Will you make a difference?

(from top to bottom) Marlene, Andrea, Keri, Daniella, Hollie, Heather and Anne.


More than a year ago, an idea started to form in my head about using both fashion and social media as a vehicle and the blog as the platform to feature a series that'll stay permanently online. The stories will be aimed to empower women and offer a source of comfort to those tackling various traumatic issues. If I said that this was an easy project to produce, I'd be lying. There were many moments when I doubted myself. Persuading fellow bloggers to bare their soul online? How will I offer a sanctuary for survivors to share their inspirational stories safely? Will I be able to bear the cost of financing the project myself? Many gave their time freely. I will be forever grateful to both Lucian and Adrianan Paraian of Adrienne Photography.

In a commercially driven world where success is measured by revenue and statistics, would a project highlighting weighty social issues and offering hope but going against the grain of the mainstream current be accepted in the blogging playing field? When social media is used for mainly self promotion and sharing, can it not be used to empower women (and men) in a different way? The majority of us go through life trying to project an ideal image even when we're battling with pretty serious issues for fear of being branded a failure. Furthermore, the pursuit of perfection and youth is largely driven by only showcasing beautiful images that'll sell. Would the Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket fail before it would even reach out to the targeted audience?

Most of us are deeply private individuals and our blogs are merely an outlet where we cater to our frivolous side. I was a nervous wreck for months trying to write my story and the week it was published, I wanted to take cover under my duvet and never leave the safety of my flat. I can attest this holds true for all the other women who are involved in the Sisterhood series. 

Sexual attacks are such a taboo that family members and our closest friends take great lengths to avoid the topic at all costs. Not just mine but in so many others who have emailed or privately contacted me after my story was published. Little wonder because 44% of all sexual attacks happen to children under the age of 16. Pretty scary statistics when you consider 1 in 5 women is a victim of a sexual crime. Whether it's depression, post natal depression, abuse, miscarriage or the threat of being homeless, the anxiety the sufferer experiences cannot be ignored.

Perhaps one of the stories may stop a loved one from contemplating suicide (thank you to the person who emailed me) or be a comfort just to know that she's not alone, you have made a difference and change the course of her life for the better. A few days ago, I received another email in my inbox. One that made my eyes welled up with tears and touched me deeply. Grace wrote this on her blog. Another truly inspiring individual, Lucy, the founder of Heal for Life U.K recently reminded me of the story of the starfish. It may be difficult for a single individual to change the course of history but collectively, as a group, we can all make a difference. One person at a time.


p.s. The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket series will remain permanently online here. Or you can share the stories using the social media icons below.

The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket: Anne

Photography: Marlene

I thought I was a strong person. I had gone through a tough academic path, lived alone in faraway lands in my early twenties and was told I was more mature than people my age. When I heard about depression, I thought it could never happen to me. I was a person who dealt with her problems and solved them all by herself. Essentially, I thought depression was for losers.

But depression happened anyway. Actually, it had been waiting to happen for pretty much my whole life. When faced with trauma, most children and teenagers block out the memory as a defense mechanism. Like a ticking bomb, it can resurface later in life. I went through several stages.  The first was ‘denial’. “It probably happens to everyone”. “It’s not a big deal”. I avoided it until I couldn’t. I realized that what had happened to me was wrong and the lack of support of people I trusted didn’t make things better. It came to a point where I felt the need to see a therapist because this was an issue I couldn’t solve all by myself and things were unraveling out of control. 

Then, after starting therapy, the ‘anger’ stage began. It actually made me feel powerful: I had this huge amount of energy I needed to release. Then I learned that what had happened to me as a child was worse than I had thought because I had erased some things from my memory entirely. It felt as if I was reliving it, even after 25 years. When you are attacked, your reflex is to defend yourself; however in the case of childhood trauma, you typically freeze in fear only to “awaken” later. And since you can not defend yourself anymore, you turn the hurt onto yourself. 

And thereafter, I entered the phase of ‘depression’. To give you an image, it feels like a huge tsunami traps you and suddenly makes you powerless and no longer able to grasp for air. Negative thoughts became obsessive to the point where they were defining my life and who I was. I thought of resorting to extreme measures to make them stop. I had flashbacks and there were nights where I could not sleep so I started taking strong sleeping pills. I feared the moment when I would have to change into my pyjamas because I was disgusted with my body and avoided looking in the mirror. I had no energy and couldn’t focus. When asked what I did out of my days, I did not know what to answer. (I didn’t work at the time.) I withdrew from the outside world because I had the impression that people knew something was wrong with me and it was out of the question to make friends in these conditions. Even going out for groceries and talking to a salesperson felt like an ordeal. Simply put, I could not function anymore.

I started functioning again when my therapist prescribed Prozac. I had been reluctant to take such medications but it was really a turnaround for me. The negative thoughts were no longer invasive and I resumed a more regular life. 

The New Year came around and I made a resolution that I still keep: every day I note down the pleasant things that had happened to me, even little things like a nice meal. It pushed me to take better care of myself and to realize that life is beautiful after all. I had never been into sports and I started to take bike rides throughout the city every day. It gave me a newfound confidence, a sense of wonder and challenge. It made me more aware of my body and I was surprised to find myself beautiful after having felt so disgusted with myself. I put the people who had let me down at a healthy distance and no longer felt disrespected. I started going to church for the first time in years; the sermons are still a moment I look forward to as they comfort me and push me to do good around me. A wonderful thing happened afterwards: I got plenty of job interviews and was eventually hired at a great company. 

I would have never been able to survive this whole process without therapy. It’s hard to confide in a person you barely know and there were tearful sessions, but it was necessary to open my eyes and get another perspective on things.

Today, there are still issues I need to work on but I am doing much better. My depression was not long ago and is still part of who I am but by no means does it define me entirely. Strange as it is, I feel that I came out of it a better person. I feel more relaxed and smiling because it taught me that my wellbeing is my priority. I feel more compassionate and grateful because it gave me a taste of what it’s like to hit rock bottom. My Prozac dose is gradually getting lowered, which is not always easy: negative thoughts come back to haunt me for a short while until I am stabilized. However, I am proud of myself for dealing with difficult issues instead of staying in denial.

I think I am a strong person, after all.

If you like our video and stories or believe they may help a loved one, please share them using the various social media buttons below. Thank you for your support. 

The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket: Heather

Photography: Marlene

On 12 November 2013, I stood alone our Istanbul home holding a positive pregnancy test. Hubby was away in Athens for a job interview. So I held my tummy and cried tears of joy for the bundle of joy that I never thought I wanted. Now that she (yes, she) was here, I knew I wanted her. Badly.

I called William to break the news, and he was stunned with joy. Not surprising since he'd always bugged me about having a baby. And I always told him that it wasn't time yet, because we moved our lives around the world every couple of years and bringing up a child like this was too unstable. Selfishly, I also enjoyed my life too much to want the responsibility of having someone so small and tiny depend on me for the rest of my life.
Over the next few days, I told my family over FaceTime and a close friend the news. Everyone rejoiced. They were excited about how beautiful our child would be, and how at the ripe old age of 34, it was time that I got pregnant. I started to write love letter to my baby since William wasn’t home for us to hold hands and chat the nights away.

When he got back, I was pampered like a princess and wasn't allowed to lift a finger in the house. Also because I felt really, really bad most of the time. There was even a point when I almost fainted from a sharp pain in my abdomen in the streets. I put it down to stress because it was yet another a transition point in our lives when we were due to leave Istanbul and we were preparing to pack up our things to be moved to Athens. The plan was for us to go back to Malaysia in about three weeks and stay for a whole month of rest and relaxation, and finally head to Athens in January to start our new lives. These details serve to explain why I didn't go to see a doctor yet. Our health insurance had just been cancelled, and I decided that instead of going to a random Turkish doctor (whom I had heard so many horror stories about), I'd wait till we got back to Malaysia before doing a proper check up.

The pain started getting from bad to worst. I started bleeding slightly as well. After asking around, friends and the internet said that it was normal. I wanted to believe them. And so I did.

Then on 21 November 2013, the moving company came to our house to pack up our things. Halfway through, when I went to the toilet, there was intense bleeding. At this point, I knew for sure it had to be a miscarriage. But being the stupid and stubborn person that I am, I was determined to let the movers finish their work, and told myself, if it happens, then it's meant to be and there's nothing I can do anyway. I told William, and he insisted we had to see a doctor. I agreed, but said it could wait till tomorrow.

The next day, he went off to the American Hospital nearby to get an appointment and run some errands. In the hour that he was gone, I had collapsed in the bathroom, and when he got back, he found me unconscious and soaking wet. He pulled me up and proceeded to get me to the hospital, which is a 5-minute walk from my home. It took us almost twenty minutes because I could hardly stand. For the first time in my life, I knew what it meant by seeing stars. When I could actually open my eyes, things were a blur and all I saw was whiteness and blinking stars. I no longer felt any pain. According to William, I was deathly white. 

When we arrived at the hospital, the doctor did a quick check-up and found that my abdomen was filled with blood from hemorrhage and that my left fallopian tube had ruptured. I had an ectopic pregnancy. He extracted a huge blob of blood, which I saw briefly and assumed it was my poor little baby that had gotten stuck in the wrong place. The doctor said I required immediate operation to remove my tube and stop the hemorrhaging. 
Before being wheeled into the emergency room, I heard him telling William that the operation would cost seven thousand euros and that they needed us to pay before starting the operation since we didn't have any health insurance. At the same time, he stated very simply that if I did not have the operation immediately, I would die. At this point, I lost consciousness and was vaguely aware of being pushed around in a wheelchair.

I awoke for a bit when the anesthesiologists asked if I ate anything. I still wonder why I needed anesthesia, since I didn't feel any pain at all. In fact, I just wanted them to leave me alone. I just wanted to close my eyes and enjoy the blissful, painless and light feeling of letting go. Just letting go. 

The next thing I know, I woke up as I was being wheeled back to my room. William was there and he was crying so hard. The operation had lasted almost three hours. He held me in his arms and he couldn't stop crying. I cried too, but more because he looked so sad and worried. He told me that he had run to the bank in the rain to withdraw the money for the hospital and when he got back, started placing calls to our parents to tell them what had happened. Then he paced up and down, all alone, not knowing if I was okay, not knowing if I would survive. The doctor hadn’t given him much hope because he said it was very serious, and that the hemorrhaging had gone on for too long. I felt so much pain and sadness that he had to go through all that alone, while all I had felt the entire time was this blissful floating feeling. So I held him tight, telling him, I was okay. I was alive.

Lying on my hospital bed, I FaceTimed my family and told them I was fine. I was alive. And can you believe they made us pay 7000 euros in cash before they would operate on me? Boy, was I going to enjoy my first class private room with wifi. The most expensive stay I'd ever paid for. I laughed. They laughed. I could see the relief in their eyes. I was fine. I also emailed a few friends who I was supposed to meet up for a mini farewell to tell them what happened, and that I couldn't make it, but not to worry, I was fine. I was alive. It was all good. 
The rest of the time that we were in Istanbul as I was recuperating, friends came to visit. I told them the story. Everyone said I should have gone to a doctor before. I said yes I know, I'm so stupid! I told them the story of the money. They were shocked. And we laughed about my first class room. I told them how lucky I was to have gotten there in time and how I thanked god that the bank was still open and we had the cash to pay for my life. Thank god. I'm fine. 

I hobbled around, a lot of the pain coming from the operation wounds, but also intense pain from my back because of the fall when I collapsed. But it was all good. I'm alive. I was fine.

Then we went back to Malaysia, and I was starting to feel the physical effects of the operation more and more. So I lay around a lot, enjoying being waited on hand and foot. The whole family was back together, and we enjoyed Christmas and ushered in 2014 happily. I was really, really fine.

And then we made our move to Athens officially in January. Physically, I had completely recovered, save for some yoga poses that I couldn't do because of the twinges of pain that I still felt in my spine and abdomen. And so I skipped them whilst doing my practice. But other than that, I was like new.  

I was so fine that when talking with daddy, mummy and William one day, I laughingly recounted how William was such a darling and cooked the most delicious meals for me 'the time I thought I was pregnant'. They all looked at me, stunned and speechless for a moment. Then daddy said, 'but you WERE pregnant!' Oh yeah, I was. 

Fast forward to July 2014. I've been sofa-ridden for the past 6 months. I've done a lot of traveling - back to Malaysia for three weeks in March, then Santorini, Istanbul and Paris.  Some friends have come to visit. I’ve played tour guide. I’m smiling, laughing, making conversations, functioning. But alone, I haven't been able to summon the energy to make friends or carve out a normal daily life in my new city. I can't be bothered to respond to emails or messages. I feel this melancholic sadness inside. I put it up to occupational hazards of the expat wife, where relocation displaces you, and you feel like you're alone in the world.

But this wasn't like anything I'd ever felt before. I binge to fill the emptiness. Purge to regain control. I don't sleep well. William is worried because he senses the brittleness in me, but there is nothing he can do. To stop him from worrying, I put on a brave face, smile, and say, I'm fine, baby, I'm fine. But the minute he steps out of the door, I take my place on the sofa, put on one TV series after the other and drown out the misery in my head. I pile the coffee table with chips and sticks and bread and peanut butter and fruit and I eat and eat and eat. I move only to hug the toilet bowl to throw it all back out. Then I eat again. As I do this, I scream at myself in my head. I love food. I love my body. This is bad. Why am I doing this? 

These acts make me worse. Alone, I just cry and cry. And I rage at times. What is happening? I want help, so I tell William about the bulimia, and he makes me promise him I'll stop. I say yes. But I still can't stop eating. I do, however, stop myself from throwing up. Sometimes. 

There are days when I get a wind of energy. So I go to yoga. I meditate. I do the work of Byron Katie. I pray. I smile. I write affirmations. I listen to self-help podcasts. Eckart Tolle, Jeff Foster, Katie, Oprah, they're all my new best friends. But inside I'm still a mess. 

And so I end up back on my sofa. Drowning in mindless sound. Suffocating from the food in my throat. 
I beat myself up because I have so much to be grateful for. Who am I to feel this way when so many other people have more serious problems in life? I have everything I want. I'm fine! What is wrong with me? Just snap out of it. 

And one day, it all comes to a head. I come across a random self-help image on the internet that mourned the loss of her ectopic baby. And I unravel. I curl up in a ball and heaving sobs leave my body. I'm knocked by a pain I have never felt before. It reaches out from the depths of my soul. I'm so so sorry. I never said goodbye to you properly. You were here, and you were gone. And I never said goodbye. You were real and I pretended you weren't. My little darling that I didn't want. My little darling that I wanted so bad. My little darling that I never got to see. A part of me. Gone.

And at this point of writing, I'm unraveling again. 

And this story will end abruptly because I don't know how this will turn out.

But the first step is done. Nine months after I picked up the pregnancy test and smiled, I'm finally acknowledging that I, Heather Mahi, lost my unborn baby. 

--

It’s now been more than a month since I wrote the above. Little did I know as I cried myself to bed, holding on to William for dear life, that night of nightmarish darkness was my turning point. 

I woke up feeling lighter. The days passed by with more ease and the melancholy lifted. My eating habits went back to normal. A peace settled in my heart. And with the wisdom that comes from hindsight, I thought I could end this story with some lessons I will always take with me.  

#1: You deserve to feel what you feel
I never mourned the loss of my baby because I felt like I didn’t deserve to. What with all the mothers in the world who lost their grown children, to babies who were miscarried at 8 months. What right did I have to be in mourning over an ectopic pregnancy? When I didn’t even hear her heartbeat? When I only had her for a few weeks? When I didn’t even know enough to get a check-up in the first place? 

I realize now that you can never compare yourself or your experience with anyone else. No one has more or less right to feel what they feel. Your life is yours and your journey unique. And it deserves to be celebrated or mourned with abandon. 

#2: You come first
Many women I know put other people first. We go through our whole lives trying to please our parents, friends, teachers, bosses, boyfriends, husbands and children. Trying, trying, trying and always seem to be failing. Right after coming out of the operation, and seeing the relieved faces of my husband and family that I was alive, I remember having the epiphany that all I had to do to please my loved ones was just to “BE”. That if I died, they would mourn the loss of ME. So all I had to do was BE ME.

But in the days that followed, I forgot that flash of inspiration and went back to trying again. Trying to reassure, trying to please, trying to be strong because I thought that it was what they wanted me to be. And that was where I lost myself again.

I now know from the bottom of my heart that putting your own needs above others does not make you selfish. In fact, it opens you up to more love and compassion because you get to let everyone else off the hook for your own well-being. 

#3: Everyone is different
One thing that brought me down when I was going through this were clichéd one-liners that well-meaning and loving friends said, like “don’t worry, I have a cousin/ friend/ sister/ colleague who went through the same thing and she got pregnant again very quickly after and now they have one/ two/ three/ twenty children”. 

I used to do the same when speaking to loved ones who were going through trauma in their lives: be it abuse, singledom, divorce, sickness, depression, job loss. I’ve hurried to reassure them that it’s going to be fine because X,Y and Z went through it and so you can too. 

I realize now that all they needed was a listening ear to hear their own personal, unique path. 

#4: There are no could’ve, would’ve or should’ves
I’ve learnt lessons, but right at this very moment, I don’t regret anything at all. I know that I did my best the way I knew how. Sure I could’ve healed faster, and would’ve been happier and should’ve done some things better. But if I didn’t go through these months of darkness, I wouldn’t learn that eating disorders stem from something deeper than just wanting a perfect body, I wouldn’t feel the depths of my husband’s love and compassion for me, I wouldn’t know that death does not feel scary, and I wouldn’t appreciate just how precious and fragile and special every single life is. 

Sure, I’d still have 7000€ in my bank account if I went for the check-up that I should have had in the first place, but I wouldn’t have had this humbling and painful yet supremely beautiful experience that I can now look back upon with a smile. It’s a story that I can tell you now, and it’s a story I can tell to hopefully my future children. 

After all, isn’t life but beautiful chapters woven into a book? 

Heather also blogs at Heatherifications.

If you like our video and stories or believe they may help a loved one, please share them using the various social media buttons below. Thank you for your support. 

The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket: Hollie

Photography: Marlene

When I volunteered to take part in this project that Marlene brought together, I was wholeheartedly into it. I wanted to help and share my experiences in life so far. Then some time passed and the more I thought about it, the sicker I felt inside. I didn’t want to take part at all, and to be honest with you, right now as I sit typing this, I still kind of feel that way. The only thing pushing me is knowing that this may just help someone else. 

I didn’t expect to find this difficult, I naively thought that I would type up a few words of support and encouragement and that would be that. However that’s not the case. I guess I buried these emotions and memories far back in my head to overcome my illness at the time. I say “at the time” because I am so far removed from “that place” now that it is hard for me to share it. 

My life has moved on. I never dreamt that it would. I thought that life would always be dark and unhopeful. Few people in what I shall call my new life know the extent of how ill I was and to some degree, I wanted it to stay that way. I guess I didn’t want anyone to change their opinion of me. However, if I had read something honest when I needed it the most, it could perhaps have pushed me to being well and having hope sooner. 

My name is Hollie. Today I’m 29, married, have three children, a full time job and a cat. My life is crazy busy but in a good way. My husband and I take the children to exciting new places; we have friends, social hobbies, and are very much in love. Rewinding back to eight and a half years ago. I was a loved-up newlywed with a beautiful baby girl and another on the way. But beneath the clever façade that women who are suffering with post natal depression (PND) are able to put on, I was withdrawn and down with what I thought was the baby blues. The only social scene I interacted in was Mumsnet and that was only if I could get it to load onto my teeny tiny mobile screen. I had moved away from my hometown and knew very few people, so the only support network was my mum or husband on the other end of the phone. I would force myself to attend baby groups, some miles from home but I would rarely revisit the same one, making me even more isolated. 

When baby girl number 2 arrived, due to complications after her birth I didn’t bond with her straight away like I did with baby girl number 1. This is something that even now, as I sit here typing upsets me greatly. From that point on, as I adjusted to life with two, no matter how busy I made myself, I still struggled. That, and with huge financial pressure, plus moving, being burgled and moving again was what broke the camel’s back. 

If you are reading this now and are “struggling” you’ll perhaps understand me when I say that I couldn’t explain myself very well.  It was like this dark grey cloud was slowly suffocating me and no amount of busying myself could force it away. 

Eventually I couldn’t work and became further withdrawn. This next part will be sketchy, because a lot of what happened in this time is still a blur. I was always on edge, tearful, addicted to eBay and chatting online to mums. My husband watched helplessly as the woman he fell in love with was fast evaporating before his eyes. It was only when he quite literally picked up a distraught and suicidal me off the kitchen floor that my road to recovery started. He took me straight to the GP, who was amazing. We were there well after closing and I remember feeling terrified that I was going to be seen as a unfit mother and my children would be taken away. 

It was around this time when the medication started and this is when things got even hazier. It was a few more weeks before the medication kicked in and the best way I can describe how they made me feel was “numb”. Over time, my medication changed. I hit the limit on one and had to switch to another that was so strong I could only take it at night due to the hallucinations I would sometimes get before falling asleep. I started becoming irrational and would argue left, right and centre for no reason or not talk at all. Quite often not at all. The anxiety was ridiculous, and I hit an all-time low when I was attacked by a group of teenage girls whilst walking my daughters home from nursery. The police took us home and after that day I was terrified even if just to answer the door. 

My husband took redundancy so he could care for us, as quite honestly, I was useless. Even though I would sleep, I was constantly tired. I would wake up feeling like it was just lost hours and that I hadn’t slept at all. I was short with the girls and would say hurtful things I didn’t mean to those I loved. I attended therapy sessions and felt they were pointless and that I wasn’t understood. Although now as I look back I know they spoke sense and I often will remember the fight or flight theory. My community health nurse referred my husband and I for therapy together and this was the most refreshing thing to have come out of the whole mess. We looked forward to it - which according to our therapist was rare and I think it further shows the bond we had. It was there that I realised I was being selfish and that I had to show my husband I still cared. It helped him to understand me a bit better too.

I can’t give you a defining moment when suddenly everything was ok. It took a lot of work and self-progress, I had to learn that there was no perfect life and the expectations that I put on my own (self and life) were unrealistic. People have sometimes asked if it was the tablets that made me better. I don’t believe it was. What pulled me together was the faith and patience that my husband invested in me, and the love that my girls showed me. That and the willingness to get better.

Eventually the fog lifted and I began to believe my husband when he said that we would see the other side. Things began to seem possible again and I started to laugh with my babies instead of cry. I eventually was weaned off my medication. One thing that did feel like a switch for me was when I found out I was carrying my baby boy. Although we had lost a lot and had such hard work ahead of us, I realised that I have such an incredible family unit and this is what it is really all about. 

We have had a hard slog but we are now in such a different place that everything from the past doesn’t seem real. These days, when I stress or panic over silly things, my husband will smile and remind me of how far we’ve come. So if I were to give any advice to anyone, whether you are that person suffering or watching the person you love suffer, it would be that you have to be patient. You need trust, hope, love and patience. If you have that, you will have courage, strength and healing. 

Hollie also blogs at Mummy wife and chaos.

If you like our video and stories or believe they may help a loved one, please share them using the various social media buttons below. Thank you for your support.    

The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket: Daniella

Photography: Marlene

Sometimes I’d like to think of my life as a book and who knows? Maybe one day it could be. I believe anything is possible but in the mean time I am excited, nervous but humbled to have been asked to be a part of this wonderfully inspiring project. 

I was ten going on eleven and very athletic. I ate well, enjoyed school and life in general. I became unwell with many different symptoms but no one could figure out what was actually wrong with me. At one point, the doctors thought it was merely my imagination and an attention seeking ploy to get out of school. It was distressing to hear their prognosis. It was just as difficult for my parents to hear it who had to, a certain point, acted on the given information.  

After six or so months of being in hospital, my weight had plummeted down to three and a half stone (22kgs/49 lbs). I was fed through a nasal gastric tube, unable to walk and almost reached the end of my short life on an operation table. My parents and a young registrar had previously voiced their concerns to the NHS doctors that my symptoms could possibly be M.E but were dismissed instantly. Thankfully, my parents had the foresight to check me out of hospital and take me to an M.E specialist. They had a hunch and decided to trust their intuition. 

The M.E specialist saved my life. I was overjoyed and felt an incredible sense of relief that someone within the medical profession finally believed that there was something legitimately wrong with me. And it had a name. An actual diagnosis. It took enormous weight off both mine and my parents’ shoulders. Fourteen years on, I still suffer from the debilitating illness but have learnt to manage my condition better. I don't know if I will ever recover. I always hope but for now, I take each day as it comes and I do my best to manage my energy levels.

The ongoing battle trying to deal with the ignorance and being judged by people as well as the majority of medical professionals, is exhausting. One day, I hope to find a way to contribute in order to dispel the ignorance, lack of understanding and government support in funding scientists to get to grips with this loathsome disease.  

There has been another struggle that my family and I have had to face. Up until three years ago, my family could’ve been easily mistaken for a normal family (if there is such a thing) but on the inside, we were far from it. No one could make you laugh the way my father did yet no one could bring as much misery as he did. Our lives were in the hands of a mentally and verbally abusive man. I didn’t always have a horrid childhood for I have had some truly wonderful memories. My sister and I have had a somewhat privileged upbringing. Ever since I could remember, I have always lived in fear of my Dad. He has a ferocious temper and a loud voice which when used in anger, was terrifying. His temper could be provoked at the flick of a switch. He was admirable in many ways. He came from nothing and along with my mum, they built a successful business. He always said that there was no such word as can't and anything can be achieved if I put my mind to it. He really was someone I looked up to in many ways. 

However, when he turned forty, his unpredictable outbursts reached frightening levels. None of us knew what was going to trigger an onslaught of verbal abuse. It could be as simple as leaving a light on, not being able to find the T.V remote, not answering the phone in time (bearing in mind my sister and I suffer from M.E and a simple task like that, at times, can be very tiring) or walking too loudly. 

Once when I was fifteen, I’d accidentally spilt sugar on the kitchen side. I was having some Weetabix (cereal). I figured I’d go back and clean it up once I’d eaten (Weetabix goes soggy very quickly, Weetabix lovers will know this) but unfortunately, this led to another verbal attack. After sitting there listening to him rant on at not only myself but my mum and sister,  I, being the hormonal teenager that I was, swore at him. I knew instantly it was the wrong thing to do. It was only going to add fuel to the fire. He picked up the nearest object (a dvd in this case) and hit me across my curled up body several times. In their attempts to defend me, he simply pushed my younger sister and mum down. 

On another terrifying occasion, he threw my sister and her 1 year old son out whilst waving a knife erratically after yet another heated argument. His unpredictable anger made us all very nervous and wary. We were constantly walking on eggshells, and even now, I am overwhelmed with anxiety if I’d dropped something, a door slammed or if someone went down the stairs heavy footed. It was noises such as these that would set him off. Though a lot of the abuse was verbal, I believed that it was down to our compliancy that kept us safe and prevented him from escalating into physical violence. 

In hindsight, there were always elements of mental and verbal abuse but when you've grown up with it, you believed it was the norm. It was only when incidents spiraled  to extreme levels, that my sister and I knew something wasn't right. Reading certain articles really brought things to light. It was an indescribable feeling when you read about someone being in an abusive relationship or coming from an mentally abusive family and being able to relate. It was reassuring, as it certainly helped me to feel less alone whilst giving me a glimpse of hope. 

Three years on, my father is still doing everything he can to hold off the divorce. It’s an ongoing battle but I know one day, we will be free. It hasn’t been not an easy hill to climb in the slightest. It has taken courage and a lot of self healing. I do wonder if some of the mental scars will ever heal but it will always be better than living in a abusive home. We have gone from being well off financially to literally scraping by at times. As long as we have each other, that is all that counts. There will always be someone somewhere worse off. We will continue to show grace, strength and courage. 

For years, I’d struggled with the possibility that I might not ever be able to have a "real" job due to the unpredictable nature of M.E. It wasn't so bad when I was a teenager but as I approached my twenties, I felt an immense pressure and guilt for not being able to pursue a career. Starting my blog was a defining moment for me. It was a way for me to create and express my love for style, fashion and clothes. It is also a form of escapism, a way of forgetting my illness and the stressful environment within my family home. 

My boyfriend, Conan has helped me to build up my confidence and I guess, liberated me in a sense. He bought me a camera so I could document my outfits and also lent a hand to develop my blog in a big way. My sister who is psychically gifted had also assisted with opening my mind to endless potentials, which at the time I didn't believe but she has proven to be right in her predictions.  

Despite it all, I count myself tremendously lucky. I have an incredibly supportive mum, boyfriend and sister. I have a beautiful nephew who is by far, the greatest gift from God. In my darkest hours, he has given me a reason to live. I have been able to grow spiritually, understand and see things in a different light. While I have missed out on all those normal things teenagers and young adults normally do, I’ve been blessed with learning life lessons that you simply don't get taught in school.

Sharing this story in particular has been a bit of a process for me. I have barely spoken out loud about this before now,  let alone write about and share it with pretty much the whole world but the reason I felt that I should talk so openly, is with the hope that this might just help someone who has either been in a similar situation or is going through one. You shouldn't feel guilt nor shame as it's not yours to carry, it's the abuser’s. Be an inspiration, not a victim, for you will be surprised at how much inner strength you possess and maybe, just maybe, you'll be able to share your story one day and bring to light what is too often left in the dark. 

Daniella also blogs at Lella Victoria.

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The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket: Keri

Photography by Marlene.

“There is no security in following the call to adventure” - Joseph Campbell

It’s 2007 and I feel like the world is my oyster as I plough my heart, soul and life savings into launching my own recruitment agency.  An agency specializing in the library industry, as the world teeters on the cusp of one of the worst recessions to date and the biggest cuts to the public sector. Fuelled on by some crazy spirit of creativity and independence, I ride the wave in the first year trading and I am thrilled to be able to create jobs for a small but fabulous team in one of the most deprived towns in the North West of England.

Little was I to realise then that I would be creating jobs at the expense of being able to draw my own salary a few years down the line.  As a team, we were able market the company well and secure some great clients and candidates, but as a small business I was unable to secure all but the smallest overdraft.  Coupled with constant chasing of invoices to clients who included large city law firms and investment banks, I start to realise that we were struggling financially.  In recruitment, especially contract recruitment, it is the agency’s responsibility to be able to pay its temporary staff on time whether or not it takes the end client four to five months to settle an invoice.  

Three and half years later my husband Chris comes home from work to declare that the public sector organisation he is working for are making him redundant.  On a whim, and realising that we can’t survive financially for much longer, I contact my former boss and friend.  He and his wife had successfully sold the recruitment agency I worked for several years earlier for a seven-figure sum and had embarked on a new life in France renovating properties and injecting new life into local businesses in the Averyon, one of which was a beautiful bed and breakfast and tea shop, in a pretty but remote mountain and riverside village.   

Feeling that we’d done our ‘London years’ and approaching our late thirties with no children, we decided to make the leap and throw in the towel for a new life in the French ‘idyll’. In the months running up to our move, I wind down my company and knowing that we would be moving into fully furnished accommodation, scale down on literally all our household possessions and belongings.  

With plans to open the business ready for the Easter and summer seasons of 2011, we reluctantly serve notice on the property we had happily called home for five years and started preparing our goodbyes to friends and family.  With a month to spare, I suddenly start to feel a general sense of malaise and overwhelming tiredness.  Putting this down to the stress of moving and packing, I push this to the back of my mind.  It’s only when a friend jokingly asks if I am pregnant that the penny finally drops.

Always the ‘London career and fashion girl’, our friends and family are surprised but not as much as me!   We set up a Skype call to France and tell our new employers to sit down as we have something to tell them.  Immediately they know why I am calling and fall about laughing;  ‘Keri you don’t do things by halves! This can still be an amazing opportunity for a new life for you all as a family, and although it will be hard work, we know if anyone can make a success of things it will be you’.  Some may call it mad, but never ones to shy away from challenges we pack up the car, our beloved cat Poppy and dog Alfie, and set off on the two day drive to the South of France. It was the beginning of what would be the biggest roller coaster experience of our lives.

Ever the fashionista, I while away the journey admiring the changing and dramatic landscape of our new home. Passing the time and riding with the waves of morning sickness, I dream of wearing cute maternity outfits as I stroll along the medieval lanes with a baguette tucked under my arm. In the following months we are thrown into the French life, grappling like most expats with the language. With good humour, we are welcomed with open arms by our lovely French neighbours.  We survive the Easter rush in the B&B and teashop. We even survive the Royal Wedding. But the cracks are starting to appear. Hired to ‘manage’ the businesses, we arrive work at 7am each morning and during the summer season are still entertaining into the early hours of the next morning. The hours in themselves and the physicality did not faze us, but our work began to be criticized and our confidence knocked.  

Things came to a head three months later. Myself eight months pregnant, we were called into a meeting and told that we were surplus to requirement. Never one to be at a loss for words I was left speechless, whereas my usually calm and collected husband lost his composure and demanded an explanation. To this day, the only explanation we received was that they are ‘entrepreneurs’ and business must come first.  As it slowly dawned on me that not only were we about to become jobless and homeless in another country, I realise we are also unable to return home immediately with our pets on the British passport scheme.  Breaking down into tears, I wobbled back to our ‘home’, which had just been deemed more profitable as a holiday apartment for the owners’ surplus guests.

I shove close the typically French shuttered windows to our bedroom and gather Alfie and Poppy onto the bed with me as I curl up into a ball and cradle our unborn son, blinded by tears and panic.  Metaphorically speaking, I realise now that I also closed the shutter doors on my mind and usual bright optimism. Looking back I can see that much of this was probably due to being tired and pregnant but I can honestly say that my mind went into free fall.

I guess like many women, I am a fixer, a doer, a planner, and some may even say a control freak. So the feeling of not knowing where we were headed next was completely overwhelming. Our employers’ one concession was that we could remain in the apartment until our baby was born. However, with only four weeks to spare all we wanted to do was get back to the UK and to our families. Having struggled my way through the French maternity system at the local hospital and prenatal checkups with much sign language involved, I felt that I wanted to return ‘home’ to give birth.       

As is typical in small rural villages, news spread fast and thankfully a lovely lady who I now think of as a friend (albeit an overseas friend) came to our rescue.  A real animal lover like me, she took it upon herself to re-home our cat Poppy and organised for her friends to temporarily look after our dog Alfie until we could return to France some ten weeks after Luca was born to bring him back to the UK. For me this was the hardest part, saying goodbye to our animals.  I had rescued Poppy from the famous Battersea Cat and Dogs Home some fourteen years earlier, as usual not telling my husband. He came home from work one evening to find a pretty young white cat scaling his vinyl record collection. Alfie was a similar story. Rescued when he was eleven weeks old and Chris away working in London. Sadly it was my last goodbye to Poppy. She died of a stroke last spring. She was the only one of us who got to live out her days in the beautiful French countryside, ironically in a gîte named Poppy Cottage.

Luca was born two weeks early and we found ourselves living in what was my office, which, apart from a bed and moses basket, was bereft of any furniture. It was a roof over our heads, much more than some, but not ideal with a newborn baby. With the initial joy of a having a healthy newborn starting to fade, I felt physically and emotionally exhausted.  As well as defeated, I felt cheated. Possibly the most ridiculous things to feel cheated of, but in my mind, I was cheated nonetheless.  Cheated of the fun of having a baby shower, which I’d enjoyed organising for other friends and cheated of having the money, time and home to plan and decorate a nursery. In all honesty, I still feel a little cheated of those memories.

It took five months for Chris to find work and when he did it was based in Durham, a five-hour one-way journey. In order to make this work financially for us, for five months he had to travel to the North East on Sunday afternoons and return home just before midnight on Friday evenings. Finding myself left with a young baby on my own during the week, living in a not great location, I started to slip into depression.  I usually pride myself on being able to spin a tale or two. As an only child I’ve often been reliant on using my imagination and find writing to come naturally to me. But when the tale is one that takes some soul searching, it’s not too easy. 

I’ve never felt useless before or lost for ideas and solutions but I could not see a way out at all. I would wake up crying looking out of the window hating where we were living, and would fall asleep looking out of the window hating where we were living. I felt completely embarrassed to feel so low, the rational side of me appreciating how lucky I should feel: I had a lovely family and the happiest and healthiest little boy. But still, I felt helpless and trapped by our situation. Looking back, my biggest regret has been the time I wasted sitting worrying and constantly questioning. Questioning how we could have been treated so unfairly when we are both hard workers and I was so pregnant.  When I wasn’t caring for Luca I started to revisit blogging and sought solace with friends from all over the world whom I had met prior to moving to France and who had shared in our journey via my blog. I relished every consolatory comment and enjoyed sharing pictures of Luca and our progress.   

Three years later I am relieved to say we are just getting back on our feet. It’s funny, how at the time, I could see absolutely no light at the end of the tunnel but in actual fact things have turned out for the best. We have moved again, not quite to France this time, but to one of the prettiest villages in West Dorset. Two years ago, I could not even have begun to imagine how we would land on our feet again. Ironically we now call Tolpuddle our home. Treated unfairly by our employers, we now live in a village famed for the Tolpuddle Martyrs (story: in 1834, a group of farm workers shared a secret union meeting to protest their unfair wages and as a result were exiled to Australia). 

To this day, I hate the term ‘entrepreneur’, even though I now run a number of micro businesses. I feel there is a better and kinder way to operate a company.  Luca brings a renewed sense of joy to our family and all the wonder of an almost three year old.  We have even been reunited with Alfie, so together boy and dog enjoy many countryside walks and trips to the Dorset beaches.

I guess there are many morals to our story, some of which I need to remind myself of daily.  Transitioning from career girl to working mum, only now do I realise I am more than ‘my job’.  When we first returned from France, I dreaded having to explain where we were living and that we were not working. I felt that I had lost any sense of my own identity. I better appreciate now that happiness isn’t attached to ‘things’, although I will still fight you for a designer handbag and pair of shoes!  There have definitely been days when I’m not sure how we managed to survive, particularly financially, but we did because we had to.  To anybody sharing our story, remember that there is always light at the end of the tunnel, even if it takes some time to appear. To end in the words of Joseph Campbell, "We must be willing to get rid of the life we've planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us”.      

Keri also blogs at The Chronicles of the Dollie Daydream.     

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The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket: Andrea

The philosophy of life - speak no evil, hear no evil, see no evil

Photography: Marlene 

Dear Mum,

This year on August 7th marked 13 years since your passing. 13 years since I held your hand, 13 years since I heard you call my name and 13 years since I looked into your beautiful blue eyes. Not a day passes where I don't think of you. You were an amazing woman and mother. I was so blessed that for 27 years, you were mine. In that time, I got to know you as a woman and not just as my mum. We did so much together in the time we had and for that I am glad. Concerts, holidays, day trips and special mum and daughter time. Memories which I hold dear to my heart. We laughed, argued, cried and lived but always loved. 

You had an amazing sense of humour and taught me not to be so serious and to laugh at myself! You were always so positive even though life was not always easy, it never got you down. Now time has passed, I often remember you with a smile and not with a tear. I also remember most of the advice you gave me during the time we had together but one conversation stuck in my memory more then most.

When I was 16, we had 'the talk'. You advised me not to have children until later in life. You were frank in your speech when you told me that if you could turn back time, you wouldn't have had my brother and I so early. You told me to travel, have a good career and do all the things that you didn’t get to do. Later in life after raising us, you built yourself back up and had a good job. You started to travel and even drove a sporty little number when you devastatingly passed away at just 52.  

As you know, I heeded your advice. I had a fantastic job, travelled the world and at age 24,  I purchased my first property. I can remember the excitement of collecting the keys and going shopping with you for my first home. Whenever I travelled, you never once lectured me on staying safe or what to do or what not to because you trusted that you had brought me up well enough to just know. When I announced my plans, you would just say “go get me your bags and I’ll pack for you.” I miss that as you were an expert packer but you will be glad to know that I still roll and not fold.

I can see and appreciate now, Mum that for those earlier years you lived your life through me and as long as I was doing all of those amazing things, you were happy. Selfless. You were always completely selfless and giving. We were together when the consultant told you that your cancer was terminal. I’ll never forget how you turned to me and said that you were sorry for ruining my life by dying and that was the only time I saw you cry throughout your whole illness. You didn’t ruin my life, Mum. You gave me life and molded me expertly into the woman I am today. You were strong, brave and selfless right up till the end. I can only hope that I have become half the amazing woman and mother that you were.

They say that you shouldn’t regret anything in life and it’s a statement that just doesn’t sit true for me, for the biggest regret that I have in heeding your advice is that you never got to become a grandmother. You never got to meet your 2 beautiful grandchildren and they were robbed of having the world’s most amazing Nana.  I was to become a mother without having you there. When I gave birth, on both occasions, I took your photograph with me and whenever I felt like I couldn’t go on I looked you straight in the eye and could hear you telling me to get on with it. Just like you always did.

You did a grand job in advising me against motherhood until later life but now you’re not around, it makes it so much more difficult. I often think back to my childhood and I seriously don’t know how you did it all. I wish you were here to let me in on the secret. Had you been here, you would've told me that Weetabix dries to a concrete like substance when not immediately wiped up, that WWF style wrestling moves would be required when cutting a toddler’s toe nails and warned me to never, ever leave an unopened pot of Sudacreme laying around.

I also wish that you were here for me to apologise for being the world’s worst teenager at times and for turning your hair grey. To say sorry for all of the awful times when Bruv and I drove you insane as children. Those are the times that I can see and recognise only now as my children do it to me. I’m quite certain that you are sitting up there on your cloud laughing at the payback I am now receiving.

Becoming a mum is so rewarding and beautiful but it is also demanding and difficult but becoming a mother without having my own around makes it that much more harder, Mum. Life isn’t a bowl of cherries as you would say. On days when things get tough,  I soldier on and always will as after all.....I am your daughter and you’d set me a fantastic example and for that, I will always be grateful. 

Love as always,
Andrea

(Andrea also blogs at In Mama's Wardrobe)

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The Sisterhood of the Travelling Jacket: Marlene

Photography by: Lucian Paraian 

I remember the assault vividly, as if it was just yesterday. It was dusk, a time of the day that never failed to send a frisson of unease within me until I left Borneo at 17. I woke up disorientated from a nap to find out that I was left at home with a relative to babysit me. My mother had left with my younger siblings to visit a relative. He was an older cousin in his late teens whom my parents have kindly allowed to stay with us in order to set him on the right path. He would take this opportunity to rape me. Bewildered, fearful and guileless, I couldn’t comprehend what was happening but I knew whatever he was doing was wrong. So I struggled and pushed and resisted. I managed to save myself by the skin of my teeth. Regardless of my “lucky" escape, I’d never felt so dirty in my life and the shame, that perhaps I’d done something to bring this upon myself. Why me? What have I ever done to deserve this? My troubles were far from over as he continued to live with us.

My happy childhood ended at age 7 and would continue to spiral downward for the next decade. I was only a year younger than my own daughter whose carefree existence fills me with gratitude. At 7 years of age, I lost my innocence and learned to fear all boys and men for the very first time in my life including my own brothers and father. Unable to tell anyone for fear of being killed and family members attacked, I kept quiet and had never felt more alone and helpless in my life. I became withdrawn and fearful. My academic results plummeted. I became the target of many bullies in my school throughout primary and secondary school. 

The physical scars healed but the verbal and public humiliation pierced through my heart. I could still recall the day when a classmate asked our teacher if she’d like to hear a story. She went on to mimic my little foibles to the class of 50. As they laughed at me, I laughed along because the alternative, which was to burst into tears was worse. It was easier to show how unaffected I was despite feeling a sense of utter betrayal. Bullies were cruel but people who pretended to be your friend with the purpose of making you an object of ridicule were worse.

There was no respite at home either. In a family of high achievers, the label “stupid” was tacked on my forehead and was spoken enough times for me to internalize it as a fact. In my darkest hours, I contemplated suicide many times but stopped short of carrying out the act. My cousin would return to my home 5 years later to stay for a stint. I lived a life full of fear with a secret that I could share with no one. Gathering whatever courage that was left in me, I made his life a misery by stalking his every move to ensure that he did not enter into my sister’s bedroom nor mine. I huddled on my bed and slept with my fists clenched and lights on. I would lay awake all night worrying if he would attack again. Thankfully, he left soon after. I considered this a minor victory, however small it was. 

Two things happened in my teens that gave me a glimmer of hope. I heard God’s voice for the very first time at 13. It was, and still is, an extraordinary and utterly unbelievable experience despite having read in the bible about how God used to speak to His people. It transformed the way I viewed my relationship with Him and Christianity. I didn't come from a strong Christian background and knew little about the bible. Over the years, His voice and infinite wisdom would teach me to avoid pitfalls, guide me through life and rebuke me like a father to his child when I disobeyed.

I was at a church nursery helping out with the younger kids. An exhausted looking mother came by to drop off her 3 month old baby boy. While gently rocking the screaming baby, the Sunday school teachers gently shooed his mother away, insisting that she took a break and attended the service downstairs. Despite all desperate attempts to calm him, the baby proceeded to howl for the next 20 minutes, causing much distress amongst the rest of the children. All of a sudden, I heard a deep, commanding and deafeningly loud voice that reverberated through every corner of the room. “TOUCH THE BABY.” I grabbed the arm of my friend who was standing next to me. 
“Did you hear that?,” I implored.
“You mean the baby?,” she replied.
“No, I mean a man’s voice?”  
“No. Just the baby and kids. Are you alright? You’re looking very pale.”

It seemed completely absurd now but I was petrified of holding babies for fear of dropping them. The authoritative voice continued to repeat the same command, one oddly enough that ONLY I could hear despite being in a room full of people. I was at my wit’s end, battling crippling fear yet knowing I had to obey in order to get rid of the voice. I ran over to the teacher who was holding the baby and asked for permission to hold him. As I reached out and touched his leg, he stopped abruptly in mid cry, causing everyone in the room to turn to look at me in surprise.

At 14, I was dragged to my very first Taekwondo class by a good friend of mine whose only motivation for going was to check out a guy she had a crush on. She left months later when the object of her affection was found to be in a different martial arts discipline. Meanwhile, my mother wasn’t as understanding when I tried to quit. She’d forked out a heck of a lot of money for my gear and as far as she was concerned, I had to continue until I outgrew my uniform (which could’ve been the next decade). I limped on for the next year, dreading each training session. At my first grading, the instructor buried his head in his hands in despair. I was pretty darn horrific, to say the least. I wasn’t a natural athlete and had no sense of coordination. An orangutan could’ve performed better.

One day, I overheard myself being dissed by a couple of guys. They mocked my feeble attempts and wagered how long I’d last before quitting Taekwondo altogether. For the first time in my life, more than ever, I was determined to grit my teeth and get that darn black belt even if it killed and maimed me. Just to peeve them off. And……there was that intense satisfaction of doing the exact opposite of what they expected me to. 

Three years later, with the unwavering support from my mom (thanks mom for being a chauffeur/physical therapist) and instructor plus countless of injuries, bruises and tears - training 6 days a week, 2 to 5 hours a day on most days, I finally received my 1st dan black belt. The day I got up on the podium to receive a smattering of trophies and medals in front of the entire school was the day all bullying blissfully ceased. I’d dreamt of this day for so long when I could silence the bullies. Most importantly, I’ve learned to protect myself and never needed to fear men ever again.

I left for New Zealand to further my studies soon after. It was an opportunity to wipe the slate clean and leave the old me behind. I was hell-bent on changing myself, that each year from then on had to be better than the one before. I made myself go out each day to talk to a stranger so that I could improve my English. I learned to speak up and not whisper. To pause in between words when I spoke so I wouldn’t stutter. 

I opened up to two new friends about my past for the first time and found out that they too were molested in their childhood. More confided in me about their own traumatic experiences. A relative of mine was gang raped by her own boyfriend who’d orchestrated the crime. As she laid on the floor in agony, the perpetrators discussed how to kill and discard her body. It was sheer determination that she managed to convince them to spare her life. It was then I knew how prevalent sexual violence was. And how many of us kept silent. Like me. 

I went back to Borneo for a summer vacation when I was 19 and enlisted a group of friends to help me. I called up as many secondary schools and colleges in Kuching (a city in Borneo) as possible and spoke to their principals about allowing me to speak to their students. I contacted the women’s refuge, hospitals and those in law enforcement to try to understand exactly more about sexual violence in Sarawak. We did the rounds, speaking about sexual harassment and violence, the avenues where they could go for help (there weren’t many) and ways they could defend themselves. Many male students jeered, shouted obscenities and stomped out during my speech. When I felt that all my efforts were for naught, a group of women came forward to thank me because sexual harassment was rife in the college but they were made to feel that they'd brought it on themselves.

Sadly, rape or any sexual assaults is still a taboo even in the 21st century. The victims suffer in silence while the perpetrators go on with their lives and continue to commit similar crimes. I’m forever grateful for my faith because without God’s grace and wisdom, I wouldn’t have healed and become more resilient. He has taught me compassion and given me inner strength when I had none. His voice continues to guide me to this day.

Here’s what I’ve learned about bullying in hindsight, more than 20 years on. What was once considered a liability may one day be your greatest asset.
1. I'm infinitely grateful for the earlier harsh life lessons because they’d equipped me to deal with bullies at work and racial discrimination in my early days in New Zealand. I was also able to coach my daughter to overcome bullying in her school.
2. The bastardization of my Chinese name which sounded like (the Chinese cooking) wok (guali in Hokkien) used to invoke peals of laughter for years…… Well, I wish my old friends would continue using my Chinese name because I’m rather fond of it now. By the way, being the foodie that I am, I'm attached to my wok these days.
3. The word pipsqueak pretty much defined me throughout school and the cause of my woes because I was teeny tiny, socially awkward and looked younger than my years. By genetic default, I’ve ended up with more fat on my face than my backside which helps plump up any fine lines. I’ve saved a bundle in anti-ageing potions though if I’m not careful, I may end up looking like a chubby cheeked squirrel which had one nut too many. 
4. A few kids in school made up a song called  “broken English” and used to sing it whenever I walked past. Years later, I would teach English in a high school (briefly) and I now make a living from it. Life’s funny that way…….

I’ve learned to forgive my cousin. Not for him but for myself so I could move on and not become like him. So that I wouldn’t have this bitterness festering in me and pass it on to my child. I’d rather be a survivor and overcome the challenges than stay a victim forever because there are so many more things in my life that I’m grateful for. This project has been 34 years in the making. The best revenge is not to avenge the crime myself but to rise above. Above all, gratitude, compassion and resilience can only be learned during difficult times.

“I guide you in the way of wisdom and lead you along straight paths. When you walk, your steps will not be hampered" Proverbs 4:11 verse 11-12.

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