430 days. 

I kept counting. 

My fingers flicking open in order and hands always switching. Bent, crooked and flexed. New lines have formed on my palms. My fingers are no exception. I am slowly ageing without careful observation. My hands are still soft. 

My hands have always been one of the parts of my body I love. Very dainty, with clear lines and structure. Soft in texture but tough enough to fight. 

Anyway, I kept counting. 

I would deduct the dates and add the hours. Announcing it to him before smiling to myself. Encouragement is essential, and it would show him that I appreciate his effort. I really do. 

Going clean is just so difficult when it is a habit lasting for years. 

Any habit is hard to break. Even a person’s will might be weaker than the reliance on habit. 

430 days. 

The last number counted to, on 25th August 2016. And somehow I just stopped. The number still lying somewhere among the rest of my disorganised notes. Funny how I stopped then. 

I remember planning something. When it hits a bigger number. Maybe 500? But when is someone ever truly clean though? 

So naïve, I am. So misunderstood about cructhes, vices and addiction. 

Now I know that too much faith can break you. Especially when it is outside of your control. Especially when your own hands cannot tell the future that is someone else. 

But I knew. I remember asking questions every time I saw a cigarette in photographs, moments digitally recorded or a pack lying on the table. 

Perhaps my gut knew, and I chose to turn my observations to something else. Like the new scars on my right hand, from the dog bites. 

430 days of being in a grey area unknowingly. Neither here nor there. A space of unknowing and false comfort. 

How strange to look back at this now. Am I really out of this space now, even in my head? Or do I never really get to leave? 

Relative blindness. 

Untitled #47. 

I scare myself when I am reminded of how human I am. 

In the ways of piercing words and the urge to cut open to this skin. 

To bleed in more ways than one. 

How my mood can be ruined when one thing goes wrong. When a disturbance happens, and the undercurrents come rushing to the surface. 

Flushed skin and crazed eyes. 

Never calm inside. Never. 

How does it feel to be a genuinely happy person? 


Shaved on 2nd August, then again (self-done with my mother’s help) on 3rd August 2017. 

I didn’t have to shave off all my hair so quick, so soon. I had a couple of weeks to go and considering I have never ever shaved my head before (besides as a baby), it isn’t a decision I should rashly make. 

But I felt like if I delayed it any further, I might hurt myself. The impulse to do something is so strong. There are days I go avoiding the mirrors, windows and going into the kitchen. 

I’d lay in bed and try my hardest to just sleep. 

So I did it. 

I shaved all my hair off. 

An aspect so familiar to me, for all of my growing life. An aspect I manipulate and use however I like. An aspect I let loose when I want to hide or pretend to be someone else. 

And I have never felt so free. 

I am happy I did it. x


Numbers that never go beyond 

A certain amount 

Unpredictable fluctuations 

But predictable depletions 

Never rising yet 

Always have enough to keep on falling 

I am starting to develop a fear of checking my account balance, just like how I instinctively avoid the mirror as well as weighing scale. 

Random thought: if a disaster happened, money wouldn’t matter because it will all burn away and no longer becomes a status, but a consequence. 

So why am I so hard up about it now? 

Dollars and cents shouldn’t define us. 

But it shapes my lifestyle. 

That’s fact. 

31st May. 

I have resumed smiling and trying to make things work. One has to move on, to live. Otherwise everything I work for stops but people and time just keep moving. 

Further and further away from me. 

But some days, I catch myself looking at him as if nothing has changed. As if the incident meant nothing. And I break a little more inside. 

What am I expecting though? 

For him to constantly treat me differently because he is sorry? For his face to look less happy and his mind less ready to crack jokes like he always does? For him to show more remorse? 

What is remorse? And how can it be shown when I have said I will try to forgive? 

This is merely my own bitterness and my own journey to go on. To move towards really being okay. Because for now, I am not. I am caught up with bitterness and I still cry when I think about the lying. I still ask so many whys and hows and what I should be doing or have not done. I am stuck in this perpetual darkness that I am not ready to get out of yet, and hoping to see him join me in this misery he inflicted upon me. 

I am seeking fairness when all matters have been unfair, and I placed myself here. Voluntarily. In a belief that this is worth it. 

Is it going to be? 

All this back and forth in my brain. Low nights filled with tears and irrational anger at myself for landing in this. 

Leaving is easy, and days when I feel weaker, I really wish I left.