I imagine this post is going to be extremely long. It’s probably going to be missing a lot of context, but the truth is, I’m writing this post for myself, to remind myself of my whole thought process this day… and the decision that I ultimately came to at the end of it.

Firstly, suicide is a funny thing. It suggests a total loss of hope, an absolute state of despair, an inability to feel or experience love. It’s funny because for me, there are only two people who can drive me to thoughts of suicide and I call them Mum and Pa. It’s funny because the less I want to love them, the more I want to distance myself from them and the stronger my desire to just abandon them entirely… the more I feel like I am dying to myself, the more I feel the desire to die physically, mentally and spiritually.

Love is weird that way, I suppose.

But there it is. Mum and Pa need to see the fruits of their love for me through my life, through being a better person. Fair enough. Unfortunately, a huge chunk of that involves me having to be a better student. Irony of ironies. I’ve never been a better student. Never. Ever. All my life, my distinctions, my merits, my passes and my abject failures, have all been cold, hard, revelations of who I was at that particular point in time. That is, I’ve never put in any more effort than I saw the need to achieve whatever I wanted to achieve. If said effort produced a distinction, I could either be pleasantly surprised, or I could feel that it was justified based on how much I wanted the distinction. If said effort (or lack of it) resulted in failure, I would usually be hardly surprised and, more often than not, have already psyched myself for such a consequence.

I know, I’m such a lazy, hopeless bum.

A lot of the tension with regards to my studies I attribute to my decision to do Engineering. The irony of course, is that I made that decision with a whole lot of time to spare and with not much thought. I’ve blamed a lot of people, primarily my parents, and a lot of factors, primarily the educational system, for that ultimate decision, but I guess I have always known (though not always wanted to admit) that it was, at the end of the day, a decision that I took and have to be responsible for.

Why Engineering then? When I was in primary school, I knew I wanted a job that allowed me to get my hands dirty (a literal thought back then) as well as allow me to work in the comforts of an air-conditioned office. When I asked my mother about the availability of such a profession, her first answer was, “engineer”. And so from that day on, without ANY further thought, ANY further research, ANY practical action at all… I strove to be an engineer.

What a fool I was (and still am).

The sad irony was that a lot of things contibuted to my convictions to be an engineer. Firstly, my discovery of science-fiction that ranged from the Robotech series (Macross in particular) in primary school, to the life-changing re-introduction to Star Trek in secondary school. I knew I wanted to be a part of this futuristic dream. I knew engineers from all fields were the leaders in this fantasy world. I was convinced it was the right thing. My love for comics led me to Iron Man, who fast became one of my favourite characters in my late teens… and I believed with all my heart that engineering was the dream I wanted to live.

Academic-wise, I also found a love for Mathematics that challenged me like nothing had before. Despite being an avid reader and excelling in the English language (though not Mandarin) in primary school, a golden opportunity to be taught by Mr Terry Tan in primary six led to me discovering that Math was not the dreary, difficult subject I thought it was. He helped me, and all those who shared remedial classes with me all those years ago, to develop a new appreciation for Math - one that led to me receiving my A* at the PSLE.

Riding on this new-found love through secondary school, I discovered that Elementary Math and Advanced Math were a whole lot easier than English Language and Literature. And so it was that I thought I took one step closer to my engineering dream when I dropped Literature after Sec 3 and received A1s for both E-Math and A-Math at the O-Levels. I was convinced. The arts were not my thing, I was a man of science through and through.

What could go wrong?

Everything.

I personally don’t know how it happened, but on hindsight, Junior College became one of the best times and worst times of my life. Thinking that I was all ready to prepare for higher studies in Engineering, I opted to do a double-Math course in JC. I think that was the beginning of the end. Further Mathematics was beyond me, beyond the miniscule effort that I had needed thus far. I received my first major failure at the end of that year for F-Math and ironically, an A for Mathematics Syllabus ‘C’. Ironic? Yeah, I thought so too at that time.

I guess I should’ve known better, but I faced my failure poorly. Instead of taking stock of my situation and seriously rethinking my priorities in life, I decided that my failure was SOLELY because I had been lazy in preparing for my promotional examinations after one year in Junior College. No doubt, my procrastination was primarily responsible, but on hindsight, I should have recognised a lack of interest when I saw it.

Instead, I decided to buckle down and attempt to do better the following year, but history obviously dictated otherwise. Within the first two months of my second year in JC, I had all but given up. By the following year when I had received my results, I saw two letters that would make multiple reappearances in future - “C” and “D”.

I had one last chance to kill a foolish, childish dream - but I didn’t. In a ironic repeat of the previous year, I believed that I was capable of becoming an engineer if I had only cared more about my studies. I just didn’t want to admit that I had no longer any passion for further studies in that field any longer.

And so I applied to NTU, putting Engineering as my first choice. First choice. I also applied to NIE at the same time, but later on rejected their offer of a diploma course, thinking that it was beneath me. How arrogant I still remained despite all the humiliation.

Two years in National Service gave me two golden opportunities to change my mind, but irony once again played a hand - over those two years I discovered I had no knack for journalism and that I did enjoy the field of military logistics. And so I believed that I had made the right decision in applying for Engineering.

That was five years ago. Half a decade spent ignoring reality, and the other half spent suffering for it.

But as I thought about those years past, I realised something else very important. That I had not wasted that decade entirely. That my whole faith journey, my experiences as a confirmed Catholic youth, were very much a part of those ten years as well. Indeed, I had grown so much as a Catholic and as a person that I find myself in the wonderful position of being able to do for others what has been done for me. Both in the parish and in Junior College and NS and in NTU, I have lived out my Christian faith with a passion that I know could not have come from me alone. I have experienced emotional highs and lows, spiritual highs and lows (often in sync, though some have been out of sync) and I know through it all that God’s mighty hand has been holding me.

And so as I spent the past eight hours lying in bed feeling sorry for myself and contemplating foolish thoughts of suicide (this time playing around with ideas of stabbing, cutting arteries and going without food and water for days), I was suddenly hit with the epiphany that I had not wasted my life totally, and that my life was a testament to something much greater than I was. I came to a strong and sudden realisation that I was called… to live. And as a result of the crucifixion we celebrated the day before, that I no longer live, but Christ who lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. (Galatians 2:20)

Thanks be to God who allows us to experience a deep darkness within ourselves in order that we might find solace in his eternal light.

P.S. If anyone has read this far… thank you.

I thought I’d begin my Christmas post with a little confession: I contemplated suicide again today.

The events leading up to this are inconsequential. The fact remains that, on the day when we commemorate the “Birth of Hope” and the “Dawn of our Salvation”, I chose to take the cowardly way out of dealing with my hopelessness. This time around, I wrapped a tie around a hook on my room ceiling, tied the other end to my neck and threw myself off the chair. To my relief, I discovered that I had miscalculated the length and my feet could touch the floor, though barely.

The truth is, I can’t commit suicide. As I searched this blog for other occurrences of the word, I discovered that I hadn’t blogged about it since 2003. And even back then, I was painfully aware of how much of a coward I was for contemplating suicide, and how much MORE of a coward I was for not being able to go through with it.

It has often been painfully obvious to me how easy it is to attempt to take one’s own life. The methods are all classic - hanging, jumping off a building, cutting oneself with a knife, gassing - these are all things I could do without ever leaving my block of flats. Except that when it actually comes to pulling the proverbial trigger, I am suddenly reminded of all that I am leaving behind and of the foolishness of the act. Mostly though, I am filled with the fear of the unknown and the fear of judgment.

(I suppose it needs to be said, at this point, that the Catholic Church no longer believes that suicide is a black-and-white issue where the victim is condemned to Hell for committing a mortal sin without the opportunity to receive the Sacrament of Reconciliation.)

The ultimate irony, I suppose, is that deep inside me, I know have NO reason to end my life prematurely. In the same section, the Catechism of the Catholic Church states clearly that “[Suicide] is gravely contrary to the just love of self” and in the same paragraph, “Suicide is contrary to love for the living God.” And the ultimate truth of the matter is, I cannot deny or break away from this love, having felt it so strongly, so often. No matter what drives me close to the edge, this love is the ONE thing that stops me from going over.

This is the Love we celebrate at Christmas.

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only Son. That anyone who believes in him shall not die but have eternal life.” –John 3:16

POSTSCRIPT: I’m fine, really. I’m not gonna do anything stupid. This is NOT a cry for attention or help. But I do appreciate the concern.

Some days you’re reminded that you’re still growing up, that there are things in life you still need to experience, aspects of yourself and your character and personality that you put to the test in order to discover.

Today, as you might have guessed, was one of those days.

This morning, it seemed like any other ordinary day. You wake up, head out of the house for work and then make simple plans to spend time with friends in the evening. But then little things happen here and there, and you find yourself diverted into a whole new setting.

I guess it began with the company lunch. Food was catered because two of our department managers had flown from the US and this was their last day here. The largest conference rooms were opened up to handle the whole department, but obviously there wasn’t enough space for everyone. The interns grabbed their food and headed to a smaller conference room to eat. I took my portion and… went back to my desk. Firstly, for me it was weird being in the large room among so many others, many whom I only knew by sight and not by name. Secondly, I wasn’t exactly buddy-buddy with the other interns either. They were more comfortable in Mandarin than English and when I’m around them, I honestly dislike the feeling of being a kentang (literally, a potato) - yellow on the outside, white on the inside - a guy that looks Chinese but is more comfortable with English as the conversational language of choice. You can tell they’re patronising you when they choose to speak to you in English, so I just avoid the group as a matter of policy.

Now on Thursday nights, I attend a meeting via conference call with my immediate superiors in the States. This time though, before the meeting began, I rushed down to Basement 2 of Takashimaya in the hope of catching the first bit of The New Paper New Face competition. Alas, like all such events, it began fashionably late and I returned back to my office for the meeting having seen little more than an appearance by Paul Twohill.

After the meeting ended, I chatted with some friends on MSN till 9pm then rushed back down to the Basement in the hope of catching the end of the competition. As it turns out, I had missed the whole show. To make things worse, I spotted my cousin, one of the contestants, and she looked really disappointed. To my surprise, of course, I later found out from the rest of my extended family there that she had been crowned First Runner-Up. I never asked her about it, of course, but I suppose she was rather confident of sweeping the grand prize.

I originally intended to just hang around but my other cousins who were there decided to drag me along for some proper food (or so we hoped). And so it was that we headed down to Thumper at Goodwood Park to catch a bit of the New Face afterparty. And that’s when I realised that once again, I was given the opportunity to discover just how comfortable I was in this environment.

Now, I like clubbing in general. I don’t do it often, but I’ve explored Double O, DXO, Bar None before and I’d like to think I’m not a fish out of water there… but the truth is, I really felt it today. My cousins know how to party, and they seemed very comfortable in the environment and it helps that they were dressed for it. Although I was wearing my work attire and didn’t look half-shabby… I nonetheless truly felt… inadequate next to them. Suddenly, it was like all my self-conciousness came to the fore and I must have seemed more than ready to scram outta there.

Thankfully, we left after about an hour… and now I am where I am most comfortable… before a computer screen. It’s days like these that truly remind you that while you may like dancing and drinking and having fun… if it’s not your thing (i.e. if you can’t do it regularly enough to truly count it as a hobby) then it’s just not your thing. Me? I’m beginning to realise I’m most confident and comfortable alone and online, with none of my physical limitations holding me back. I know it’s hardly a healthy attitude, but it’s one that I seek refuge and security in. A place to feel safe, a time to feel comfortable. Ultimately, that is all one asks for, isn’t it?

I was talking to JG the other day about how this new guy was distracting her from her long-term guy and I mentioned how it’s good that she’s actually gotten her mind off certain things as a result. It reminds me of how JF has distractions at work that are temporarily taking her mind off her long-term guy, which for me is a very good thing as well.

Long-term guys tend to suck, with a few notable exceptions.

Almost six years ago to the day, several husbands found themselves trapped in a certain-death situation as the planes crashed into the two towers of the World Trade Centre in the US. It’s anniversaries like these that remind you of how relationships don’t always last forever and you need to make the most of each situation that you find yourself in.

Yes, this is your bi-annual Fear post. I’m very happy being single, but I’m not content. Ironic? Maybe. One part of me wants to avoid the pain and hurt that some of my friends inevitably go through, the other wants to be masochistic and endure it for the sake of having someone to share my life with. I’m selfish that way.

My semi-annual Fear post.

It’s odd, you know. Just when you thought your life was on track, doors seemed to be opening and things just started to fall into place, God has to throw you a curve ball and remind you that ultimately, He decides what’s important for your life and it’s your decision to accept His will or to fight for what you think you deserve.

I’m doing the former, of course, but that doesn’t make the choice any easier to make. But let’s put all these things in perspective, shall we?

My teens received the Sacrament of Confirmation yesterday evening, the end of a 3.5 year catechetical journey with my team of catechists and I and the start of their new life as adult Catholics. The whole Mass went extremely well, with the worst hiccups happening only because I lost my mind and jumped the gun at two occasions. When the Mass ended, I don’t recall being that emotionally high for at least a whole year. There was an extreme sense of satisfaction, of fulfillment and of sheer joy.

The reception that was held after that felt like the after-party of a graduation ceremony. Teens were taking photos, exchanging gifts and cards, just reveling in the feel-good atmosphere throughout the function hall.

And there I was, allowing my heart to go off-tangent, like it always does.

I wasn’t supposed to be falling so hard for anyone, anymore. But I did. And it was a really bad feeling that I hadn’t felt for a long, LONG time and one that I’m glad I know how to get over. Because the truth is, I don’t need any of this any more, and yet a part of me still longs so much for it. A part of me that still dreams of what-could’ve-been, and keeps on living with regrets and what-ifs. A part of me that still defines happiness according to my selfish, ego-serving, envy-driven wants.

It’s a painful reminder, but one that I realise I will keep having to face on this semi-regular basis. For God has plans for me that are not my plans. His ways are not my ways, and His will is what I have to cling to no matter how much pride I have to submerge just to do so. There’s a lot of me that I will have to die to in order to be filled with His love.

Will things ever change? Check back in about 6 months for my semi-annual Fear post.

… that every time I get all angsty about relationship issues and my severe lack at figuring out what it takes to actually deserve that special someone in your life…

… I end up reading a webcomic? And not just any webcomic, but a semi-serious, semi-comedic one about slightly kooky characters and their interactions with one another.

I’m talking about Questionable Content.

It’s a webcomic that I picked up early this year, but I kinda stopped after a month or so. I don’t particularly get most of the indie-rock references the comic creator uses, but hey, at least I heard about the band named Mogwai before their gig here a couple of months back thanks to QC.

I’m currently reading through April’s strips and leading man aka all-round good guy has just gotten attached to one of the main female characters. It’s like a replay of Ross and Rachel from Friends, except less preppy and more emo.

Anyway, I was on MSN last night and a good friend from CSA and I discussed my favourite topic… me. Basically, what I got out of it was I’m an arrogant prick that is well, way too focussed on my own attempt at happiness and not on doing what’s right and living out to the best that God has made me to be. Of course, this is totally off tangent to what she was really trying to drum into my head, but my mind works that way, unfortunately.

Well, whatever it is, it’s clear to me that God needs me to pray about my relationship angst. And not just the whole “conversation with my friend God” kinda prayer that I’ve been doing for most of my life… but the whole “pray till you get His answer” kinda thing. I think I stopped doing the latter because it always came back with “God says ‘No’”.

I’d love to promise to make all these changes I’m suggesting. After all, most people would be infinitely happier with a less arrogant but more self-confident me. So why do I suddenly feel more vulnerable than ever at the thought?

EDIT: Heh… a new ‘Fear’ post out of nowhere. Haven’t had the time to get all moody in months. Women have ‘that time of the month’. I get all emo this time each semester. Haha.

At the end of Sunday’s performance, I couldn’t be on a bigger high. The musical had gone well, all that effort had paid off and we had family and friends around us giving us support. Praises, which I believe were sincere, came fast and furious, and everyone had a good time. It was hard not to revel in the feeling. The night didn’t end there and despite a little hiccup in getting to our supper location (which turned out to be at Sin Hoi Sai opposite church), it was great to wind down after the whole day. Even if it ended with a rather disappointing race at San Marino. (*stupidFerrarigrumblegrumble*)

And yet, three days later… it’s gone. Replaced by the cursed seeds of self-pity.

The knowledge that I’m still innately capable of self-destruction is there. The fear that I can still make people uncomfortable with me is once again realised. I don’t choose to be this way, I tell myself, yet I don’t believe it either. To know that I can still be hurt, am still vulnerable, and despite not feeling particularly suicidal, am still prone to bouts of overdramatic thought… causes me to shiver uncontrollably. It seemed so promising, yet I was so aware that it was a fragile balance I controlled. But even the best intentions go awry, and once more, this became a crushing blow to my ego, one that negated the healing that may have taken place within the past months.

It is a scary sensation: The feeling of self-pity, and already now I can imagine the trauma I will suppress, only to unleash on the innocent and unsuspecting. This blog often served as an outlet for pain in the past, but nothing stings like the hurts from the present.