Streams of unconciousness

It was yet another defining moment for me as I sat in the pitch darkness, listening to two tiny noses breathing noisily.

I had, for the first time in my au pair life, put my host kids to bed. And they actually slept. It was the kind of feat that you had to do it by yourself to understand how hard it was. As I finally managed to haul them all onto their beds, get them to stop talking and kissed them goodnight, my inner self ran victoriously around the field with arms outstretched – tip-toeing, of course, while hysterical fans whispered their cheer. Four-year-olds have better hearing than you think.

And then I was hit by a wave of misery. Come on, my biggest achievement these days is putting kids to bed? Oh wait, no, my greatest gratification is when they finished all their vegetables. Uh huh. Very important, vegetables.

I buried my face in my hands.

It’s my fourth month in the States now, and these “what-the-hell” moments have been more often – especially when I looked at the state of the living room and realise that if this wasn’t hell, then someone had just raised it. Yes, I now think that eternal damnation means an eternity of picking up toys and stray pop corns and melted lollipops off the carpets. And a never-ending surround sound of childish shrieks. And being gratified by things like how well the kids pooped. And having to say “good job!” until Judgment Day.

Apologies for having been on hiatus for so long. To those of you who still like me, I just want to say, from the bottom of my heart and with hot grateful tears rolling down my cheeks, “What’s wrong with you guys?” Nonetheless, I’m here now. Got some rotten eggs to throw? Sure, but do get in line.

So much had happened for the past few months. So much that I’m having trouble believing them. I have made new friends as quickly as I lost them. I have gasped at the quirks and characters of America as much as I have gotten used to them. I have understood the realities of life as deeply as I had been baffled by it. I have taken spontaneous risks as often as I have passed up rare opportunities. I have discovered the beauty of true friendships and buried some of them.

I have broken hearts, promises, and trusts.

I have put my money in the wrong things, and paid the price.

I have come to realise the preciousness of friends who doesn’t let 9000 miles of distance, my incessant ranting about being lonely and our completely different lives now get in the way of nonsensical banters, lengthy conversations and juicy gossip exchanges.

I have seen America in all its immensity and intensity, and decided that this country really has no use for me, other than to probably put its next generation to bed.

I have lived; a little exhausted, but too high-strung to sleep.

I came to the States to learn how to be a better writer; I did everything but write. I came to the States to figure out my path; I am more confused than ever.

It had, however, been one crazy ride. During my early months here, I felt like I was running on sheer momentum – if I slowed down, I may hit the kind of wall that marathoners talk about, the kind that cripples you and drags you down. With the aid of some disappointing friendships and a minor car accident, my momentum did get thrown out of whack, and I did run headfirst into concrete.

It was an unpleasant jolt, but one that I needed. I was burning out, while everything around me went past in a blur. Perhaps that is why I did not blog for so long. My mind was a mess – it was no telling what may come out of it. Most of all, writing required a kind of ability to make sense, which was beyond what my state of mind could have mustered.

This month, I’m learning to slow down. I am currently in my 30 days of writing exile (NaNoWriMo rawr!) and had never been happier. There may be so many things I’m confused about, but at least I’m sure that writing will always be the thing that can both stitch my broken pieces up and tear me apart from within.

There’s a song that goes “It’s gotta be like falling in love; there’s something to believe in.”
The line encapsulates why I still love writing even though it strains me so, love my messy life even though it tires me so, love the even messier Malaysia even though she pains me so.

I believe. It’s a whole lot like optimism, except way more stubborn.