My Story

When I was 12, I watched my mum take her last breath

I remember holding her hand. What if she actually leaves. Okay this is like a movie when the mother is about to die. Just that this time, I was the protagonist.

Hours felt like seconds. I hold a very foggy image of what happened in the cold ward. I remember the smell though, the pungent stench of the clinic disinfectant. As if it would cleanse us from our pain. Gripping her hand tight, my mind was clouded.

I needed to exit the ward that she was lying in. I stood outside bawling my eyes out for a really really long time. I don’t remember how long that was. The tears just kept pouring uncontrollably. It was as if I wept myself dry.
I knew it was time to go back in. I watched as the mountains on the screen melted into a flat valley.

Loud wails filled the room. My grandma sobbed loudly in deep heavy breaths. I started crying too. But the cries felt empty. I felt like I had to fill the void with noise. The next moments passed by in a flurry. I didn’t want to let go of her limp hand. I prayed that she would open her eyes.

But she was really gone.

That day, I vowed to myself that I will live a good life. 12-year-old me strove in my academics and school life. I wanted to be a good person, but I struggled to define what a good life was. So I fell back on society’s definition. I got good grades, I ran for council, I wanted to make a difference. However deep down, my actions were fuelled by this intrinsic lack - a fear that I was not worthy of my life.

I wanted to justify my existence. I was constantly running at 101%. It was a necessity to do my best in every small or big task I took on. I took my life very seriously.

Since mummy did not get to live, I better make full use of it.

Questions, and more questions

Regardless of how well I did in society’s eyes, I was never enough for myself. I always felt like there was something wrong with me. As if I was not doing enough and being enough. I read about existential guilt, and there I uncovered its roots.  I felt undeserving of my own life.I felt like she was a much better human being than I was - I wondered why she left, not me. This guilt crippled me and made me pressure myself to be the light she was.

Alongside this doubt crept in a deeper question:

What is the meaning of life?

I pored over books on philosophy and self-help in hopes of finding answers. Why did my mum have to die? She was the best person I knew. She carried so much energy and light into people’s lives.

These questions were embedded in my mind. Every day, I would devour articles on the web, trying to piece together a version of a life manual for myself. I wanted to know how to live, and what it meant to live a good life. I became obsessed with self-improvement and productivity. I loved to figure things out, observe people, to find out why people are the way they are. I grew an intense curiosity for life.

I miss my mum every day

She was my best friend, the one who knew me inside and out. We went on dates every day, she loved me more than she loved herself. She was the only one I was completely myself with - I sang opera in the shower, paraded down the house in my towel, gave her 48 different nicknames, showed her my proudest drawings, told her everything - from the details of what I did to the intricacies of how I felt.

All of a sudden, she disappeared. Her absence left me traumatised.

I never wanted anyone to be a part of my daily routine again. I could not afford it. It became a necessity to be self-sufficient and alone. I behaved normally, but in my heart, I locked away my love. I was too afraid to love or be loved again.

Some days, I would cry and wish she would come back. But I know that’s not possible. How can someone just disappear like that? She was the first person I saw when I woke up, the last one I saw before I went to bed. The one who gave me my confidence; I dared to do things only because she told me I could, and I believed her with my whole heart. My mummy was the coolest person ever, even a childhood friend who came over once told me “I like your mum more than you.” If I were her, I would say so too.

12-year-old me could not grasp her departure. So I buried myself in schoolwork, in the normal routine I was used to.

I told myself, “No pity, you’re just going to continue life because you can and you will.”

This voice rang in my head loudly every day. I saw it matter-of-factly. Your mum died, get your shit together and live a good life.

Though slightly harsh, it worked. At least for a while.

In Sec 2, I remember my form teacher brought me out of class. She saw the “deceased” status on a form I submitted. She told me she never knew about it, and gave me a hug. That moment, I just burst into tears. I couldn’t stop them from flowing. Maybe I always wanted a hug from someone, but I never dared to let myself want it. That was the first hug since the funeral. I wanted to do it myself and comfort myself. I plastered on this big smile. Every night, I wept into my pillow to silence my sobs. I could not let my dad hear me.

In Sec 3, I met my council teachers. For the first time, I talked about my mum. They asked me what happened, and I told them my story. As I spoke, I couldn’t keep the tears in. I realised I had yet to accept that she was gone. I knew she was gone, but 3 years on, it still felt hard to believe. As they helped me to unpack my emotions and my thoughts on my insufficiencies, I felt a little more understood.

I realised that I needed to stop avoiding my grief, but face it head-on. I began to read more about grief, and I started to journal. I wrote down my thoughts and emotions almost every day, to manage this mess of mine. Feeling lost was a central theme of my life.

Her death marked the start of a new life for me.