alrissamariam

[alrissamariam]

To The Friends That Look Out For Me More Than I Look Out For Myself

I’ve always been grateful for the people that I’ve crossed paths with in my life. They could go and I’d be happy because they left for a reason and I’ve learned the lesson I needed to from that. Or they could stay and I’d be happy because I have friends that might be just as mentally unstable as I am yet the lessons learned were learned together.

I used to live my life with thousands of doubts, I couldn’t find it in me to stick to one spot in life because I feared the day I’d make the wrong mistake and lose it all. But then I realised that’s what mistakes are for, to be made in order to learn.

I was told that they became friends with me because they enjoyed my company. The fit of giggles, the subtitled faces, the always-dressed-in-black member, the easy flowing conversations and the apparently fast but safe driving.

But, as somebody who struggles with letting their emotions out verbally, I kept most things to myself and prioritised them because I hated being selfish. I never asked for help all my life, I would always power through it myself and figure it out without the extension of any arms to hold onto.

Maybe that was the problem. After a decade of never asking for help, you could never believe that anyone would ever want to help you. The same way abuse can feel like love, starving people will eat anything, but the paranoid ones will kill themselves first.

And I fear that’s exactly what I’m doing.

But this letter isn’t about how paranoid I feel when making new friends. This is to the ones that stayed and showed me time and time again that their trust and loyalty sticks where it stands, and stays where it imprints.

In this case, it has been imprinted on the remains of my broken and betrayed heart. 

I have been a victim of many failed friendships where trust was broken, haunted by betrayal and envy. Perhaps, for lack of better words, fucked up. The days where coming home from school meant a walk in the sun with my lonely thoughts of why I wasn't good enough and the hard acceptance of the fact that I had no friends.

The kind of people I have met in my life leave with different kinds of stories and scars, albeit some are lessons to be learned or maybe even the greatest experience I could ever have. I could never truly hate them all except for some. It was the way I am as a person.

How could I hate somebody for being hurt?

How could I hate somebody for reaching out?

How could I ever invalidate how somebody else was feeling?

Making friends has always been a difficult task for me. The fear of being used, chucked to the side once they’ve gotten the information they wanted, constantly misunderstood. I tend to stick to myself and the very small circle I have. But even then, I fear the day I come to them with the heavy sacks that burden my shoulders, I’d be turned away and laughed at for the ugly truth on my back.

But these friends, the friends I made at an old workplace I never thought would grace me with them, showed me the kind of friendship where asking for help isn’t a bad thing to do and it is never selfish. That I could fall to the ground and still reach a hand out to them, and they would jump into the water to help push me up before giving me their last breath.

They told me that I can’t help everyone else but not help myself. I was drowning, and they knew that despite the lack of words coming out of my lips that I could never verbally say. The subtitles on my face were a dead giveaway, I was sure. 

They were horrified by the dead look in my eyes, the light was gone. My face had fallen and my spirits were crushed. I don’t think they imagined it was as bad as it is until they saw me detach from a room full of people where the music blasted loudly, like I was in a dark room, alone. 

They helped shed some light into that dark room where the remnants of my horrific past and present haunts me. The sunshine they carried was enough to keep my wilting-self hoping for water, praying for a tiny bit of rain to shower me with delight.

Hope. That’s what they constantly instil in me.

And I could only hope that’s what I do for them too.

And so, to the ones that look out for me more than I look out for myself, 

Here’s to the moments of vulnerability that you’ve allowed me to have, the rod you have become for me to pull myself up on, the match that sparks the tiniest bit of fire inside of me that will eventually burn into a flame, the jug you have become to contribute to my draining ocean, the wind that you are that blows me into the air to remind me that I can fly.

I have the biggest space in my heart filled for you, your loyalty and your friendship. My hope is that we stay friends long enough for you to see me on TV doing what I love, to be the one to screech with excitement as I announce my engagement, to be the one to help me with my dress before I walk down the aisle, bring me too much food and spoil my child with your endless giving nature and big heart.

My hope is that we stay friends long enough for me to be angry at you when you don’t end up dropping my kid at school and instead take them to the park or to get ice cream. For me to see you grow into the person that you truly are and reach the potential you have held yourself back from.

For me to witness the ever-so-subtle signs of you healing from the trauma your childhood gave you and break the cycle for your next generation. And when it crumbles from time to time, and it will, I hope to be there for you the same way you have always been for me.

And so, to the ones that look out for me more than I look out for myself; my glass can be empty and I’d still fill an ocean for you.

[alrissamariam]

Tales From A Designated Driver #2; I Breathed

In certain cases, my adrenaline would pump hard but slower than usual.

Like if I was in the car and we were speeding at three in the morning, or something excites me to a point where I talk non-stop about something and my eyes would light up.

But in this case, I was sitting on yet another couch, on another Saturday night, in another speakeasy turned club.

My eyes had turned into a scanner as it moved around the venue, sharp on every possible exit or potential hiding space in case I ever needed it. No, there wasn’t actually a moment in the hundreds of times I’ve gone out with them–but it never hurts to have a back-up plan.

There was a buzz coursing through my body, and it wasn’t from the alcohol–but the loud music that boomed right next to me. I felt out of place, like I didn’t belong here, like I was never supposed to be here.

I was the introvert, younger boring sister, and apparently the wallflower. I wasn’t meant to be in a space where there were about a hundred people vibing to the same music, mingling and making friends, shaking their ass and downing their drinks.

Tonight was a little different, maybe because I was actually excited that we went to the usual speakeasy that we’d end up at whenever they weren��t feeling the other bars. The music got my blood flowing and as an anaemic, this shit was good. 

There was a moment around the table we had gotten at the very last second after midnight as everyone shared a look while dancing to the music. Surprise, wonder and shock passed through everyone as they witnessed my guard falling and I got up from the couch to join my brother’s side.

A hand extended itself out like a magnet you’d buy from a family vacation, attracting me to my feet and it spun me, giggles erupting from me that was muffled by the beats surrounding us and the lights flashed around, occasionally blinding us while also showcasing the grins on our faces.

I had stepped out of my comfort zone and joined them as they lived the shock down and encouraged me further, dancing along and taking turns for responsibility towards the table instead of chucking it all to one person.

The thin layer of sweat that covered my forehead did not once bother me until we stepped out of the place, the stars out, the wind howling, and the night still young. Feet stumbling, jackets slipping, speeches slurred and drunken giggles filled the entire walk to the car as I got them all in, one-by-one, without any problem.

Blue lights flashed in the rearview mirror as I moved to the middle lane, a slight adrenaline of panic flinching through me before the vehicle zoomed past, hunting down the car swerving ahead as I made my exit just in time.

My heart was filled as white clouded my vision, smoke-screened by my obnoxious sister and I felt a sense of contentment wash over me. God damn, I hate it when she does that, but damn it feels good to have moments like these with my siblings.

As I stood in the living room with my jacket stripped and my hair pulled in a messy bun, exhausted from dragging them in and maintaining a flow of getting them to bed without hurting themselves, I let out a sigh–my chest feeling a little lighter than it did an hour ago.

A moment of silence passed over me and I breathed–because for the twenty-seventh time, I got them home safely. 

[alrissamariam]

"I don't feel so good."

I think I’m getting bad again, maybe worse this time. And I’m not sure anyone can help me even if they wanted to.

I have lived and I have learned, I have lost and I have loved.

My mind has gone blank for I have been feeling everything and nothing at the same time. My heart is heavy with self-doubt and discouragement. My shoulders sag with undetermined decisions and heavy burdens. My feet are heavy with balls of steel chained around my ankles.

I don’t feel so good.

The nightmares have become too daunting that I seek comfort in the night skies by the side of the road. The only way to silence my mind would be a dangerous run outside the safety of home at midnight while the rain pelts my skin and stings my cuts. 

I feel horrible for the people around me, because I have been told that being friends with somebody who is drained drains you. Am I draining you guys too? If so, shall I move away? Or will you help to extend your hand that you know I’ll struggle for eternity trying to reach?

My appetite has gone from my body and my skin has dropped a shade on my face, the bags under my eyes are sandbags that continue to descend, my throat is closed up most of the time and my body is not here.

I feel disgusted with myself when I stare at the food I could barely finish, because all I wanted to do was push it off the table and watch the plate shatter on the floor so I could cut my crevices bigger to allow my hands in so I could fix myself.

There’s ringing in my ear, my heart is clashing against my ribcage, my eyes are drooping with fatigue, my skin is cold, my movements are sluggish. Every breath I try to suck in is choked, like there happens to be a ball of self-sabotage lodged into my throat.

I remember unlocking the door so slowly as I tried to keep myself upright and the moment I stepped into the quiet and dark house, I shut the door and my bag fell from my shoulder. My head was spinning, my breaths shallow and the water was up to my throat. 

One step forward to try to at least get to the bean bag, and before I knew it, my head had fallen before my body as it crumbled to the marble floor with a thud–yet there was silence. 

Nobody had heard anything and nobody had come down. 

I couldn’t utter a single sound.

I couldn’t reach for my phone.

I wasn’t sure how long I stayed on the floor like that, but the bump on the back of my head was enough to tell me that I probably hit my head hard enough to be knocked out for a bit. The strain in my ribs was a clear indication that my terrifying past would probably come back, and moments of standing in the corner to eavesdrop on what the doctor was saying to my dad came back to me.

How do I ask for help?

I felt like my voice was taken from me, my freedom strangled and my privacy breached. At twenty-one, I feel as dead as I never have. I feel like a walking zombie instead of a fucking human.

I hated blacking out, unsure if by the time I come to, which would hurt first between my head, side or entirety? How do I eat when all I want is to throw it all back up? How does one believe they’re allowed to ask for help when all they’ve been told is that they’re a burden?

Beban. That’s what I am.

A burden to others.

I don’t feel so good.

I feel sick, my stomach churning, heart failing and soul disappearing. I wanted to be allowed room to make my own decisions and mistakes, and still be cared for as one should be. 

I feel clingy, starved of physical touch and affection that I crave so much from a woman who would always put man before her children when her children should always come first.

I feel disgusted, not with anyone but myself for the way I’ve treated myself and the things my mind haunts me with, screaming at me that I should do it sooner rather than later because who the fuck would miss me?

I feel empty–gone are the pieces of myself that I worshipped and took pride in, replaced with self-loathe and mockery. My mouth has been sewn shut and my heart is banging on my chest to be expressed, to be let out and it begged for help.

But my mind knew better. It was a constant battle with my heart about who gets to make the decision. Do we let the heart win and beg for help, or do we let the mind stay in control and keep our mouth shut so we don’t burden others?

I’m not so sure anymore.

But all I know is; I don’t feel so good.

[alrissamariam]

On the Day I Turned 21; A Month to Forget but Also to Remember

On the day I turned 21, right before my candles could be blown just as the clock strikes midnight, my life took a drastic turn. Way too fucking drastic for my comfort.

Within the span of one week, I had lost more than I gained. 

I made friends and lost them. I pushed myself to apply for a spot I know would be too far out of reach and got rejected. I heard from my mother, whom I haven’t heard from since moving out and I deflated despite not giving a fuck. And with all that I needed to burden and shoulder, I also lost the love of my life.

What a birthday week, huh?

I kept thinking to myself, why did all this have to happen? Did I do something that was so horrible that I deserved this? Was it all my fault?

Nights were spent in the darkness of my room, alone as I weeped and bawled, desperately trying to cover my mouth so that I never made a sound–because that was how I taught myself to make sure I didn’t get a beating at three in the morning if my mother had heard me.

Mornings were spent in two different ways. One, I’d wake up drenched in sweat, sunlight pouring on the side of my face, salty tears mixing with desperate panting and shaky hands. My heart would hammer too harshly against my ribcage and I’d be absolutely sick to a point of stumbling into the bathroom that sat two feet from my room door.

Or two–I’d jolt awake in cold sweat but find it extremely difficult to get out of bed, my body unwilling to move as I stared at the ceiling and contemplated whether or not I should go for good.

There was a moment in that point in time where I completely lost it. I was too shattered to be put back together, my pieces were scattered all over the world as it was stomped on by everyone passing. 

In the moment of crumbling, I fell to my knees and planted my forehead on the ground, begging and pleading to God to take my pain away for I don’t think I could go on. I felt selfish, wrong to beg for Him to take the challenges He wanted me to face. I knew this was a test from Him, but dear God, it was too excruciating.

As I had my head down, my tears slipping the marble floor, my voice broken and my body falling on its side, I solely expressed how much pain I was in. How much I wanted it all to end and how much I just needed it all to stop.

The hurt, the ache, the nightmares, the constant need to look over my shoulder for the next person to fuck up.

And then, I stopped.

I was numb, too hurt, too dead. I came to a conclusion I could never control it, I could never rid of the nightmares or the pain that buried itself far too deep within the cracks of my broken heart–of the crevices of my broken self.

I accepted the pain and let it consume me as I broke away from a family that was finally forming, choosing to swallow the bitter pill that is the truth of my emotions and burdens, rather than allowing them to help me dissolve the pill in water to make it easier to drink.

I faked my happiness, my giddy and witty self–in hopes that they would not question me and keep asking the same damn questions everyday that will trip and break me further. 

I had to get better. I had to. I had to do it for myself.

But it was so hard. It is hard.

Some part of me wishes that I could pluck my heart out and cage it in a box that I’d keep locked away for eternity, but that would be selfish of me. 

Perhaps, my heart would always beat harder than the slippery hands that will never turn to a pedestal quick enough.

[alrissamariam]

Constructions of a Family Line

If I had a choice to construct my own family line, I would choose only my siblings without a second thought. 

Growing up was never easy. How do I answer when somebody asks me what my childhood was like?

No, I would not tell them that it was wonderful, therefore I will always choose my parents.

Am I supposed to tell them about the time my mother left the four of us in the house overnight to fend for ourselves when I was six while she went to an exclusive party?

Am I supposed to tell them about the time my parents were arguing at the dinner table after my father came over for my birthday, and when I told them to please stop fighting, my mother’s immediate answer was shut up?

Am I supposed to tell them about the countless times my mother would cook food less than enough for the four of us, but take half of it to give to a man that was barely there, leaving us to split an already half portioned food into four?

Am I supposed to tell them about the time I had to watch my mother terrorised my brother and wound him so badly, he thought it was better to hurt himself?

Am I supposed to tell them about the time my mother got angry that I didn’t dress a certain way and yelled at me, accusing me and faulting me as she pointed her finger in my tear-stained face with the words this is all your fault, you love to watch this family fall apart, don’t you?

Am I supposed to tell them about all the times my mother has made fun of my face, hair, skin, weight, appearance, and how it instilled my bad eating habits that led to me eventually falling sick?

Or am I supposed to tell them about the time my mother made us believe my father was the monster the entire time, only for her to be the enemy hiding behind a wall of lies and money?

I don’t think that’s the childhood I want to talk about.

I want to tell them about the time my sister rescued me from school at seven in the evening as the skies were turning dark and the rain was about to pour because mother had an alumni dinner and forgot me.

I want to tell them about the times my sister would ask if I had eaten before she proceeded to cook for us anyway.

I want to tell them about the time my brother protected me in front of the entire school when the boy I made friends with threatened to hit me like my father did.

I want to tell them about the times my siblings came to pick me up, called and offered food, saved the last piece of kuih lapis because I got home late from work, left the food on the table to wait for me so we could all eat together.

I want to tell them about the time we all huddled in one room and slept together after the most frustrating, stressful and painful night we had to go through.

I want to tell them about the once-in-a-while fancy sibling dinners we go to every now and then, how we look out for one another when we’re out together.

I want to tell them about the nights we’d go out to eat by the roadside and how Myra would lean her chair down while driving, and how it would make Rifqi scream, and how Iqa would play the best songs for everyone.

I want to tell them about Nikk, our childhood friend, formerly neighbour at the age of four, who became a part of the siblings.

I want to tell them about the countless hours, days, weeks, months, years my siblings and I spent mending each other of the things parents should never do to their children. 

I want to tell them how we overcame it, how we’re finally together again now after the torture and lashes. How we finally, finally have a safe space to call home.

Our home.

So, no. I wouldn’t choose my parents. I would choose my sister, Myra–the idiot who can’t contain her anger but loves her younger siblings like her own child in her own way.

I would choose my sister, Iqa–the blonde that gets on my nerves sometimes when it comes to explaining but loves her siblings like she’s a mother.

I would choose my brother, Rif–the smartass who can’t stop using big words but makes sure his sisters understand and are civil, always.

They kept me alive physically, and while mentally and emotionally I don’t feel them, their physical affection is enough to keep me afloat.

I would choose them, who taught me the cycle of hatred brought down by generations of fucked up individuals can, in fact, be broken–and now it has.

[alrissamariam]

The Kind of Love

The first book I ever picked up that wasn’t a kids book was Zodiac by Romina Russell. I was ten and amazed by the world I had created in my head from words on a page. From the crafts, to the universe, and the love that they experienced.

Love. Fictional love.

One where the men wouldn’t be able to breathe without their girls, and would happily watch the world burn to the ground if it meant she would be smiling.

I would die to experience that kind of love.

It was typical, I admit–cliche. But it was admirable, sweet, and giddy. 

I would die to experience that kind of love.

The first time they meet wouldn’t be a pleasant one. Something would happen and she would loathe him, insult him, tell him all the things that were wrong with him with a smile on her face. She would think she was winning, that she was successful in mocking him just because he didn’t bite back and kept his mouth shut, arms crossed and face hard.

But little did she know, when she spun in triumph and walked away, thinking that she had the last word, he smiles. His heart thumps in his chest, his facade falls. He can’t help but wonder why she wasn’t afraid of him? He wondered if her sarcasm had ever gotten her into trouble. He wondered if she was God’s favourite because to him and in his head, my God she was the most beautiful angel he’d ever seen.

He swore she was made for him.

Banters and small flirtings would fly around within weeks and months of knowing each other, and he’d take every insult if it meant she would give him even a second of attention. That was what he looked forward to everyday. Her.

She would tell herself that he’s not interested, that she can’t catch feelings because it would only end up with her broken heart absolutely shattered as they got closer and found comfort in each other.

Desperation would claw at him, a craving for her he never knew could exist. He’d try everything to get her and her answer would be the same. Until one day, something bad happens. 

He gets to play superhero and she admits her feelings with desperation, thinking she was about to lose him. They get together and another bad thing happens that forces them apart. 

She couldn’t help but think that maybe she was right, that she shouldn’t have said anything and kept it to herself in hopes that she would be able to unlove him. 

But when you already love somebody so deeply, so hopelessly and so hauntingly, you could never unlove them. You could try, but you’ll never succeed. Much like she never did.

They fought and fought and fought, and he was desperate to mend things with her. But she was too afraid to fall off the edge and let him catch her. Of course, in cliche books, they always end up together again. 

I want that kind of love. The kind where he loves more because I have been told countless times that it only works when the man loves more. 

The kind of love where I’m the peace he runs to when the storm gets too tough and the rain scares him as he holds onto me tightly, his warm arms circling around my body as I run my fingers through his hair and kiss the top of his head.

The kind of love where it is not shameful to show his friends that he has a girlfriend, that he is hopelessly in love, that he sees a future with me instead of telling me that if he can’t get down on one knee in a few years, then it’s over.

The kind of love where I could carry Medusa’s curse and he’d still want to stare into my eyes and be turned to stone just so he could forever keep his eyes on me.

The kind of love where my baggage would be carried along as he does his absolute best to help me unpack it and rearrange the ones I’d keep and throw out the ones that would hold me down.

The kind of love where in a crowd of people while I’m out and about promoting my book or doing an interview, he’s the one holding his phone the highest in a desperate attempt to get all the footage he could while struggling to hold back a scream with the words, ‘that’s my girl!’

The kind of love where when he needs to break, I’d be the one to hold him, tell him that everything’s going to be alright as he cries into my arms like the human he is allowed to be.

The kind of love where I’d wake up in the morning to an arm keeping me in place, my back pressed against his chest and his nose brushing against the skin of my neck as he refuses to let me up before we have a small banter that would lead up to multiple confessions of the unconditional love we share.

I want the love that would never end up like my parents.

Perhaps, that one only exists in books.

[alrissamariam]

A Letter to my Younger Self; If I Could Hold Your Hand

21 years ago, we were born on the 7th of August at approximately 6:45PM. A healthy, just a little premature baby girl that was thought should’ve been a baby boy. 

We were blessed with three older siblings who took turns holding us as a newborn and the tales of our childhood was a wild one–if we consider the fact that they might have locked us up in the room one day while we were taking a nap at the age of three, and when we cried for the maid to open the door and finally stepped out, they sang Baha Men’s Who Let The Dogs Out.

We didn’t know what we wanted to be growing up. But we knew what others wanted us to be. A doctor to save lives. A lawyer to prevent a disaster. A chef to serve. A baker to satisfy. An engineer–because according to mother, we should be smart enough. 

None of what we wanted.

When we turned thirteen, we got so into the army and marching, we did it for five years straight. The first three years were tough, I won’t lie to you. There were only a handful of people that believed in us, and being in high school, that whole thing was all that mattered to us. It was our big thing.

Weekend family breakfasts missed, classes ditched and dinners ruined from how tired we’d be when we came home. That was the start of our poor eating habits. If I could hold your hand while I inform you of this, I would but sadly, the world doesn’t work that way.

It wasn’t just the fact that we were so tired after all the activities from school that bothered our appetite. It was also the constant insults from mother. The words she’d spew about our skin tone, our hair, our tired eyes, our slim wrists, our obvious cheekbones.

We kept it to ourselves because we lacked the energy to entertain such bullshit, but that didn’t mean we didn’t take it to heart because.. what kind of mother says those things to her own daughter?

We had never put a label or diagnosed ourselves to what we were suffering from, but she did. It was like she was proud of it every single time she called us out on it, but when the family was around, she turned into the most caring and greatest parental figure as she expressed her worries like a sick parent.

If I could hold your hand, I would clutch it tightly as I tell you the story of how mother called us anorexic, laughed in our face as we struggled to finish our meal and scolded us for needing an extra bit of sugar to get through the day.

If I could hold your hand, I would grab your shoulders softly as I tell you the story of how her brother, our uncle, continuously broke us down according to our weight and appearance, right before making inappropriate comments about our body shape and ass. 

If I could hold your hand, I would cup your face and remind you to not let it get to you. But then I’d realise how that was easier said than done. Because it did get to you. It did ruin you and it did fuck us up.

If I could hold your hand, I would drag you away from the three-bedroom apartment where mother yelled in the morning after pulling us off the bed by our feet, letting us fall to the ground and hit our head, right before she yelled in our face about what kind of a shitty girl we are just because there was one unwashed cup in the sink that wasn’t even ours.

If I could hold your hand, I would shield you from the view of the day uncle tried to hit our brother. I promise you, brother was trying to protect us, especially from mother as she forced us to wear something we didn’t want to. Uncle just decided to step in and act like the father figure he never was, which resulted in a screaming match with our brother, right before uncle cornered him and tried to punch him.

If I could hold your hand, I would cover your ears as mother stormed to us, threw the clothes to our face so harshly that the button jagged our cheek, and yelled at us with the words this is all your fault.

If I could hold your hand, I would push you behind me as we witnessed the biggest and worst fight between our siblings and mother. The four a.m. fights and the moment that mother attempted to drive us out of the house, the scene of our big sister protecting all her little siblings and taking charge of the situation completely before we finally realised that maybe, choosing wouldn’t be as difficult as we thought it would be.

But, if I could hold your hand, I’d walk you through how much I meant it when I said we were blessed with three older siblings, right before I tell you about the nights we’d all sleep in one room and come up with the dumbest thing to do like jump from the top of the cupboard and onto a bunch of pillows and blankets on the floor without any assurance if it was safe or not.

If I could hold your hand, I’d point to the spots on your palm where our brother held the most as he helped us ride our first bike without training wheels after mother decided that it wasn’t her task to see her kids grow up.

If I could hold your hand, I’d teach you the ways our big sister taught us how to make an origami shuriken while our other sister stood behind us in an attempt to block out the sound of our parents arguing outside the doors of safety that is our room.

If I could hold your hand, I’d brush your hair in the mornings before school and remind you of how much you are loved, even if it’s just by three people. How much they don’t care what career you choose, so long as it’s what you wanted. How much it doesn’t matter that mother only wanted you to find a rich man just so you could live rich while she flaunts to her friends and family.

If I could hold your hand, I would sit at the table with you while your tears fell near your plate of untouched food as we sat in the dark, and your heart was breaking loudly yet so silent because nobody around us could hear it except for me. 

If I could hold your hand, I would prevent that hand from burning yourself, from hurting yourself because you felt like you weren’t good enough for the world after being constantly reminded of the fact. It is not a fact. It is a lie.

If I could hold your hand, I would talk to you as we shared small bites of our favourite foods and desserts to help better our horrible eating habits that had resulted in us crashing at the hospital, alone.

If I could hold your hand, I would tell you how proud I am of you while you were at your lowest, thinking that nobody believed in you when you wanted to write. How amazed I am that you kept pushing through, even with all the harsh words and insults thrown at you, because look at you go now.

If I could hold your hand, I would. Because nobody held mine and I’d be damned if nobody held yours.

[alrissamariam]

Tales from a Designated Driver; A Tell of Sibling Love

I never fancied the clubs, or bars. Never been the type of girl to drink, and no–it’s not because I’m religious nor is it because I think I might be a lightweight. Though, I never really got to find out.

But every time they asked me to go with them, I would have one foot out the door and ready to step into the space of blasting music, hard drinks, sweaty bodies colliding with one another as they danced the night away and the smell of multiple cigarettes burned into one spot. Don’t even get me started on the smell of alcohol.

The sofa was spacious, but leather wallets along with fabric jackets and cracked phones took up most of the space where I crowded myself alone at the table that was booked for eight. 

I kept my eyes sharp the whole night as they thrudded to the dance floor, mingling and dancing whilst I continued to fill my lungs with smoke and nod at the bartender when he would raise his brow at me in a silent attempt to ask if I needed more water.

I could feel the beats of the music through the soles of my shoes to the thumping of my heart as my head bopped by just a fraction and my shoulders swayed the way my hips couldn’t out of embarrassment. 

This was the first time I went out with them and chose it. It was livelier than I expected, way too crowded for my comfort and too little room for me to bolt to the exit if and when needed.

The check-in messages from him would turn my mood sour at times, not only because he was insulting the fact that I had decided to tag along just to make sure they all got home safely, opting to tell me that I’m being used–but also because of the way he would speak that made me feel degraded. As if I didn’t know any better.

Oftentimes, I would ignore it–only respond to let him know that I’m alive and haven’t been murdered in the club. Other times, I would choose not to entertain him at all and remind myself that I’m out with my siblings, my flesh and blood. I should be enjoying it.

It wasn’t the loud music, the strong stench of alcohol or the amount of people swapping salivas around me that drove me crazy at times.

It was the arm-grabbing that would wrap a little too tightly around my skin, bruising the flesh and maiming the wound further as I held onto them while they stumbled around drunkenly and told me about how much fun they had.

It was the gagging sound they’d make right before I’m being slammed into the bathroom wall by one of them and was left there to tend to the one hurling their guts into the toilet bowl that I am one thousand percent certain hundreds of others have done the same.

It was the constant nagging and debating between‘we should go home now’ and ‘let’s move places’ as the back of my head pounded, knowing I’d have to drive back with a car full of drunken slurs, a foot on the bottom of my seatbelt that would leave me choking on my spit as I tried my best to navigate through the streets of Kuala Lumpur, and the continuous picking at the lock and window button from the driver’s side just to make sure none of them would do something stupid like yell at someone or jump out.

But what didn’t ever drive me crazy was the tripping into the house, the raids through the refrigerator for a late night snack or the drunken conversations at the dining table while I’m half asleep but they’re still too alive and buzzed from the alcohol.

I lived for those moments. When my sister would call me from her room and constantly yell at me to remind her to take a shower. The moments where I would make sure that my brother would be laying on his side with a small bucket next to him as I unfolded the blanket over his passed out body and closed the door, not before leaving his medicine and a glass of water on the nightstand next to his bed.

It was also the conversations we would have within the next few hours, when everyone had officially woken up and be forced to fill their stomachs as we rounded the dining table once again and I’d have to remind them of the things they had done the night before that they could never recall.

Laughter would spew around with bruised arms, smudged make-ups and tangled hairs. A moment of regret would pass around, a promise to never make the same mistake again by going out drinking and trusting only one person to help take care of eight.

But before we knew it, there we were. Out, dancing, the clock flashing two in the morning, drunk. And I was still tending to them.

Because as I’ve said before–if one day, they don’t come back from a night out, I would never be able to forgive myself.

I don’t fancy clubs. But I do love my siblings to death, and if we go down, then we go down together-drunk or not.

[alrissamariam]

Reasons from a Designated Driver; The Introduction

There were multiple points in my life after getting my license where I was asked, “Why do you constantly choose to be okay with being the designated driver every time your siblings ask you to? Don’t you just feel used at this point?”

My answer? I did, at first. It felt like they only wanted me around so that they had someone to look after them. 

To have someone pick up after them as they stumbled through the club towards the bathroom to hurl out the thousand bucks they had just spent on the bottle to get the table booked.

To have somebody drive so that when they hit a roadblock, they wouldn’t have to fork out another thousand bucks just to get away from the cops and they’d still be able to scream drunkenly in the car.

To have somebody haul their asses into the house, one by one, and straight into bed, tuck them in and make sure they’re laying on their side so they don’t gurgle and choke on their vomit if they ever.

That feeling of being unwanted and used change after one night, I realised they weren’t answering my texts and they didn’t come home at their usual time. 

I remember the anxiety that ran its course through my veins as I held my phone tightly and prayed that my sister had sobered up before driving everyone back. The pounding in the back of my head drummed continuously, annoyingly.

When they did make it home, I remember helping them to bed and making sure they were down properly before landing myself on the couch out in the living room. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared to death.

That was the day I decided being DD wasn’t a debate anymore.

At first, I hated it. I’d sit at the table alone and take care of their stuff while they hoofed it out on the dance floor, made friends, smoked cigarettes and drank the night away as the music bumped loudly in the club.

I disliked the fact that my arm had become a rod for them to hold onto tightly while they tried to stand still and prove to me that they were fine. The feeling of fingernails digging into my skin like screws being hammered in felt like I should’ve stayed home.

But I couldn’t do that anymore.

It got better when I realised I could have fun without the alcohol, albeit I never really preferred to touch it. 

My head would bop to the music and the casual movement of my shoulders were enough to give me a good time while still keeping my eyes on the dance floor as the man in the red shirt tried to make a move on my sister.

My brother would be far too gone to be stable enough in case I ever need help with anything, but I was grateful for my other brother. The half sober, half drunk one. He was like a walking bodyguard whenever we went to these types of places. 

Relief would always flood me every time we all walked out of the club in one piece, together, as I guided them one by one into the car, and made sure none of them had their limbs sticking out the window that I would always make sure to lock every five seconds.

Every speakeasy has become a place that’s easier for me to feel a little more relaxed, because amidst the loud music that bumps through my shoes to my feet and straight to my beating heart that falls into rhythm, it felt a little more controlled due to the small space.

So, no. I don’t dislike it anymore. In fact, they’ve made it a thing to include me in moments when the songs hit the most, when the beats were too good to resist or even when it was completely obvious how on guard I was. 

But I guess the main reason I keep going with them is no longer just so that I could fit in with them or that I wanted to be able to spend more time with them.

If one day, they don’t come back from a night out, I would never be able to forgive myself.

[alrissamariam]

An Intertwined Case of Grief and Love.

The lighter flicks, a small bulb of orange emits from the mechanism and I bring it closer to my face before the smoke fills my lungs. A sense of dread washes over me and the puff is longer than I thought I could handle. 

A forged warmth fills my body and I release the cloud in front of me, my eyes locked into the far distance as my mind is filled with hundreds and thousands of things at once.

My mind spirals beyond my control, my ears buzzing and my heart in a desperate need of mending. The silence is overwhelming, but so is the noise. It drowns every sense of common in my head, and leaves me with the urge to tug on the hairs of my scalp so I could bleed to death.

I was aware of everything. I could feel it all.

I have this overwhelming need to scream my heart out until the air is completely sucked out of my lungs, leaving my gut to be wrenched to a breathless whisper for I could no longer breathe normally except for a gasp that would never reach my lungs.

It intensifies as I try to distract myself to the point in my day where I hoped to the one upstairs that the ground would open up and swallow me whole, wishing for the ache to stop so I would never feel the need to criticise my own reflection everytime I see it.

I want to develop a nonchalant attitude but that will never come from a person who feels and cares too deeply for everything, who reads too far deeply in between the lines and gets hurt when they realise they were right all along.

Grief is the only proof that I love and I love well. Love and grief are intertwined with one another. It forces itself into us and imprints itself to ensure that we are reminded of how human we are. 

I am not able to make everyone think and feel as deeply as I do. That is my tragedy. To understand the things of myself that I could never express to anyone around me, albeit there are hundreds of you.

But if there’s anything I learned–if you don’t like the menu, leave the restaurant.

[alrissamariam]

It has been long enough, the neglect that you are showing towards your life and yourself. It's enough. Get youself together my love. It's time to be the main character and create your dream life.

@artscapismsworld

[alrissamariam]

"Why are you trying to help somebody when you need help yourself?"

[alrissamariam]

[alrissamariam]

The Price of Love.

“So why did you guys break up?”

It was a question she hated hearing, especially when everything was still so new and recent. It was still holding her hostage, frozen and too struck with pain. Why.

That was the question, wasn’t it? Why.

She shrugs. “I guess we both just wanted different things in life and neither of us were helping one another. Perhaps, in this lifetime, our thread was meant to be temporary. But I’d only know once I find my calling and have meet him again in the future.”

“Do you reckon you will?”

“I have no doubt.” She stares into the distance, unable to tear her eyes away from the beautifully painted skies as the sun falls under the horizon and the stars are waiting to come out. 

“But you don’t seem to believe it either.”

“I don’t believe that love will fight if the human doesn’t.”

“But humans don’t really understand love.”

“Love is the strongest force in the entire universe for humans. People do all kinds of things for love. Kill, save, betray, sacrifice. Some of them don’t even realise that they’re doing that. I believe that the mind and the heart are the key instruments at play. The heart will overpower the mind when the time comes. When my time comes to sacrifice for love again, maybe I will. But this time, I will make sure it’s no longer at the cost of my own happiness.”

“But what if the price for love is happiness?”

“I don’t believe that to accept love, we need to sacrifice our happiness.”

[alrissamariam]

Nightmares; A Best Friend that Comes and Goes.

Nightmares are inevitable for me. They were like my best friend that comes and goes without announcement, leaving behind a trail of soul-crushing pain and disturbing images in their wake when it’s time to go but when they return, every pain, confusion, betrayal and hurt returns like no other.

I’ve had thousands of nightmares before, too many to count, too long to remember. There is absolutely nothing worse than watching your own siblings suffer in front of your eyes and not being able to do anything about it. There is absolutely nothing worse than having to watch the people you love die right in front of your eyes.

I’d never thought I’d see that kind of nightmare again. I thought my nightmares were gone for good. I thought I could find peace in sleeping like I once did. I thought I would be okay.

Gosh, was I fucking wrong.

I was locked in too deep.

The terrorising never stops. It carved too deep in this time, leaving me gasping and coughing, absolutely fucking horrified when I came back to reality. My phone buzzed continuously and I realised that I was late. Late for work, late for realisation, late for everything.

The nightmare had taken too much out of me that I could barely speak as I bolted up and gagged over the bathroom sink, last night’s dinner threatening to come out as the images filled my mind once again. 

My grip on the sides of the sink tightened and I felt like I was swaying, like I was stumbling, like I was dying. I wanted to scream more than I did in my sleep, I wanted to launch my fist into the reflection of my tear-stained cheeks and swollen eyes. I wanted to tear open every inch of my skin and destroy myself.

I didn’t think I could hate my own skin this much. 

[alrissamariam]

“I want to take my heart off my sleeve, it has grown too heavy.”

-m.n.

[alrissamariam]

and then I learned

how to cry

without tears

falling from my eyes

behind clouds // ma.c.a