ghostlyfirefest

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Embrace Imperfection

[ghostlyfirefest]

Imposter Syndrome: New Home

I’ve realized I don’t put as much effort into my work as I used to, and I no longer feel imposter syndrome in that space. I’ve stopped worrying about what people think of me at work or whether I have all the answers and I’m okay with that.

But now, I see that I’ve shifted that focus entirely onto my running and cycling. I care too much about what others think of my pace or whether I’m slow. I find myself constantly comparing my progress to others, especially those who started later than me but seem to be improving faster. My imposter syndrome has found a new home, and it feels like I’m still trapped in my own mind, just in a different way. Despite everything, I’m still struggling with the same low self-esteem and confidence I thought I’d left behind.

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Giving Up?

Once again, my thoughts are playing tricks on me. I keep reminding myself that my thoughts and emotions aren’t necessarily facts, but they still manage to get the better of me.

Something has been bothering me a lot about my workouts. I feel like I’ve come so far, yet I’m not making the kind of progress I’d hoped for. People who started later seem to improve faster, and I can’t help but feel like I’ll become the subject of criticism. Despite how much effort I put in, it feels like I’m moving too slowly.

It’s not all in my head either. I’ve heard firsthand comments that belittle my efforts:

• “Isn’t that pace too slow?”

• “I don’t see your muscles.”

• “Your calves are still soft.”

These words linger, fueling my self-doubt. In those moments, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never amount to anything, as if I’m destined to fall short—just like I’ve always have. Then, my imposter syndrome kicks in, and the cycle begins again. I start questioning everything about myself.

It’s exhausting.

All I want is to enjoy these sports. To feel the joy and satisfaction they bring without overthinking or comparing myself to others. But the weight of these doubts makes me want to crawl back into my shell and give up—because right now, giving up feels easier.

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Dream: When did you lose your ability to dream like a child?

I stopped dreaming the moment I understood what responsibility means. From an early age, I developed a strong sense of accountability, even as a child. Growing up in poverty, I realized that escaping this cycle required more than just dreaming—it demanded hard work and determination to change my life.

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Self-Awareness: What would you refuse to give up even if you were offered $10 million?

My kids! I can’t imagine my life without my kids. The thought of losing even one of them feels unbearable—I’d lose my mind. Yet, the irony is that I’m raising the very people I can’t live without to someday live without me.

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Courage: What negative trait do you publicly laugh about, but secretly know you have to fix?

One thing I’m admittedly embarrassed about is how I’ve managed my finances. How do you tell someone that at 35, I’m still drowning in debt with barely any assets to my name? Only one house! It’s something I’ve been struggling to fix for a while. I want to blame it on my bipolar disorder—one of the symptoms is impulsive behavior, like spending money I don’t have. Because of that, my debt has kept piling up despite my efforts to get it under control. But I’m finally taking a step in the right direction: I’ve decided to cut two out of my three credit cards. I even told James about it so he can help keep me accountable.

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Belief: Describe a time when it’s right to pursue power/money over people?

There are times when pursuing money or power might be justified—especially when those resources can be used to help others. But let’s be honest, how often does that really happen without greed taking over? People often change when they gain power, and it’s rare to see someone genuinely use their influence or wealth to help others without an ulterior motive. I’d like to think I’d rise above that, but even I can’t say for sure that I’d be a saint in such a situation.

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Exposed: When do you feel most vulnerable?

I felt most vulnerable during my college years. I had never experienced such loneliness and isolation. I attended UTAR, a university where most students primarily conversed in Chinese, and I had never felt more out of place. During both foundation and my degree years, I had only one friend respectively. I’m bad in making friends. Group assignments were especially challenging because I often had to search for a team and even beg to be accepted. The humiliation of being told “sorry, we are full” or “wait, let me ask the team first”—perhaps because their group was full—always felt personal. My mind would convince me it was because they didn’t want me.

As an introvert trying to find my footing in the world, it was a frightening and overwhelming experience. When my only friend was away, I was mostly alone, and I felt so pathetic. But looking back now, I no longer feel the same way. I’ve grown to enjoy my own company, and what once felt like a curse now feels like a luxury. I’m not sure why I felt so vulnerable back then, but today, being alone brings me peace.

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Life Lesson: Describe a life lesson that took you more than once to learn?

Instant gratification is fleeting, yet I’ve often relied on it as my default approach. I crave quick results—the need to feel good immediately, right here and now. But I’ve come to realize that the satisfaction doesn’t last. My impatience often drives me to seek instant rewards or expect results right away. When they don’t come, I start to lose focus and passion. While I know delayed gratification is a more sustainable, long-term strategy, my impatience continues to hold me back.

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Arrrrrgghhhhhhhh

Feel like screaming at the top of my lungs. Suicidal thought 8/10. Will I eventually do it? Sometimes I think I never meant to survive 2024.

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Another Suicidal Thought

Why does even the tiniest stress (I’m only having mild fever for God’s sake) make me feel so overwhelmed? Lately, it’s been hard to quiet the thoughts that creep in, and today, it felt like giving up would be easier.

I spoke to James about how I’ve been feeling, and he suggested I see Dr. Ryan. Honestly, I know it’s a good idea, but I can’t bring myself to take that step right now.

Khye Loon is not here this week, so I guess I have to hang on as long as I can. Took 2 quetiapine and all I want to do is sleep..

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Yet Again

Here we go feeling high and low at the same time.

Another day where suicidal is an option. Took 2 quetiapine and hope I would sleep in peace. Taking all of them seem tempting…

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My Father: The Final Chapter

After Uncle Sim was placed in hospice, we moved out of the rented house we had lived in for 20 years. Dad went to live with Whitney. Not long after, he was diagnosed with stage 4 chronic kidney failure and had to start dialysis. The news hit hard, and the reality of his situation became even worse when we discovered that his insurance had lapsed. He hadn’t told us that he had withdrawn the cash values and stopped paying the premiums.

I was furious—how could he do this to us? I took out another loan to cover the cost of his dialysis. Whitney took on the responsibility of his food and accommodation, while I managed his medical expenses. James was assigned to handle emergencies. That was our arrangement—a shared burden we all carried in different ways.

But the strain was too much. Whitney and I eventually had a fallout. She couldn’t handle dad’s stubbornness, and her complaints overwhelmed me. In the end, Dad went to live with Ah Mak in Melaka.

Oddly, this brought Ah Mak and me closer. I felt deeply sorry for her, having to care for her son when she was already so frail and old. Dad’s health continued to decline, but even in his weakened state, he still made the effort to visit Uncle Sim every day. He was a loyal friend to the very end.

As dad’s condition worsened, the doctors warned us to prepare ourselves. His heart was too weak to continue dialysis. They feared that the strain could trigger a fatal heart attack. After weighing the risks, we made the difficult decision as siblings to move him to palliative care. It was the hardest decision of our lives.

We cried like we’d never cried before. The pain was unbearable, but we apologized to dad for everything, for not being able to do more, and for the times we failed him. Through it all, he reassured us, telling us how proud he was of us.

On October 5, 2022, we visited him in the hospital. We cleaned him up, changed his diapers, shaved him, and spent time with him. Somehow, we knew it would be the last time we’d see him. He told us he wanted to go home, but we knew he wouldn’t survive the trip to KL. We explained why he needed to stay in the hospital, and he understood.

We planned to take leave from work to care for him, but life had other plans. On October 7, 2022, at 5:30 AM, Dad passed away.

Even now, my biggest regret is not being able to give him the good life he deserved. For all his flaws and mistakes—his gambling, his impulsiveness—he suffered in ways I wish he hadn’t. Just when I finally had the means to help him, time ran out.

Sometimes, I wonder if dad struggled with bipolar disorder. His gambling addiction, his impulsive decisions, the highs and lows he seemed to live through—it all feels eerily familiar to me.

I often think about what could have been if someone had seen dad, truly understood him, and given him the help he needed. What if he had been diagnosed? What if he had received the mental health care he deserved? Would he have been a different person? A happier person?

I’ll never know the answers, but I know this: understanding my dad helps me understand myself. I just wish he’d had the same chance I have now.

And I hope, in some way, this understanding brings us both… peace.

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My Father (Part 3): A Chapter of Letting Go

During the MCO, Uncle Sim’s business collapsed—or rather, it just slowly died. With no business, Uncle Sim and dad eventually gave up the company altogether. I was fortunate to be in a position to support Dad a little during that time. Whatever loans didn’t require repayment during the MCO, I used to give dad as allowances.

But the borrowing didn’t stop. They continued asking for money from whoever they could, and it was humiliating. I avoided going back to Melaka for 4–5 years because I couldn’t bear to face my relatives. The shame of it all was too much.

Then one day, everything changed. Uncle Sim suffered a stroke. It paralyzed half his body and affected his bowel and bladder functions. It shocked us all, but Dad—true to his sense of loyalty—felt we had to care for him. Uncle Sim had been a part of our family for over 20 years, and Dad believed we owed it to him for all he had done for us.

But this decision impacted us deeply, especially Whitney. She was the one asked to take on most of the caregiving. I remember how furious James was at Dad’s decision, but Whitney complied, even though it broke her. Every day, she rushed back and forth, tending to Dad and Uncle Sim. She had to clean up after Uncle Sim, including his feces and urine. It was degrading, heartbreaking, and unbearable for her.

I remember one day, Whitney broke down in tears. She said she couldn’t do it anymore, and I don’t blame her. At the time, I couldn’t physically help because I was pregnant with Kyzer, so I tried to support us as much as I could. But it wasn’t enough.

Watching Whitney suffer like that—seeing her stoop so low to clean up after a man who wasn’t even our father—pushed me to act. We had to do something. We begged Uncle Sim’s sister to take responsibility and to share the cost of placing him in a hospice center. The process was humiliating. His siblings accused dad of brainwashing Uncle Sim, taking advantage of him, and draining him financially, saying we should be the ones to care for him.

It was devastating, but I managed to talk sense into his sister, and eventually, we got him into a hospice center. I remember crying afterward, overcome with guilt and sadness. It felt so wrong, like we were abandoning him. But it was the only option we had left.

It’s been three years now since Uncle Sim’s sister took over his care. I haven’t visited him since. Part of me wants to, for old time’s sake, but another part knows that some chapters need to close for us to move on.

(To be continued…)

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My Father (Part 2): Life After Mom

I don’t even know where to start. My mind feels like a storm that never ends, dragging me back into memories I wish I could forget. Even though dad is gone, the weight of everything he left behind still presses down on me.

It all began with Uncle Sim. He was dad’s best friend and had been for as long as I could remember. I even used to think of him as family. When Uncle Sim won a jackpot, he helped pay dad’s debts. It was a lifeline, a way out of the mess my dad had gotten into. But that help came with strings—strings that tangled our lives in ways I never saw coming.

Their friendship grew even closer after that. Dad spent so much time with Uncle Sim, it made mom unhappy. She used to say it felt like Dad was “here but not home.” She resented how much of his time and attention Uncle Sim seemed to take.

When mom passed away, things spiraled even further. Uncle Sim’s marriage fell apart, and he started living with us. At first, I thought it might help—two grieving friends trying to support each other. But instead, it dragged us deeper into chaos.

We sold our condo. We sold the car. Dad’s epf gone. All to fund Uncle Sim’s failing business. But no matter what we did, nothing worked. The debts started piling up again—bigger this time. Dad and Uncle Sim borrowed from everyone: Uncle Leong, relatives, dad’s brothers, even loan sharks.

When the truth came out, the amounts were terrifying. Uncle Sim had to go into hiding, and Dad ran back to Melaka with Whitney as Jayden was still small. That left James and me to fend for ourselves, with the fear of loan sharks hanging over us like a dark cloud.

I hated my life during those years. I hated the helplessness, the feeling of being abandoned to deal with problems that weren’t even mine. Dad kept asking me for money, and I gave what I could. I even took out loans myself to help him. But it was like pouring water into a bottomless pit—never enough, no matter how much I gave.

Now that dad is gone, I don’t even know how to process it all. I loved him, but I hated what he put us through. I hated how he trusted the wrong people, made the wrong choices, and left us to clean up the mess.

Even now, I still feel trapped by the chaos he left behind. I ask myself why he let things get so bad. Why did I have to sacrifice so much to hold everything together? And why do I still feel guilty, as though I didn’t do enough, when I gave everything I had?

Some days, I want to remember the good times. The rare moments when dad was loving, present, and full of hope. But other days, all I can feel is the pain, the weight, and the helplessness that shaped so much of my life.

(To be continued…)

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My Father (Part 1): With Mom

My father was my biggest supporter and my deepest pain, the one I wanted to love endlessly, yet the one who left me with wounds I’m still trying to heal. It’s hard to explain him—to explain us. Some days, I think of him as a loving father. Other days, all I feel is the shadow he cast over my life.

I can still picture the way he taught us to swim in public pool. The weekend which we would take the public train and walk for few KMs with our bags. Tired but we were happy. I can still hear his voice as he told us bedtime stories, tucking us in as if the world beyond our little room didn’t exist. Once, when I refused to eat after a fight with my mom, he made me porridge and brought it to me. That’s the dad I like to remember.

But then there’s the other side—the side I hate remembering but can’t forget. He was so angry, all the time. He never hit us, but his words cut deep, and his voice—his shouting—still echoes in my head. Especially at mom. Nothing she did was good enough for him when he was angry. Not the food she cooked, not the way she cleaned the house, not even her existence.

I didn’t understand it at the time, but now I know it was the gambling. He owed so much money—to his brothers, the bank, even loan sharks. And while part of me wants to believe he gambled to give us a better life, I know it wasn’t that simple. His addiction swallowed him, and in many ways, it swallowed us too.

I think about mom a lot. What she went through. The things he said to her. “I regret marrying you. I regret having this family. My life would’ve been better without you.” Can you imagine hearing that from the person you love? It’s no wonder she wanted a divorce. She wanted out, but she didn’t make it because she passed away. Or should I said she made it as she was free from this torment once and for all!

And yet… I loved him. I still do. Because for every storm, there was a moment of calm. A time when he’d win money at the casino and take us all out for a buffet. When he got his VSS payout, he bought us a condo, finally out of the shabby flat - and told my mom to be patient, that things would get better. He was so hopeful in those moments, and I wanted to believe him. But things didn’t get better. Not for him. Not for us. Story for another blog.

I miss him. I hate him. I love him. He’s gone now, and I’m left holding all these pieces of him, trying to put them together in a way that makes sense. But nothing about him makes sense—not to me, not to anyone.

This isn’t the end of the story. There’s so much more to tell. But for now, this is where I’ll stop. My father, my strength, my struggle—he was all of that and more.

By the way, mom managed to enjoy the new house for four years before she passed away. I feel so sorry for her. I wish I could tell her today how strong she was to endure such suffering for so long. Why didn’t she leave my dad sooner? I wish she were still alive so my siblings and I could give her the comfortable life she deserved.

I vividly remember how she would carefully count coins at Tesco because we didn’t have enough. Oh boy, how I miss her extra today.

My relationship with mom was… unusual. We rarely talked, and I don’t recall ever having a heart-to-heart conversation with her. We never hugged, and I always felt like there was a wall between us. I don’t know why, but it was just the way things were.

And yet, I still love her. No matter how distant our relationship seemed, she was my mom.

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Wish I Knew This Sooner: Introvert

Growing up, I didn’t know the word “introvert.” I was simply a quiet, socially awkward girl who found comfort in solitude. While others thrived in the buzz of social interactions, I was happiest curled up with a book, especially on rainy days. There was nothing more magical than losing myself in a story, cocooned under a cozy blanket as raindrops tapped against the window. That was my ideal world—calm, reflective, and deeply personal.

But, according to mom and dad, that wasn’t “right.” I was too quiet, too reserved, and needed to “show my face more often.” It felt as though there were rules about how I should behave, as if being social and outgoing was the only acceptable way to exist. Who set these rules? And why did I have to follow them?

As a child, I didn’t have the words to articulate what I felt, so I internalized their concerns. I thought something was wrong with me. Why didn’t I enjoy big family gatherings or parties like everyone else? Why did I always feel out of place in crowds? Even in school, I had just one close friend. I didn’t know how to fit in with larger groups, and that pattern continued into college. I wasn’t part of any cliques or gangs. I wasn’t trying to be distant—I simply didn’t know how to navigate those spaces.

It wasn’t until my 20s that I stumbled upon the word introvert. Suddenly, everything made sense. I wasn’t broken or flawed; I was just wired differently. Being quiet, reflective, and reserved wasn’t a problem—it was a personality trait. Understanding that gave me a sense of peace I wish I’d had earlier in life.

If someone had told me as a child that being an introvert was perfectly normal, I wouldn’t have felt so out of place. If mom and dad had understood what it meant to be an introvert, they might not have pushed me so hard to conform to societal expectations. I wouldn’t have spent so many years feeling like I needed to “fix” myself.

Now, I embrace my introversion as a strength. I’ve learned that the world needs all kinds of personalities—introverts, extroverts, and everyone in between. The quiet ones bring introspection, empathy, and depth to the table. And while I still love a rainy day spent reading under a blanket, I’ve also learned to navigate the louder parts of life on my own terms.