wrongness

How’s everyone doing?

I’ve been bouncing from one Australian city to another this month, consistently winning the friendship lottery. It’s been, and continues to be, one of my life’s greatest blessings that I am frequently adopted by good people—everywhere I’ve gone in the world, I’ve been met by kindness and generosity, people going above and beyond what could reasonably have been expected to show care. This trip has been no different. I’ve not been allowed to pay for 95% of the meals I’ve eaten in this country because, as one friend authoritatively told me, “your money is no good here”. (This, I can state with confidence, was a lie, because when I ate alone the remaining 5% of the time, I was able to confirm that Australian establishments have absolutely no problem taking my money.)

I was shown around Perth this morning. We walked along Cottesloe Beach and I drank a smoothie that promised to boost my immune system before we took the scenic route back to the city so that I could admire the way the city wraps around the river. Then I had a short but lovely meeting that fuelled the flame in my writer heart, followed by a fruitful conversation with academics on topics I’ve fixated on for years. I splurged on a steak for dinner on the way back to my hotel; except for the BBQ sauce, they got every element of my order wrong, but it was still tasty and turned out significantly cheaper than what I’d actually ordered, so I didn’t complain. (Also, I’d already eaten the entire thing before I realised they’d brought me the wrong cut, so that would have been embarrassing.)

All in all, a blessed day… which felt wrong.

There was an execution this morning. It was the fourth this month, all of them men whose families I have known for years—the longest for about 13 years. It’s not like we were in constant contact throughout all those years, but I’ve tried to be there if needed and shared their apprehension (albeit at a lesser magnitude than what they must have felt) of the dreaded execution notice. I know it’s no one’s fault except the state’s that things turned out this way, but it still feels deeply wrong that when the horror arrived, when the pain reached its climax, I was not there outside the prison, not at the funerals with them. It feels wrong that I’ve been having this fulfilling, restful time in Australia when others have been plunged into their worst nightmares back home.

I’m writing about this here because this is a small, semi-private newsletter that functions as a diary of sorts. I’m completely aware that this is an unhelpful train of thought, a psychologically harmful commute that I should cut short as soon as possible. There is neither need nor benefit in me feeling (some sort of) survivor’s guilt over my country’s determination to kill. None of the death row prisoners or their families need me to self-flagellate or suffer or stop living my own life. It’s much more important and useful for me to persist, to keep fighting, to keep pushing towards our goal of abolition. And I need joy, comfort and rest to do that. No one needs me to feel guilty about experiencing good things. I know this.

But.

My first couple of weeks in Australia, I surprised myself with my unusually civilised sleep schedule: going to bed relatively early without revenge bedtime procrastination, waking up at respectable hours that allowed me to start, and therefore end, my work day at reasonable times. I felt better and more energised than I had in a long time. I was super encouraged by this newfound sensible behaviour, and hoped that I’d be able to make it a new habit even when back in Singapore. But now that I’m inching closer and closer to returning home, the revenge bedtime procrastination seems to be creeping back in. It’s often said that revenge bedtime procrastination occurs because people feel like they’ve had so little control over their day that they’re trying to wrest back some autonomy at night. What I’ve noticed about myself is that my revenge bedtime procrastination is often not a symptom of frustration over the day that’s been, but an indication of anxiety or dread about the near future. I make myself stay awake because sleep means that the day will end and that, the next time I open my eyes, it will be tomorrow. A new day of potential shit, anxiety, worry and challenges I’m not entirely convinced I can handle well. Another day of possibly letting someone—or multiple someones, or maybe just myself—down. And so I stay awake, scrolling mindlessly on Instagram or playing soothing games on my phone, trying to prolong today a little longer and keep tomorrow at bay.

Tonight, even as I feel the surreal wrongness of having a good time when something so unspeakably cruel and horrible has happened, I’m loathe to put the day (and myself) to bed. I’m reluctant to move into tomorrow, because maybe tomorrow will also be coated in this oil slick of wrongness. And maybe tomorrow’s tomorrow’s tomorrow—and many other tomorrows after that—will bring more execution notices, more brutality and more grief, and there’s so disgustingly little that I can do about it.

This is processing. This is mourning. This is surrender; the moments in which I wonder how much longer I can continue, how much more I can take. But this is also resolve; when I question myself and know that, despite the heaviness, I will not be stopping. Maybe tomorrow I will get up and be a fighter again. If not, maybe the day after that, or the day after that. But tonight I am learning to sit with the wrongness, to open myself to feeling it, because the only way out is through.

~ vibes ~

Soothing voices for a heart that needs soothing.