Listening to: Slow Burn by Infinity Song

I had a pretty tough double shift at the shelter last weekend, when we had to ask two visitors to leave. That is always really difficult, because it means they will most likely be spending the rest of the night on the streets. And everything about it just makes me sad for everyone involved.

The hard truth is (involuntarily) living without a home is dangerous and the vast majority of people I know who have died were from this community. It's heartbreaking because they are caring, and sweet, and helpful, and smart, and talented, and beautiful, and hardworking, and selfless, and gentle, and kind, and funny, and complicated... And really, really screwed badly over by life. And nothing is fair.

Anyway, the following poetic feeling bomb was inspired by true events.

Who's Counting?
He only wants to take in
as much positivity as he possibly can.
Sit down and savour the blessings
that make him a happy man.
But he doesn't know where he'll sleep tonight
or when he'll get his next meal.
How much good do you need to do, I wonder,
if someone's counting,
if karma is real?

What is the price of having a home or going on vacation,
and why is it so much higher for people like him,
unlucky enough to be born with all the wrong qualifications,
and only one choice:
Sink or swim?

He heats up leftover food given to him by a stranger,
over an illegal fire he started to keep warm,
grateful for the shepherd's pie propped into a can
so he could,
for a little longer, weather the storm.

On a harsh winter morning,
the canals freeze over,
and sometimes,
beautiful, talented people do, too.
The sun stops rising for them,
a star disappears,
just because the points they stacked up and sent in to
a corrupt, unjust system
weren't enough to fill the void
between the found and the lost.

And I wonder,
if someone's counting,
if karma is real,
how much does a life cost?

Uuuuuhhhhh...

I wrote something. :)

Inner Child
Hello, little girl.
It’s been quite a while
since I last saw you
and that crooked smile.

Where did you wander off to?

Were you in hiding,
or did you get lost?
Did something scare you?
Were you double crossed?

Is it my fault you vanished?

Did I push too hard
and too far away?
If I’d listened more,
would you have stayed?

...Or did I simply forget?

Were you always there,
waiting quietly,
wanting to come home —
or to be set free?

Is it too late to forgive?

Can we start again,
another good try?
Can we still be friends,
us both: you and I?

I should’ve realised sooner.

I miss you, sweet girl;
but hey, I’m here now.
I’m sorry I failed.
Will you show me how?

Been on this great earth for over 30 years and people are still finding brand new exciting ways to misspell my name in the worst ways possible.

It's right thereee. You can just copy and paste it. D:

"It was easy," I said, forgetting about all the difficult parts in between; the walking on eggshells and wanting to help but not knowing how to.

Forgetting about all the "You're so strong"s and "I'm here for you"s; how horrible and exhausting it actually was when we were in the thick of it and almost breaking each other and ourselves.

Yeah, I forgot. Or was I lying to myself like I do when I close my eyes and pretend everything is okay when it's not?

I don't know if I can do that all again.

Listening to: Heartbeats by José Gonzáles

Hi.

It's me. :)

The Visitors
It is night time,
but the florescent light from the outside world
creeps in through the cracks,
illuminating the mattresses purring on the floor.
The sound of snoring fills the air,
like a symphony,
punctuated with notes of flatulence.

Haha. Farts.
I chuckle to myself.

The clock says it's five in the morning,
which means there's still an hour to go
before I start making the coffee,
refilling the tea,
handing out the breakfast packs we made the night before:
Twenty two little bags of two sandwiches each;
One with a slice of chicken, the other cheese.
Today, Ali asked for the vegetarian option,
John wants just the meat. No butter.

Seven o'clock:
I flip the switch, and the overhead lights flicker on.
The room shifts and moans awake.
One by one, they make their way to the freshly brewed coffee.
"Good morning."
"Not yet."
Some of us are not morning people.

Half past seven:
We do a round to gently wake up whoever was lucky enough
to have been left undisturbed by the lights.
There are thirty more minutes before they have to leave,
one hour before I can sleepily bike
through the empty streets of Amsterdam on a Saturday morning,
to the place I call "home",
where I will crawl into bed.

"15 more minutes."
There are still a few unclaimed sandwiches,
so now they are free for all who could use some extra.
I hand over the discarded loaf ends to the one who calls me "sister".
He seems grateful he can spend some time with the birds today.

"5 more minutes."
I collect the rogue glasses that didn't make it back to the bar,
throw the remaining drink and cigarette butts in the bin,
give them a rinse in the sink,
start the dishwasher.
Somebody opens the door,
and the cold air from another winter morning rushes in.

With everything they own on their backs,
the visitors step into the sunless, sometimes unforgiving day,
thanking us for our help,
as we close the door behind them,
wondering if they will be okay.

Feeling: Confused

I'm having a weird, unpleasant week.

Let's start with a concept: I believe that nobody should be forced to sleep on the street. I think shelter is a human right. And I am a woman of action (sometimes), so I volunteer at a local homeless shelter.

Is that racist?

Does my desire to help people come from a place of white saviourism? Is it because I feel guilty for having things that I assume others may not have? Do I think I am better than these people? And if yes, what else am I supposed to do? Is not engaging in charity work better?

I am really struggling to find my place in the world right now.

I wanted to work in the non-profit sector because capitalism can suck it and the world is messed up and I want to help and I want to learn how to help. But this field, I'm discovering, is flawed, like nearly all other human things. And it has bad roots, and many of these roots are still growing strong and producing new leaves today. And it goes so far back and has snuck its way into every single cell of how the world blooms and caves in on itself.

How can we make this better? How can we still provide a real service to people who actually need the service, without it being a bad thing?

Is the difference in "helping" without having been asked vs. yes? Is it based on an assumption that these people need to be helped? And that I am qualified to do it? Why do I think I am qualified? What qualifies me? And if I am not qualified, how can I help?

Does the world even need my help? How do I be a good ally? Is that even possible?

It's like the closer I look at it, the more of the skin I peel away, I just keep finding more and more rot and I can't see if there's any living tissue worth saving.

Ohhhh, I am enraged. At white people. At my ancestors. At myself. At the men who decided hundreds of years ago to tear apart communities so that they could develop their own universes at the expense of the Other and then say "Haah, not our problem," when those communities are left coughing in the ashes and dust of the calculated, manufactured, disgusting, blazing aftermath.

I can feel myself slipping away, and I don't think I have the energy to do anything about it.

In other news, the world is broken.

Sometimes a perfectly good solution is to ignore the problem and pretend it never happened and definitely isn't still happening. Right? (:

Listening to: Noone Would Riot For Less by Bright Eyes

Becoming a Woman

a girl,
bright-eyed and keen,
finding her footing,
barely fourteen.

trying her best
to grow up and be seen.

befriends a man,
who should have known better
than to give and to take
much more than love letters.

then to ignore the fact that she was
not quite ready.
to disregard her not knowing,
her trembling, her unsteady.

than to not care
that she was too young

for 20-something-year-old hands,
greedy and selfish,
forceful and crude.

for what happened when
her "no"s were
rejected,
ignored,
and quickly subdued.

for carrying the blame
all on her own,
and not telling a soul,
and staying
too long.

for life-long trauma,
and trust issues and shame,
and believing too easily that
this was her name.
that this made her ugly,
and worthless,
and less-than.

for breaking down at nearly-30,
half a world away.

because of the same
stupid
fucking
man.

So, it's 2020.

This time ten years ago, I was preparing to leave for my tuition-free semester abroad at the University of Pennsylvania in Philidelphia. I was so excited and full of hope. Now, I'm in Amsterdam, doing data analysis for Doctors without Borders with my freshly signed permanent contract, amazed at how I got here. Wild.

In that time, I:

• graduated with a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in Journalism, Film, and Media, which was later upgraded to a Master of Science (Research) in Communication Science
• moved back to and promptly left Brunei
• travelled to a bunch of new places in 15 countries (the US, Germany, France, Spain, Belgium, Norway, Italy, Portugal, Czech Republic, the Netherlands, Canada, Russia, Mongolia, China, Iceland, Australia)
• kicked off my career with my first three 'proper' jobs as a Writer, then Brand & Crossmedia Data Scienctist, and now Marketing Data Analyst
• negotiated a salary increase after discovering I was being underpaid :o
• started being more active, beginning with running, and then I joined a gym and now I'm more into spinning and weight training with random pilates and yoga sessions every now and then
• somehow completed a full marathon (ya, 42.2km, took me nearly 5 hours, never again)
• learned Dutch (hoi, ik ben Sue-Anne) at the expense of my Malay (apa khabar?)
• gained two willful nephews and one feisty niece, and three times as much love as I had before
• had a few life-changing epiphanies, including realising that marriage and children are not for me, and affectionately watched four of my best friends tie the knot (two of them are mothers now!) <3
• had my heart broken and mended and broken and mended
• tried some of the tolerated soft substances available in the Netherlands and vomited them out more than once
• been in a couple of failed relationships, but more notably, fell in love and moved in with my liefje :)
• was sexually assaulted by a colleague and, against all my anxieties, actually found the guts to speak out against it (he and the company "mutually decided" it was best if he no longer worked there)
• survived my dad getting and surviving colon cancer that also spread to his brain
• was humbled by my sister and all the strength and courage she found inside herself to take some difficult but necessary steps
• discovered that my goals in life involve helping others, and got my dream job at an amazing non-profit humanitarian organisation while starting to volunteer at a homeless shelter
• decided I wanted to write a book and then did not do it while simultaneously feeling bad about not doing it
• drank too much alcohol probably
• wanted to be a better person but am not sure if I was successful
• learned how to open up and made some friends
• finally understood what a hero my mum is

Like I said, wild.

Good luck with the new year, everyone!

Feeling: Dumb

Well, this is a situation I never, ever thought I would be in.

Ha.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the right thing.

I moved sooo far away from everyone I loved (and the yummiest food), to come to a strange country where I knew literally one person (love ya, girl!).

And some people have said that was brave: The act of leaving everything I've known, on my own, in search of better pastures. But I don't know if that's more true than it's also me running away from problems instead of dealing with them. Sure, my problems included being deeply unhappy and feeling powerless and becoming more unhappy because of it, but it could also be argued that a more resilient person would have seen the difficulties and tried to find solutions for them, grassroots style.

But that's not me I guess. And on days like these, I know that whatever adjective we want to put on it - 'brave' or 'cowardly' - I came out better for it. :)

I hope everyone else does too.

A Smile to Remember by Charles Bukowski
We had goldfish and they circled around and around
in the bowl on the table near the heavy drapes
covering the picture window and
my mother, always smiling, wanting us all
to be happy, told me, "Be happy Henry!"
And she was right: It's better to be happy if you
can.
But my father continued to beat her and me several times a week while
raging inside his 6-foot-two frame because he couldn't
understand what was attacking him from within.

My mother, poor fish,
wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a
week, telling me to be happy: "Henry, smile!
Why don't you ever smile?"

And then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the
saddest smile I ever saw.

One day the goldfish died, all five of them,
they floated on the water, on their sides, their
eyes still open,
and when my father got home, he threw them to the cat
there on the kitchen floor and we watched as my mother
smiled.

Dear friends,

I'm interrupting our regular schedule to bring you an important announcement:

Some of you have recently shared posts about the current (and seemingly never-ending) situation in Syria, expressing anger about the lack of attention it gets; outraged at how easy it is to scroll past those Facebook posts and return to our own lives while hundreds of people continue to suffer every day, faced with death as they try to maintain a life as normal as possible amid the airstrikes and shoot-outs and whole buildings collapsing around them, or as they attempt to reach a place, where -- even though it is strange and unfamiliar and scary -- at least it may be safe.

I understand that frustration. The unbelievable injustices these people are forced to endure is unfair; they are mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, daughters and sons just like us and our loved ones, simply trying to make it to the next day, and it seems like nobody is doing anything about it.

But there are people who care: A special group who risk their lives and do their best to help Syrians in warzones and settlements, as well as many other communities trying to survive conflict, distress, or disaster in all the other places where medical aid is critical but scarce.

I'm proud to say that that is what Doctors without Borders (Artsen zonder Grenzen) does and stands for, an awesome non-profit I've got to know better over the last four months and whose work I'm learning more and more is so, so important. But they cannot provide clean water, conduct emergency surgeries, treat deadly diseases, or do the other great things they do in the areas no one else will go, without support from the public.

And since the Dam tot Damloop is coming up, I've decided to run the 16km between Amsterdam and Zaandam this year to raise funds for Doctors without Borders, so that they can keep helping those in the most serious and immediate danger, in the places it is most urgently needed. I've pledged €350 (or €22 per km), which we should be able to reach if each of you contributes even €1. :)

So, if the state of the world right now upsets you and you want to do something about it, here is your chance to make a difference -- or if you just want to support me as I try to pick up running again after doing nothing for 3 years. :p

My donation page: https://www.actiezondergrenzen.nl/actie/sue-anne_coventry?locale=en

Donation page is in Dutch because Netherlands... But I can help translate if it gets confusing (e.g., Doneer nu = Donate now). There's an English version now. :) And please get in touch if you'd like to contribute but can't use the options on the page.

Thanks, homies!

Unfortunately, the weird year didn't stop at the last post.

Part Three
On the 25th of August, I woke up at about 7 in the morning to multiple missed calls from my dad's number and a text message from my brother saying I should contact dad because he's trying to reach me. I was just about to listen to the voicemails he'd left when his number showed up on the screen. It was my stepmother, who was driving my dad home from the hospital, while he vomited in the background. She was calling to let me know that dad had been very sick for a couple of weeks (vomiting, dizziness, wobbly legs) with what the doctors first thought was a double ear infection but have just discovered was a tumour on his cerebellum. Scans also showed a lesion on his colon, which they weren't sure was related, but yes the tumour is cancerous and no we don't know what's going to happen.

Tears started pouring as soon as I hung up, and didn't stop for 2 hours. It was a work day, so Joost was making breakfast and came to ask what I wanted to eat but changed his question to "Is everything all right?" No. Everything was not all right, and I couldn't get the words past the lump in my throat to explain why, but he held me while I cried my eyes out and that was nice.

I continued getting ready for work, all while still sobbing (because the 2 hours weren't up yet): Somehow managed to get dressed, wash my face, and eat my muesli through tears before Joost, sitting across from me, said, "You don't have to listen to me or anything... but you don't really look like you're in shape to go to work right now." And yeah, okay, he was right: My eyes were swollen and red, and it felt like the tears would never stop (45-minute mark now).

They eventually did though, and I'm glad I had that voice to listen to and got to sit in my puddle of tears that day as I tried to figure out all the weird feelings I was failing to juggle. I went out, but didn't really tell people about it, because how do you explain that you're leaving the party early because you have to catch a last minute flight to spend time with your father who suddenly has cancer?

So that day was pretty shitty, and there were still so many uncertainties about everything at that point. Nobody knew what the next steps were or how bad the cancer was or what it meant, and we were scared. My dad describes this stage as the "AHHH I'M GOING TO DIE" phase, when he'd just been told he has cancer and was freaking out. Now he's in the "Nah, I'm gonna die of old age, not cancer; I've decided" phase, which is a lot better. :)

My dad had surgery to remove the tumour on his brain exactly one week after the call, and the doctors confirmed that the lesion on his colon was also cancerous. They were able to remove all of the visible tumour, but were pretty surprised to discover that it was metastasis (I know all the cancer lingo now!) -- which means the small growth on his colon (of which he wasn't experiencing any symptoms) was actually the original cancer that had spread to the brain. That's weird in cancer world because colon cancer is usually diagnosed after first showing signs of problems with the original first, not the secondary one.

One day later, I was on a 32-hour journey from Amsterdam to New Zealand (actually the quickest route), where I stayed for four weeks. Just enough time to see him recover from the brain operation, catch and get better from a painful chest infection, as well as go into and come out of surgery on his colon (also a successful extraction, by the way). But because he does have stage four cancer that spread from his colon all the way to his brain, it's likely he has cancer cells throughout his body that haven't grown enough to show up on scans, so he does have to undergo chemotherapy (one every three weeks: he's now done seven doses, and there hasn't been any signs of anymore strange growths, so his last one should be in 11 days!) and then radiotherapy for his brain.

So you know, it was horrible for a while, but things are looking up, and this year is just going to be all about good things. :)

Everything will be all right.

So...

Where was I?
Part Two
In May, my sister was in hospital and her sick one-year-old went missing for eight hours, without diapers, food or medication. I won't go into details, but this was the start of a life-changing journey to salvation.

After years of of mistreatment that got progressively worse, she made the decision to leave her abusive marriage. She took the kids out of that troubled house and moved in with my mum while she sorted out the paperwork and proof necessary for a divorce trial as a muslim woman, all while trying her best to maintain as safe, happy, healthy, and stable an environment as possible for the children. This included fighting for and securing a restraining order (which was a very long and painful process in itself).

It was a long time coming, and I'm very proud of her for the steps she's taken so far and for coming to these difficult conclusions. It's been tough watching her go through everything and not being able to make any real difference. And this is only from the sidelines, and only from my perspective of things I knew about.

Some people wonder how a person can stay in an abusive relationship, and they question why the victim didn't leave (sooner). But that is truly a simplistic view of an extremely complex situation. When someone you love and who you think loves you repeatedly tells you year after year after year how worthless you are and how alone you would be without them, somewhere along the line, you start to believe their words. Of course you accept his apologies and his promises that it won't happen again. You have to believe it's true. After all, you fell in love with a charming, caring guy and he's not always this bad. He never means what he says or does when he's like that; he just has a short temper. It's all your fault anyway, for being so worthless. But if you're patient and you keep supporting him, he'll one day see the error in his ways and start being a better man. He slowly pushes you away from your friends and family until you're more and more isolated from the people who care about you and have no one else to turn to.

Then it gets difficult to break away from that poisonous mindset and pick up the pieces that he's been chipping away from you after all this time.

My beautiful sister has not had it easy. She's been through so much (too much), and I'm really glad she's making it out the other side a stronger, more self-aware superwoman. She deserves her happiness, and it's about time the weight on her shoulders that she's been carrying for too long is given to the person it belongs to: Her piece-of-shit soon-to-be-ex-husband. :)

She has started to speak out against abusive relationships, and I think she has an important message. If you find yourself in a similar situation, please know that it's okay to walk away. It's never too late to seek help, and there are always people who will hear you (including me, if you want). Any kind of relationship that makes you feel horrible is probably not worth it. Look out for yourself. You matter more.

A month ago, I mentioned what a weird year it's been. Let me elaborate...

Part One
In March, I was repeatedly groped by a colleague at a Friday night work party. He made me feel awful and insignificant and I cried my eyes out the whole 30-minute bike ride home. I tried talking with him, letting him know that what he was doing was not okay; I even attempted to understand why he was behaving like this, because maybe if we figured that out, he would stop. But of course he didn't. He was drunk and stupid and made no efforts to be better.

And yet, after all of that, my first instinct was "Ugh. How annoying. I need to rant about this to someone," and that was it. My actual initial reaction was that it's a shitty part of life that couldn't be helped, so the best I can do is vent my frustrations out about how uncomfortable he made me feel. He was a colleague, you know. We were a part of a team, I didn't want to cause drama.

I took the weekend to reevaluate my feelings: Technically, nothing really bad happened... I mean, it could have been much worse. So why did I feel so horrible? Were my feelings valid? Was I overreacting? Did I have the right to feel this way when he was really drunk and seemed to have no self-awareness or control? All silly questions reflecting the misplaced shame and guilt that I had no business feeling.

By Monday morning, I was confident that yes, his disgusting behaviour genuinely upset me and that in itself warrants talking about it. All my not wanting to create problems was dumb because he created this problem, not me.

I told a person at work who told another person at work who gave an official warning to that colleague who apologised to me and said he didn't remember a thing or know that he was capable of being such a dick (i.e., he did a Kevin Spacey). He was suspended, and two days later they said he and the management had "mutually agreed" that it would be best if he didn't come back.

Apparently, it wasn't the first time he'd been massively inappropriate towards women after drinking, just no one ever talked about it or did anything about it. So now he's gone. And it came with all sorts of weird feelings. Imagine losing your job because of something you don't even recall doing? Is this an alcohol problem or a shitty person problem or one that becomes worse when combined with the other? If he really didn't know he got like that, then maybe he shouldn't be drinking... Right?

I was also asked if I would file a police report and, to be honest, talking to work was already a huge thing that had me in tears everytime I recounted what happened. And getting the police involved is an even bigger step, with even bigger repercussions... Could I do that to him? I didn't, but sometimes I do wonder, should I have? When is the moment to call law enforcement? Did that ex-colleague learn from this ordeal, or is he doing it all over again at his new workplace...?

And then in May, something happened with my sister and big steps were being made. But that's a story for another time.

Listening to: Praying by Kesha

I went to Museumnacht with Michelle and Joost last weekend, and while we were at the 'Face to Face with Van Gogh' section of the Van Gogh Museum, there was another guy also there... who happened to have a fiery head of red hair... complete with beard.

Naturally, I got very excited and quickly notified my companions while suppressing our giggles. Michelle took aim with her phone and he of course turned around, stared at us for 3 seconds (as we were very obviously taking a picture of him next to the title of the exhibition), shrugged, and posed because HE KNOWS, GUYS.

The redhead in the Van Gogh Museum knows he's a redhead in the Van Gogh Museum.

Listening to: H.D.L. by Lewis Del Mar

This week's thoughts, brought to you in poem form (also here):

Almost Good
Good things, good things.

“Wait.”
They say,
“Be patient.”
Good things come to those who wait.

But how long do I wait before it’s foolish?
delusional?
not. gonna. happen?

Who makes the rules?
Who says “Enough!

Stop.

This person has had enough.
Stop with the torture
before the bad things outweigh the good...
And waiting on a promise of something better maybe
is too much
or too little”?

What if the good things are not what I want after all?

What if I’m scared
to find out that I don’t actually want what I thought I wanted
and I don’t know what I want
and I don’t know that I don’t know
or what I want.

What if that’s all I am:
An almost,
a nearly,
a not-quite-there,

a half-fulfilled reminder of something that could have been so great!

What if this is everything?

Is that okay?