“Wah! Singapore so cold ah!”
He was referring to my thick fleece hoodie, my kind anaesthetist. I needed to remove it for him to inject my shoulders. After the “shock” i gave him in the Operating Theatre, i wondered how i should reply him. With jest? Or with seriousness. My deliberation caused me to hem and haw. And i finally managed to croak softly:
” Well, my scars…”
“Oh…” Came his reply.
In my mind going back to think and to regret what i’ve said, as i always do, i wanted to say something different that would reflect the opposite of his initial question.
Singapore isn’t cold. But the hearts of people are.
As some of you might well know, i’ve covered up my arms since falling into depression. “fat, and scarred”. Those are my reasons. Simple as that. People stare and they whisper. When i’m in a more intimate place like my work place and someone catches eye of it, a huge hoohah is made of it, as if it was something to be proud of. My social worker, J, always tell me that people stare not because they’re out to ridicule me. They stare at my scars out of curiosity. People gasp loudly and ask, because again they’re curious, and also because they care? Afterall, it’s not a norm, an arm sleeved by keloid scars. Can’t they be more discreet though, i’d always ask myself.
When i don’t like it, i avoid it. Anyone could tell me, including psychiatrists and all, to take no shame in it. That i shouldn’t be ashamed of it. But can i? I try to face it. There are inner demons too. It’s easy to talk. And to think that just simply saying something will make it any less of a struggle? It doesn’t work that way.
Right now, i’m just angry with myself. I’ve had my piece.