Happy Valentine's Day...

The reasons I won't be coming...

There was a girl. Someone I once disliked and irritated me beyond explanation. I knew her back in school and we could never see eye to eye on anything. There’s a lot more to the story but essentially time passed and memories faded. Things happened and I grew to love her. She was not beautiful by any standards, and was not the most gentle, or kind, or talented. She was just her. Normal, plain, a little spoilt, a little temper, a little stubborn, a little incomprehensible. But I loved her. It was a love that was probably not meant to be as we were never quite suited for each other. We quarreled so often as if it was a normal part of our lives, and it wasn’t small petty bickers. I was perpetually in depression and my life felt poisoned as I dragged my feet each day anticipating the next quarrel we would have. It’s probably not her fault alone. Perhaps it was communication, perhaps it was values, perhaps it was our upbringing and differing life experiences. Many couples go through a honeymoon phase of bliss before reality hits them. We never quite did. Right from the beginning, it started from heartbreak as I had to watch her deciding to be with another man. My persistence probably changed her mind, but deep down I always felt that I was the third party who carried the official title for namesake. Starting out the wrong way set the precedence for a lot of prejudice as this became one of the common topics we argue about as well. This was probably the only fight I would pick with her, or at least along that theme. She on the other hand seemed to be able to find fault with everything. Make the smallest things into a potential sign for apocalypse. It was draining. During our first year, during the good times, we would have two major quarrels a month. Despite all that, I kept thinking that she’s the one and if we can sort out all these issues, when we’re a little more stable, when my career is a little more stable, I’ll propose to her. I used to think of how we would design and decorate our home, how I would want the wedding and how I would plot the proposal. I did a lot of research in a very short time and bought a ring, something within my means at that time. She was working overseas then. It must be very tough and lonely. Times were difficult and we persisted with the quarrels, attributing a lot of the emotional tensions and instability to distance. We’re both fairly independent people, and thought we would like that space for each other. Theoretically it seemed right. I wanted to discuss about plans when she intended to return, how much we should save up in order to get married or afford a place. She on the other hand was a spendthrift and was happy to get great exposure overseas, not ready to commit to coming back to Singapore before knowing what she’s exploring and experiencing. “Why can’t you just quit your job, come here and accompany me, take some classes learn the local language?” She said. She had no consideration if that would be good for my career progression or if it was even possible to find a job or posting there. I guess I would not want to uproot and throw aside everything if she was going to return after a year or two. I could wait since it was already half year into her posting. I waited for her return, hoping when she’s back and things stabilize, I’ll propose to her. Things never did quite stabilize. Somehow the squabbles never quite stopped. There was always a different reason to be upset each time. At some point I felt unappreciated, neglected, taken for granted. I dare not tell my friends or colleagues, they only see me unhappy all the time, and they dare not ask. And so… I led my life that way, isolating myself for two years. I broke up with her after asking for some time and space. She cried really hard, she begged me. Literally, she begged me, “Please.” I cried together with her but was so convinced we would never work out. I walked away. I walked away not for any more reason, not for any reason I could really articulate, remember, or rationalize. I walked away, simple because I could. She begged and cried. And I walked away as my heart broke leaving a trail of shards behind.

Rather quickly after, I saw another girl. She was smart, pretty, cultured, articulate, sensitive and saw my talents, appreciated me for who I am. We went out often, and got intimate. There were no expectations. It was probably difficult to stay that way for long when the attraction was that intense. Yet neither she nor me were willing to take the first step of emotional commitment. Ultimately I realized that I couldn’t. Not so soon, not like this when my heart was still bleeding. She was but a distraction. Someone I had used to stop myself thinking. I forced myself to move on too fast before being ready hoping that by moving on, I can no longer look back. I did.

I could not bear myself as I remember, as I recall the memory of her crying and begging. I have never seen anyone beg before in my life. Not like this. Not the way she threw all pride aside degraded herself to nothingness just to get a chance for me to look at her again. I felt dirty and worthless to be able to walk away despite all that. How could I do that to someone whom I have loved so deep? It was a tough decision. If I were to get back with her, I would never ever want to hurt her that way again, I would never ever want to see her cry like that again. And this time, no matter what, I will make it work. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how. But we got back together, se found out about the girl I was with and felt that I had cheated on her. Actually, I did. Before she came back to Singapore. And with this woman too, whom I was still seeing because I could not cut her off that easily. I two-timed for a short while, and she knew. It took a while for me to dare to be close to her again, for me to learn to love her again, for her to finally ease her paranoia and grief of the cheating. I was caring for her, trying hard to love her as a mental patient who almost made me one as well. I often wondered if I had made the wrong decision. At some point, I cried, wanting to give up, and thought perhaps death was easier and perhaps it would prove what I wanted to prove. Half a year went by. Things finally got better. But perhaps it was not quite the same anymore. I was no longer, naively thinking she will definitely be the one for me. I wanted to work towards that, but I wanted us to both have the space we needed, wanted to work towards both of us being inclusive of each other into out lives but also having a balance. Yet for her, she felt that I was less ready to give my love. Less ready to do the small, romantic things which we used to do. I did hold back. I was a lot more cautious with my love. Perhaps she was right that I had changed. But I still loved her. And my love for her was not any less, I just changed the way I showed it. I showed it less. She got stressed at her job. We spent a lot less time together. I was always busy with my job, and she was never happy about it. We started drifting apart. I spent more time with friends, made some new friends. We go out partying and joked about all kinds of stuff. They were a bunch of people I could be myself, anyone, or anything with. I could be a smart aleck, a lecher, an idiot, or a clown. I felt at ease and talked to her about my friends. Perhaps I was having more fun with my friends than with her. Perhaps she was not available. We do not do anything much over the weekends. It was her place, my place, trying not to be late for her family meals. Sleeping in. Somehow, we could never seem to find time away from our family commitments to do something different, to do something for ourselves. If I wanted to hang out she would want to go home early. If I wanted to go somewhere and do something, she would have family lunch and we would only have 3pm onwards to go anywhere and so we didn’t. We rapidly entered the mature phase of a marriage before we had the chance of much dating. Perhaps we both spent too little effort trying to keep it alive. We started to become strangers. I was trying to keep myself occupied, trying to re-establish a life of my own, have time with family and friends, reconnect with my hobbies. While she just watched me silently drift apart. She claimed that I had changed. That I had become a social butterfly that I started liking popularity and clubbing and nightlife and had a lot of fun with friends. I refused to acknowledge. I had always been that way. I had always been a fun-loving person who loved to make jokes, always a little mischievous, always a little bit of the centre-stage though I wasn’t exactly going after the publicity or attention. I had been that way since she knew me a long time ago. I had changed to isolate myself with her to please her and ease the quarrels, I had changed to lose contact with a lot of my friends because I was with her. I am finding back who I used to be. I just hoped she would still love me for who I am. I was disappointed. As opposed to thinking if she’s the one for me, I started to doubt if I am the kind of person she wants and needs. I had always been an ambitious, and driven person, planning for 100 years ahead of how my life should be, striving towards that. I had always been looking at strategic marketing, business management functions, or setting up my own business one day as an eventual goal or direction. And in the midst, taking on jobs with steep learning, curve, great exposure, but work me hard. I had always planned to get an MBA one day to earn my right into the corporate sector and give me an opportunity into management. I had always known that one day I will take up a regional job, and perhaps get posted overseas one day. I thought she would understand. But she was never happy, or excited about it. Instead, her disappointment, silence made me feel she understands my desires but was never quite supportive of it, except she did not want to start a quarrel and did not know how else to respond. Hence, she was, anything but positive.

I watched my first musical with her, and perhaps my last. Musicals were too expensive for me, I borrowed my friend’s Phantom of the Opera CD and copied it back in 1994, I read two different versions of the book and got obsessed by Erik. It seemed that I understood him. I played him in a school play, where I made my own mask. A broken mask just as Erik’s which I wish I could hide behind forever. I then heard of Les Miserables, but got less impressed. Perhaps it was sour grapes that musicals were beyond my reach that I’d rather not learn to appreciate them. Perhaps, I was prejudiced against anglophile elitists and an unfair society where the old boys network, the anglophile and so-called English educated or privately educated has a lot more opportunities laid before them o a silver platter. I struggled from a neighbourhood school trying to survive and find a way to outsmart the system. Perhaps I was oppressed or perhaps it was my own inferiority complex, and envy, my own aspiration and jealousy from the eyes of poverty. When I graduated, I proudly compared myself to a cockroach. I’m willing to eat anything and willing to go anywhere. You can’t see me and may not want to, but nothing can get rid of me, and nothing can kill me. I climb the tallest buildings and climb on the chandeliers while the noblemen dance their waltz on their polished marble floors. I scurry into the gutters where the rats thrive and I scavenge for the scraps the gets washed down the gutters. I pride myself for being effectively bilingual, to be comfortable in China, as in the USA, as in Singapore, to be comfortable with the contractors as to be comfortable with the CEO. And I scorn the anglophiles and elitists who will never understand, yet I yearn to join their league. She was born there, curious about the noises she hear from the gutters and found her way through that. We started from opposite ends and met each other, passed each other before we knew each other. It was a musical in itself but it wasn’t a show. It was real. So real that even the encore had to end. We caught quite a few musicals together and always enjoyed the local ones especially with Hossan Leong, or the Dim Sum Dollies. Their witty, sarcastic, sometimes a little crude humour was exactly what we could both relate to. Perhaps I never thought much of myself, but yearned to. But I never thought she thought much of me. I’m still not quite sure she did. I wished I could be her everything, I wanted to be her hero, wanted to be the one to show her the world, show her and explore everything with her. Be there to experience all sort of excitements with her and be there to take care of her. But I’m not sure I can. I’m not sure there’s a lot more I can show that she has not already seen, that her ex boyfriend has already shown her, that the other guys can afford to treat her. I’m striving to survive because if I don’t, I can’t. I’m not sure she will ever understand how that feels like. It’s my life, and my burden. Not hers. Though in many ways, she’s exactly the kind of person I was looking for, in many ways, I was not sure if I’m the kind of person she’s looking for. I almost never ask her out with my friends in case she get upset for one reason or the other. She get upset with me enough, she probably does not need to be upset with people around me. But since she’s curious and getting jealous of my friends, perhaps it would be nice for her to know them. I was sure she would like them and have fun with them too. I asked her to join us for the Hossan Leong show. They wanted to go clubbing thereafter and she didn’t. She wanted to give me space but wanted to go home alone. I didn’t allow that to happen but my friends felt awkward and I was embarrassed. She was unhappy, that I asked her out only because my friends wanted to watch the Hossan Leong show and the majority of them were female. I was made to reflect. I guess I did. I felt that she has became a little distant and a little strange to me. She was busy with her own work, and happy with her own friends. When she was with me, she’s either distant or upset. Perhaps I was not what she was looking for anymore. Perhaps she needed to think. Perhaps she needed space this time. I’m not sure if she would ever recognize that I am not right for her. She would not recognize because she loved me so much. But she would not come begging again. We broke up once again. But this time, it was silent. We communicated via our own blog posting knowing that the other would be the only person reading that blog. We both did, religiously. So religiously we could almost anticipate and expect instant replies the next day. The blog was my last resort, when I have so much pent up and I did not want to contact her. That was my way of venting. Yet knowing she would read it brings me some sort of comfort. Perhaps she felt the same too. And we could not move on because of that. We both stopped blogging. But I still can’t move on. Not even when I already have someone new in my life beside me, patiently waiting. I still love her.