In Strength is Weakness.

I’ve recently come across this Singaporean writer (whose identity I shall not disclose now because I intend to flame) who writes great stuff. Mind you, I am envious of his works; I wish I could write like that. I’m thinking he probably has a few online bestsellers to his name.

That is, until I came upon his post on depression.

Not that he got anything wrong. In fact, I agree with most of what was written, especially the part about people who say ‘just get over it’ don’t actually understand depression. On that note, I would like to add that people who say ‘just let go’ should also shut their trap. Personally, I feel these people who have lost nothing should only be given the right to speak regarding this matter once they themselves succeed in letting something go; like a limb or a young loved one.

But I digress. What I am trying to say is that he got it easy. Being able to only meet 5 friends in the span of 9 months, among other things, you lucky bastard.

But what I also realize reading his account, his episode, his version, was that, by reliving it, by recounting, by retelling the entire process, or rather the recording of it which is involved, one gets the chance to reflect on what exactly happened, to check every detail, in detail (oh kill me), to discover what went wrong, where and how to fix it. The power of retrospection, I guess. So I shall do the same. Which means another read for you. Or reread, if you already know of this tale before. Enjoy, if you’re into that kind of thing. Otherwise, well, we’ll see what ends up being the outcome, won’t we

Right, where to begin…

May 2009. The first week of the first semester of my second year as an undergrad student.  Without going into detail, it should suffice to say that the big circle of friends that I was once a part of splintered. And I, foolishly bearing responsibility for being part of the squabble that started the whole mess, returned to my old self, the solo hero, the lone wolf.

From the first week when it all began, I dreaded the end of every day. The last class of the day meant going home, plummeting into a dazing stupor, awaiting dinnertime when I would have dinner with friends which, deep in the back of my mind, I feared I would lose due to circumstances beyond my control again. By the time I returned to being a loner, I stopped having dinner with anyone but my own shadow altogether. And after dinner, it was going home, again degenerating into a lifeless puppet until it was time for bed, which I also dreaded because it meant waking up without a sense of purpose, going to class with a heavy masquerade, acting as if nothing ever happened until classes ended, which the cycle then starts all over again.

Now, I’ll admit ahead of time that I have never been an optimist. There is a fine line between optimism and self-deception; a line so fine that by all practical means and purposes it doesn’t exist. All that said, I do not view myself as a pessimist either. I never presumptuously felt that my life had meaning, that I had a purpose to achieve while I still breathe, nor have I felt that my life was a joyful one where even the most impossible dreams come true. But despite all that, I looked forward to the day that followed every morning; to be just in time for class before the lecturer started, to have the lecturer scream at a noisy class like a schoolteacher would children and secretly laughing at those who felt cold water being poured on burnt areas, to plan our group presentation at the end of the semester in a way that will blow away everyone else’s, to kick the sandbag out of shape on training days, to steal as many kills as possible in the DotA streaks at the nearest cyber cafés during the weekends. The list just goes on.

Well, until shit hit the fan, from which point I wake up, thinking to myself “not this shit again” as I head for class only to fall into a daze throughout most of the lectures, having nothing to look forward to until bed time when I think to myself “not this shit all over again tomorrow…”

By this point I knew I needed help. The benefit of majoring in Psychology and minoring in Counselling, I suppose. But being in Kampar, a tiny little town with barely anything, realization was the easy part. This is some 200 kilometres away from KL where I am from and familiar with, where everything is just a short distance away, even via public transport. So I talked with one of my lecturers who was a registered counsellor, and had a few sessions with him. This proved to be useless because he seems to think that the situation which I am in is not as severe as I make it sound, though this might have something to do with us not having a proper counsellor-client relationship. He is still a person I respect, but due to such circumstances I decided that he can be of no help to me. So I decided to get formal help in between semesters. Which also proved to be a waste of time when your semester break is only 3 weeks long tops.

I was unwilling to suspend my studies to fix myself for a couple of reasons. 1) Who knows how long this would take? 2) Should it not turn out well (again), all that time waiting would be for nothing.

So I soldiered on for the 2 remaining years of my degree course, despite being aware that the longer my mind stays fragmented, the harder it is to fix later, even if still possible. As time went on, the despair that I felt waking up every morning started to wane. Until today, I am unsure if I no longer feel despair, or it’s just that I am so used to it that it doesn’t feel like it’s there. One thing that I know for sure is that the anticipation of the events of the day did not return; the feeling of looking forward to pleasurable experiences did not return with the diminishing of the hopelessness.

From that point on, I was in the company of people solely because I had to; we either had assignments to complete, presentations to plan, or some other business to attend to. Never just because. I never had the luxury to go full hermit mode. I had to see faces which I sort of fear will never see again in the same positive light, faces that I just don’t care for, but slightly wish they weren’t there because they were polluting the scenery, and also faces that caused my predicament; faces that sort of put me in a relapse, faces I wished I could punch, pummel and completely trample on and get away with it. Seeing all these faces did nothing but reinforce my already sturdy misanthropy.

As a result, I have trained myself to be as completely indifferent to as many stimuli as possible. This meant that I do not have a flying rat’s shit to give about anything, which also meant I did not need to pretend. I did not need to put on a masque, which was tiring as hell, because I have gotten used to genuinely not care.

By the end of my course though, some of the people that remained rather close began to have me tag along whenever they have something going on, be it a weekend off to Ipoh or even something as simple as dinner, which I grew to accept as often as I could. Ultimately, all that held little meaning. They were, regrettably, merely friends of the phase, who revert to being mere acquaintances as time passes.

I have 10 close friends, who have remained so from the very day they gained that status. They are like the brothers and sisters which I didn’t have. But even among them, all but one know not the details of the hell I went through. To them, I have not changed much, if any at all because in the 2 years we have almost never met, I went through the full journey from depression to indifference.

Even as I returned to the heart of the country and finally sought proper, professional help, only the psychiatrist that initially took my case thought I had clinical depression, as he had to do the full assessment. The other psychiatrists who did the follow-ups, however, thought I was very much fine because of the way I showed no despair and no signs of low mood, to which I spiked the argument that it was possible that I was so used to being depressed that it was no longer evident. The 10 sessions of psychoanalysis to which I was referred to ended up not being a complete waste of time, but did not really achieve any obvious change either.

As the days go by, the mundane life remained. Nothing made more sense than it did before; nothing was more meaningful than it was before. My mum got me a number of self-help books regarding depression and with every book I go through, grows my feelings of envy for those who have ‘found the way out’ or ‘have seen the light at the end of the tunnel’. All which makes me wonder if I was missing something, or if I was doing something wrong. Every single case talks of a phoenix rising from the ashes of a mangled and horrible past while I pondered as to why I remain ash stored in a burial urn ready to be scattered across the winds and the seven seas.

And hence, I have no one to thank as no one actually did anything meaningful. Not even the 10 brothers and sisters of mine because everyone is also going through life as a university student, which I now suspect to be the hardest phase of them all in life. And as I do not enjoy or benefit from sharing, I do not do so unless asked. Which of course I don’t get asked because everyone has their own shit to deal with. No sense getting more shit than one can handle.

So that’s it. Anyone who has any idea of what I’m doing wrong, please let me know. Except the not sharing unless asked thing, because I did once and realized it did not make me feel better nor did it feel like a heavy load off my shoulders. Tried and tested, doesn’t work. Oh and on a side note, there's this one particular book which said that one gets depression 'not because one is weak, but because one has been too strong for too long'. Sounds like nonsense to me. Thoughts, anyone?

And of course, although completely coincidental, I have to thank a friend of mine for unwittingly introducing me to the existence of this writer. Who in turn taught me a method to achieve some cheap publicity, something which I despised.

And on that bombshell, adieu to y’all.

P.S.: This is a confession. I always feel very guilty when I am with said friend who unwittingly introduced me to said writer. This is because I feel that we get along exceptionally well, which isn’t a problem, except said friend is the significant other of one of my brothers. So, to said brother, if I have ever made you feel insecure, I apologise from the bottom of my heart.

The First Step Away From the Land of Birth.

Right. So last week I was in Bali for a holiday; one planned over a year ago. Now, I’m not going to be talking about sights and food and whatnot; you can go look for some crummy tour guide or something for that sort of stuff. What I’m going to talk about is something that I feel for on a personal level, and that is the culture there, or rather, the difference between theirs and ours.

First of the differences is the traffic culture. In Malaysia, people use their honks in a sort of ‘get out of the fucking way’ kind of way, where if someone is slow to respond to a green light by more than a second, other drivers behind will start blowing their honks away, never relenting until their temper has been cooled. Which may be a good 100 meters later. That, or they use it in a ‘do you have mud for brains?’ way, where it used the same way a short fused bugger would be scolding another for some mistake someone made. In short, Malaysians use their honks very aggressively, always scolding people using the honks instead of their own voices.

In Bali, however, things are a bit different. Actually, things are very different if I’ll be honest. There, people use the honks in a ‘hey, notice me’ or ‘look out, I’m coming through’ kind of way. The way it was meant to be used, if I may say so. I’m not saying that they don’t use aggressive honking over in Bali. It’s just that, it is so much rarer. As a result of all this though, you hear the honks almost every minute there, but each time you hear it doesn’t make you feel guilty of committing some sort of offence or like the guy who just sounded his honk needed to spend seven centuries in burning hellfire like you probably would here.

Let me give you an example.  Imagine a narrow road with only one lane going in each direction and there is a fast car coming behind a slow lorry. In Malaysia, the driver of the car will drive up next to the lorry when the opposite side is clear and honk while showing the finger through the window, before speeding up and actually finishing the overtaking manoeuvre. In Bali, when the driver of the car sees that the coast is clear on the opposite side, he sounds the honk, which catches the attention of the lorry driver, who notices that someone wants to overtake, who then proceeds to slow down and drive a little closer to the edge of the road so that the car can overtake a little easier.

Now, there are a few things that I’m unsure of, first of which is if this kind of driving style is an Indonesian or strictly Balinese style. I am also unsure if this driving style is the result of the narrow, single-lane roads that I described above which make up most of Bali’s traffic network. What I’m sure of is that people should drive like how the Balinese drivers do. I don’t know if drivers in other countries drive like they do, but those in Malaysia really should learn to do so.

That aside, many other things remain similar to Malaysia; the flora, the fauna, the food, the architecture, the lack of a nightlife, and probably most important to some, the cutthroat prices that helps one sharpen their bargaining skills.

And on that bombshell, adieu to y’all.

P.S.: You may notice that I’ve changed (finally) the background picture. This is because ImageShack is a completely incompetent shit that loses uploaded images and when you ask them to try to retrieve it, they make you go through useless and troublesome procedures. Since I’m sick of seeing a blank background I decided to get another, but because this setup of mine doesn’t not have Adobe Photoshop/Illustrator installed because I’m too poor (and lazy) to get another copy, I’m unable to make my own and thus shall resort to the raw materials provided by Capcom.

The price of freedom, revisited.

Perhaps I should have realized sooner, but I now know that not everyone can bear the price of freedom. With hindsight now I understand why, during my schooling days when motivational talks for students were a frequent thing, that those motivators would give me queer looks, mock and scorn me when they ask “what do you dream of?” and I replied “infinite freedom.”

Credit where it is due, I guess they did alright for realizing that they themselves are unworthy of freedom because they are unable to bear such a price. But for them to think that everyone else is as unworthy as them, well, that is a bit condescending of them, if not also egocentric.

Despite all that’s said I have no problems with people embracing freedom. In fact, as long as no one else in hurt in the process, I can encourage nothing more than I do freedom. Emphasis on ‘no one else’ because I also believe masochists are free to hurt themselves or deprive themselves of their own freedom if it makes them happy, as long as no one else is hurt. At the risk of stating the obvious, when I say hurt I mean physically and mentally, of course. No doubt there are sadomasochistic people who wish the entire world is as depraved as they are as they relentlessly attempt to introduce such depravity to their family and friends, but I would personally prefer that they keep their practices within their own depraved community, for everyone else is also free to live free and wholesome lives.

But I digress. The fact remains that everyone should be free and despite that, not many can bear the burden of being free. I’ll admit it’s not something I understand, but I will hypothesize that it has something to do with our violent animal nature, that some feel or believe that there is no point of freedom if they are not allowed to be agents of pain and suffering. To quote Immanuel Kant, “Peace amongst men living alongside one another is not a natural state. On the contrary, the natural state of man is that of war. War manifested not only by open hostilities, but also by the constant threat of hostility. Peace, therefore, is a state that must be established by law.”

This brings me to an old problem, one that I face every now and again. One so old that I have just decided not to mention it again; some things get old very quickly, especially unpleasant ones. The only difference is now I have just thought of establishing a bit of non-reporting to myself. Intentional ignorance, if you will.

And on that bombshell, adieu to y’all.

P.S.: The word ignorance is a greatly misused word, mainly by dim-witted people. Ignorance is described as being unaware or ill-informed, which differs from stupid which means someone with a slow brain. This needs to be mentioned because I’ve had enough of my ignorant pillock of a father calling everyone who doesn’t think as he does an ‘ignorant’ person. This is unfair to other intelligent but otherwise uninformed people, and is giving idiots too much credit.

In Exile; the Heart of the Sword.

You can always trust the Japanese to not fuck up their own legacy. Despite the rearranged and rushed story and non-main characters not staying true to the original, Rurouni Kenshin was a good movie. Great theme song by One OK Rock, nicely directed by Keishi Otomo and of course, excellent, almost perfect portrayal by Takeru Satoh.

This is probably why I so much prefer Japanese tributes rather than their American sorry excuse of an equivalent. Take Street Fighter, Dragon Ball and Tekken for examples. Hollywood has half the right idea when they think that the original will only appeal to cult audiences, which consists of people who played the original games or watched the original anime, so to sell to everyone else, the whole movie is changed into - guess what? - hot babes and their boobies. That's something that will appeal to even the most uncultured barbarian (or rather, that kind of appeal is greater the less cultured and the more barbaric a person is). Most ironically, it gets hard to think that those 'hot babes' are hot because, well, when a whole movie is dedicated to proving that single point, expectations tend to get quite high. In this proper live action adaptation, however, I cannot help but notice so much beauty in simplicity; in the normal everyday person. But what do I know? I am, after all, part of the cultured cult.

Thing is, what they probably don't realize is that their 'cult audience' is much larger than they anticipate, and of course, what's the point of using those titles if you're not going to appeal to the fans of the original? Not only is the essence of the original lost, fans who turn up to watch are disgusted and people who know nothing about the original get the wrong idea.

From a different perspective, you could say that the Americans are very good at unconsciously making parodies. Not sure if that can ever be viewed as a compliment, no matter how many different perspectives we view it from. Pretty much like calling a fool a person who is proud of his/her decision to not think; softening the blow or making it more obvious?

Incidentally, it may be a little late for this but I finally realized where the title ‘Heart of Sword’ came from. Silly me for not realizing earlier.

And with that, adieu to y’all.

P.S.: For y'all who missed the clickable bit up there, here it is, 'The Beginning' by 'One OK Rock'.

And 4 months later... Well, almost, anyway.

Between 4 and 5 days ago, most of the friends I made during university life had their convocation back at the hell in which I have suffered for the past 3 years. These are people whom with most contact has been lost entirely, while a handful of others I do what I can to maintain irregular contact when regular is not possible, some I still secretly stalk through Facebook (not so secretly now that I’m putting it out here in the open) and some others I wish I had less fucks to give. It’s the same sort of feeling 5 years ago, when I just finished secondary school; wishing I’d be able to keep in touch with a handful of people yet realizing that from that point on it would be more difficult to do so, as everyone gets on with their lives and the involvement of one another in it isn’t largely possible.

Which reminds me; having zero fucks to give is apparently an unhealthy way of being. I say apparently because this is opposed by 3 years’ worth of psychology classes, but supported by the counselling subtopics within. While psychology will tell you to not give a flying toss about what people think of you, how they judge you and whatnot while asking that you don’t judge others either, counselling will tell you to care about your interpersonal relationships, to work towards strengthening it and the like, in other words, telling you to give some fucks about what you think of others and what they think of you.

Life experiences, however, tells me that counselling is bollocks. This is because the more you care about it, chances are (when I say chances, it actually is 100%) that at some point you will be disappointed. Every time I actually cared about something and worked towards that something, the end result will almost always be exactly as if I did not care one bit, sometimes worse.  It’s kind of like the English proverbs, one going “distance makes the heart grow fonder” while another goes “out of sight, out of mind.” Life tells me to go with the second one as the first one is clearly bollocks. Otherwise there would be no such thing as losing contact with friends. The irony? I thought so too.

So yes, the irony of my life is that I have learned to care as little as possible about matters not directly concerning me in order to protect my sanity but at the same time the act of not caring makes me a clinically depressed person. And for real this time, too; I’ve been officially diagnosed as clinically depressed about half a year ago so you fellas who are not sick in the head reading this might want to take things I say with a pinch of salt, seriously. Yes, I am aware of the irony this time as well.

I am actually even seeing a therapist semi-regularly according to whenever she schedules the appointments, and the stuff she tells me just further justifies my opinion on the whole matter. I am being given the impression now that whenever I see something pointless and mundane on the internet, instead of merely being indifferent like I always do, I’m supposed to feel strongly for or against whatever that piece of information might be. Instead of just going “meh, might be some rumour mongering, I’ll check it out later,” I’m expected to explode with emotion, “I KNOW RIGHT!? THAT IS SO TOTALLY TRUE!” or “WHAT ABSOLUTE NONSENSE IS THIS SHIT? THE AUTHOR DOESN’T KNOW WHAT HE/SHE IS TALKING ABOUT!” So as a result, I’d feel really good about myself because someone agrees with me or I’d explode with anger and compromise my sound mind if someone disagrees with me.

And if you’d notice, this also means gambling is good for your mental health. Checking out the internet is like checking out the table. Act indifferently to whatever you see or read on the internet is like acting indifferently and not placing your bet. Once you place your bet, however, you’re very likely to explode with the same kind of emotion is the same way as well, because when you win, you’re actually just getting agreeable results like you’d get from agreeable info off the net, and vice versa when you lose. The only difference is when you gamble, there’s anticipation that further amplifies the emotion, while when surfing the net things tend to be more spontaneous. Probably explains why previously only the rich bother with mental health while middleclass people and lower don’t really care too much; because only the rich can afford to gamble. Fortunately for me I got the psychiatrist to refer me to a therapist who works for a semi-government hospital, so I don’t have to pay for the treatment. For now, at least.

So there you have it. I am mentally ill because I have gone through more shit than most people who are mentally sound have. So my words are words of wisdom gained from experience which people should heed, but then again they should not because the very experience that made me wise also made me mad.

And on that bombshell, adieu to y’all.

The Plight of an Objective Person.

The painful moment when an objective person is forever alone because he is unable to accept people for who they are, as he desires others to be the best they can be.

That, in a nutshell, describes my life.

In my mind, to be an objective person, one needs to both be vengeful and hold grudges, while at the same time remembering every virtue of every person around. This is something I consider myself as doing quite well. I don’t remember important stuff, that’s why I get such shitty grades for my exams; nor do I remember insignificant things, since no one does anyway. But things slap bang in the middle of the continuum between significance and insignificance do not escape my memory easily, if ever.

It isn’t a pleasant experience, to say the least, to watch someone berating another for some offence or other, while remembering a time and place when the same person was committing the very crime he/she is now berating another for. It is even more so when someone reprimands another for one thing, and moments later chews another person out for doing the exact opposite of what the first person was criticized for. I’m sure it is definitely far more unpleasant for the transgressors of said inconsistency and hypocrisy to have their own paradoxical behaviour pointed out to them, but that, perhaps, is the point in which I’m trying to get across.

There is a problem with the human psychology: we don’t like to be wrong. This is because it harms our self-esteem. We feel bad about ourselves when we discover that we are not right. The opposite is also true: we like being right; it makes us feel good about ourselves. We also like to correct others as a result, because this makes us feel good about ourselves for two distinct reasons. One being the fact that we’re right; what this means I have already explained. The other is the fact that we are of a more knowledgeable position, thus of greater perceived importance than the one(s) we correct. In effect, this also means that we don’t like to be corrected, because we will feel bad for ourselves because we were wrong and because there is someone more knowledgeable than we are. I think by this point the problem implied by this paragraph should be apparent enough.

Some people can take criticism. That’s fine; it gives them the chance to be right in the future.  Some others strike back with righteous fury. Some go the extra mile and foam at the mouth by going on and on baselessly about how the criticizer is wrong and how the criticized is right for 10 years straight without stopping to sleep, eat, drink or even breathe. Fortunately, more often than not, such people end up dead by the time they’re done, or even when they’re not. Others develop arthritis or carpal tunnel.

People should be aware of two things. First is that we are all learning. And so, when we criticize our fellow learners, we do it rationally, ethically and calmly. Likewise, when we are criticized, we take it rationally, ethically and calmly. This is because we are all aware that at some point in our lives, we were wrong. We have changed our perspective at least once, or at least have looked at things from another, and thus have no right to defend said perspective with righteous fury, simply because it is impossible to discount the possibility that we may come across another that we find more agreeable, which completely invalidates our defending the previous one. The only ones who do are those who live in their closed world where there has never been the possibility of another perspective. These people criticize the view of others and defend theirs to the death simply because, if they were wrong, then their entire life has been a lie. And they can’t take that.

Before anyone points out the subjectivity of the above paragraph, let me continue. Secondly, when you criticize, do so objectively, with facts and a neutral stance, and not with bias or prejudice. While a perspective is definitely subjective, the facts behind them are not. What this means is that while there are certainly things that are wrong, not everything else is perfectly right. Things do not come in two states of right and wrong, but rather, they fall in a continuum; a line in between two extremes. Where we place something within this line is subjective, but we can, and should, do so objectively, with a neutral stance and with facts to back the decision.

All this leads to the point I brought up at the very beginning of this entry. How does an objective person point out mistakes done by people he cares for? Rationally, ethically and calmly, sure, but would it be better to just let the person be? Will the criticized person be able to take it just as rationally, just as ethically and just as calmly? Should he accept people for who they are, and endure the hurt every time he sees them commit paradoxes in his face, or should he point it out and risk hurting the relationship he has with these people?

In a way, for putting all these words in public view, I have forsaken my objectivity. But in the end I still hope that it is a worthy sacrifice, for the benefit of my own psychological wellbeing, and for the growth of all who read this.

And on that bombshell, adieu to y’all. Food for thought for until the next time.

Fathers' Day or Foodsters' Day?

Fathers' Day was bad for a number of reasons; first being it is the day that I got an unexplainable swelling in my mouth where ulcers usually show up thanks to the upper left wisdom tooth, only this time there wasn’t any sign of an ulcer at all. So yeah, this is the infamous killer microbe(s) that has made me feel very sick indeed. Sorry if I sounded cold the other day bro. Good thing it left (or rather, is leaving) as quickly as it appeared suddenly.

Fathers' Day was also the day that I reevaluated Tony Roma’s. I now place it below Chilli’s because on a busy day, service was a little poor. Might have to do with the fact that they had a newbie on duty, but it does not change the fact that they made 2 mistakes on that day which they didn’t when I showed up on a weekday, when there was literally only one other table seated with customers. Sure, their food still tastes slightly better, but considering Chilli’s much wider variety I’m very much inclined to rate them better in general.

Something about this week that is a bit odd. Six days felt like seven. It is usually the other way around, and much more exaggerated. But this is a good thing because it gives me the opportunity to rush what I was given 2 weeks to do in 8 days. Then I can probably reward myself with something expensive to fuel my pride. Here’s hoping all goes according to plan.

Speaking of fueling my pride, I ran Adobe Audition for the first time since I got it. Thanks to my internship I became so lazy that all the stuff I intended to do with it was put on hold. But when I finally found the spirit to get one of the many projects done, boy was it a great moment. It was so long since I was so full of myself. A very long time since I last got the chance to practice my sinister laugh Rau Le Creuset style to go along with the unjustified sense of overachievement.

Also, as an unintended result of putting my old plans into motion, I’m now having the PSP playing my RLBGM most of the time. Unsurprisingly, when I think about it, since the OST for games that I play nowadays are either too impossibly rare to be sold locally or to even have any torrents, or non-existent altogether, leaving me with the task of making a homebrew sort of OST. Which means another project to add to the already stretched list.

And on that bombshell, adieu to y’all.