again, it started out ominous. and it ended with me crying my eyes at a funeral. I remember waking up and crying over someone I never knew or met for real.

and that was it.

the serial dreams stopped.


I never figured out why those moments happen and why they stopped even though I think about them from time to time. they still make for interesting conversation at times when it's apt to bring them up. if anyone reading this can somehow make sense of why serial dreams even happen, do let me know so I can close this weird chapter somehow. lols.

In all things that you have created, I hear You in the midst reminding me, "I Am."

Let me then always fall on my knees and praise You, "You Are."

I know my posts have been a little darker but i need the reminders i give myself here...

The one night I nearly OD'ed, I prayed, dug nails into flesh, hyperventilated, and cried myself into a dry heaving headache before I caved and texted friends in the wee hours after midnight to plead for prayers.

Obviously I fought that to be still writing this today.

But when I think back on it, it wasn't really that I was fighting to live. I mean, I questioned my existence on an hourly basis. I wasn't thinking of living.

But Carrie Fisher helped me understand those thoughts better now.

I wasn't thinking of living. But I wasn't thinking of dying either.

So that night of the exceptionally bad attack, I fought not because I wanted to live. I fought because I didn't want to die that night out of convenience.

That said, if I had planed it... if I had detailed it and arranged for it, I'm not even sure I would be posting this now. I lived because I never meant for myself to die in the middle of an attack.

When I first told L about it, she reminded me gently that I had beaten depression before. She believed that I could be strong enough to fight it again. Not "would". But "could". There was no pressure on my will but encouragement based on my capabilities.

And so I'm logging this down to remind myself that if it happens again.. if I fall into darkness again.. There is also a chance that I will recover again too. And that is one hope I'll cling to with His watchful eye and guiding hand in my life. So remember.

I hate that in spite of everything I'm saying or have said, my mind still filed away "coal briquette".

Please stop, brain.

Hurts. It hurts. Why does it hurt so much. I want it to stop. I need it to stop. Go away. Please go away.

Everyone is lying. No one cares. They can't wait for me to be gone. No one cares.

Loving them means I shouldn't be a burden to them. What is a period of mourning without me to a lifetime of angst and grief with me. I can't help them help me. It's worse for them when I'm around them.

Perhaps it's just me but... It's dark here. Where do I find light?

Mind tricks? No. This is me. It's not mind tricks. It's me. I'm broken. I can't be fixed if the wrong is me. I'm that rotten and hopeless and helpless.

Eventually, this life is going to fade. I could do everyone the biggest favor. I could save myself from the lies I tell me. Perhaps when it fades faster, I'll be the hero finally.


- In every cry. In every thought. In everything that a depraved mind works out, there's a silent hidden "Help me". -



It's not about me. Or at least that's what I tell myself. Every time I read about someone who's given in, I have to remind me that it's not about me.

But yet I get it. I understand. I know the moments when the demons take over and your mind is no longer yours. There is no reprieve or comfort or will or strength and all you can do is to rely on that pill or that therapist and hope that your faith in God will deliver you somehow. There is nothing you have control over.

That's why it's a mental illness. And now that I'm on this side, I cannot stress enough the importance of seeking the right medical help. The world outside of the realm of professionals and patients doesn't understand or even begin to comprehend the surface of this complicated illness. But it's very real and it needs the right treatment. Not self-help mind control books. In mental illness, a patient has very little control over his or her thoughts. He... she... we are completely reliant on others. So it's the "right" others who truly understand that can help us.

Even today, I'm still scared. It's happened twice. I've seen smiling faces hide the anguish and hurt and hopelessness the way I used to. I've heard those smiling faces give in to their demons and leave us. And I'm so damn scared that if it's happened twice to me, it can happen the third time.

And in those moments, will I realize it early enough to get help again? I honestly don't know. :(