You could safely say that my life started when my parents divorced in 1999 some almost 11 years ago. Back then, I didn't think it would affect me at all because the change happened when I was still as I would consider, quite young. I was barely turning ten, my sister twelve and my brother six. I did not understand the implications of the divorce and I can never safely say I'd ever do. We just thought that, my dad would live in a separate house but we'd still get to see him every fortnight and since my mum told us that "Nothing would change", we all believed that nothing would.
But, the truth is that, they would never speak nicely to each other again, my father had to take drastic measures just to see us on weekdays, he was not even allowed to call us or have our home phone number and my life, from then on, would be perfectly, difficult. But, hey, who's life isn't difficult?
My mother had influenced us into thinking that divorce was a very good thing. That happiness only comes with divorce and that we shouldn't be afraid of it. I suppose in the most part my parents thought it was for the better and I respect that, but never can a broken marriage ever give the children the textbook happiness that was being taught in the classrooms and in fairytales. If it was taken wrongly, the children might have a perpetual sense of hopelessness that they themselves would ever end up as happy as those people in the textbook marriage. Sadly, I am on the brink of that deep deep ditch that I would never seem to get out of.
Before the divorce, I was as awkward as any growing little girl would be and I must say after it, nothing changed for the better. I was more awkward than a badly sewn hem and I remembered always trying to get the self-gratification of being "cool" and hanging in the "in" crowd in primary school. But, all my childhood friends know that my knee high white cotton socks with the waisted skirt that touched the bottom of my knees were never fashionable.
The direct year after the divorce, it had to be the worst school-going year of my life. I had a teacher who was racist, biased and down right cruel. I have nightmares about her barring me from my medical exams till this day and one day, I just wish, I had the chance to run her over with a giant public bus. She always looked down on us, minorities and never even spoken to us with a happy tone. Her rolling eyes that she tossed about in that empty sockets of hers when any of the minorities made a mistake or had forgotten their homework, I bet is still very much etched into the memories of everyone in my class. I remembered, how she laughed (and therefore, made everyone else in class join her) at me for not able to remember all seven ports of Singapore and writing down Loyang instead.
Now, how did a Primary 5 girl know about Loyang? It's hardly a place for a girl to know about ships being there and anyway, all her life she's been living in Bedok.
Welcome to the first of my mother's destructive relationships.
(End of Part One)
