I guess it’s been about a month since my last blog post. This time, I’m actually surprised. But not by how quickly time has flown by.
The last time I wrote here, I was getting ready to quit my job at the clinic. And boy has it been rough since then. The tears just wouldn’t stop that day (29 March), and I barely made it through in one piece. I stayed around at the clinic for most of the day until I could find the opportunity to speak to DR, and finally told her. I left at about 3pm, and as I walked off, the tears began. I guess it was a huge catharsis for me, because I’d been holding in so much anxiety and stress that could finally be let out. But it was also disappointment and inadequacy. It’s the first time I’ve given up like that. Back in junior college I was afraid I would drop out. Then in the second year I considered taking a year off because of my depression. I know that at multiple times in life I’ve had to contemplate the idea of throwing in the towel, but quitting the job at the clinic – it felt like the first time I had really had to do it. I felt like crap.
So I did what I’ve been putting off for two years: I went back to Pasir Ris, my childhood home. It’s where I was a baby; a kid; a little wobbly child who had no idea what the future had in store for him, but also no fear. That’s where I dreamed the biggest dreams and made the smallest steps, never afraid of not being good enough, never afraid of letting people down. And I had to visit that place again. God, I miss it so much. Of course, I cried. I sat on the benches by the river and cried. I walked to where my brother and I used to play with Dewey, and I cried. I went up to the flat where we used to live, and I cried. It was so overwhelming to be there after six years, to see what has changed and what hasn’t… and how I remember it all so well.
The next few days (i.e. the last three weeks) were thunderous mess of depression and anxiety.
(This paragraph is kinda incoherent. But it’s honest that way.) The next day (30 March), at SB, I was feeling like shit to begin with, because I still felt like a total fuck-up and a failure. That was made worse by small little mistakes I made, and underpinned by my constant anxiety and fear of making some big error, which all just puts you on edge. You’re less than half a person when your psyche is dissolved into anxiety, so you tend to fuck up, which is major irony in my mind. Finally, I broke down when G asked me if I was fine. “Nope, no, I’m very much not alright.” And I lost it. I had to crouch down behind the counter and ask her to finish the transaction so I could go to the back of house and be with me tears.
D was there and she was so worried because I was just bawling relentlessly. She hugged me and tried to get me to calm down. I was hysterical, honestly. I recall the feeling so clearly – the tears just wouldn’t stop. I was heaving. I couldn’t talk. D said I could and should go home when I was calmed down. And I thought about it. Ultimately, I decided to stay. G, D, and N (whom I was meeting for the first time, completely in tears) talked me through it all and I put myself back together enough to work.
The next Tuesday (3 April), Floppy died. More tears. It was horrible.
On Monday (2 April), we’d already thought he was going to leave us, because he wasn’t moving or eating. Mum woke me up at 6.30am telling me he was dying, and that I should go out to say goodbye. It didn’t hit me straight away; I was still processing it all as I stroked and patted him. He was wrapped up in a towel in her arms. It didn’t hit me even as the hours went by and we tried to feed him the last food we could give him. It didn’t hit me we moved him to the sofa to send him off.
By 9am, though, he was eating, and a little hope shone through. I suggested that we take him to see the vet, believing now that it might not be time yet. But mum said not to, because it would be too traumatic for him. He’d just been to the vet a few days before.
He slept in the room with us that day, inside his carrier, wrapped up in blankets. The carrier was covered in newspaper too, to make it dim and cosy for him. I checked on him at 1.30am before going to bed. I was too sure of things, I suppose, and didn’t think to say goodbye to him.
The next day, he was gone.