I need help.

I haven’t tried hurting myself since I decided to be a single mother by choice, did my tireless research, found a donor and got pregnant on the first try.

All my happy moments in life are tied to sad memories.

From childhood, I’m wired to believe that every time something good happens to me, something else will be taken from me.

Whenever I got good results at school, it went unnoticed, unrewarded. When my brother failed, my mother would stay home from work, patiently teaching him, giving him $2 for every question he eventually answered right.

When I got into film school and my thesis film was the only Asian documentary that got into the International Documentary Film Festival Amsterdam, they gave me free accommodation for the duration of my time there. I invited her along, because I just wanted her to see me on stage and be proud of me for once. Big mistake. She said she would never leave her two sons alone, mind you—they were adults. She said if she were to come, they would have to come. And because she didn’t want to spend money on additional rooms at the hotel, the four of us had to share my room and my bed. It was a horrible trip even though that was supposed to be one of the most important milestones in my life.

My mother never cared about me or my existence. To her, her two younger sons are more important. That became even more evident when my dad passed away. I was eight. The middle child was seven.

We were just a year apart but my mum wanted me to be “the adult”. I was caned and pinched and slapped whenever she felt stressed out. She would scream, pulled my hair and dragged me across the room and knocked my head against the wall. My brothers would watch and not do anything. They were used to me being treated differently. As time went by, they even joined in, willingly, happily, knowing that our mother would never lay a hand on them. In front of relatives, she would never mention my good academic results, it was always about how I wasn’t behaving. How the marks and scars on my body were a result of my “terrible” temper and misconduct. How I deserved it.

Shockingly, of all the adults in my life, only one substitute teacher when I was in Primary 5 saw my bruises and wounds and asked if everything was alright at home. I said yes, and she left it at that. I don’t know if the other adults, outsiders or relatives, were clueless or indifferent. Either way, I really can’t believe that they were so daft.

Still, whenever there were quiet and calm moments, I did my best to connect. I had to pick the middle child up from school because he kept getting into trouble and the teachers needed to talk to his parent but my mother had to work. Once, there was a pair of boys taunting and I shouted at them to get away from my brother. At the stage, I still tried to love my family. I blamed myself for being different and I did try to love them.

Since my dad died, I wanted to earn my own keep so that I didn’t have to just rely food coupons distributed to needy students. I wanted to be able to hang out and have lunch with friends after school. So I started making stuff on and off, selling them to my tutor and schoolmates etc. By the time, I turned 16, I had saved up hundred of dollars. One night, when I was checking my account, I realised that my money was all gone. I told my mother and was ready to call the police, when the middle *** cried and confessed that he figured out my PIN number and took all the money out of that account to buy something off the internet. My mother persuaded me and stopped me from calling the police. She gave me her word that he would pay me every cent once he started working. That, as you guessed it, did not came true.

In 2015, I felt emotionally numbed. I wasn’t happy, I wasn’t sad. I still wanted to die, been ideating about suicide since I was 9, and had been self-harming since I was 16. At that time, I was working on a second research project with a Spanish healthcare design research company. We were featuring the different types of caregivers in Singapore, some of them were taking care of family members with serious psychological issues. During one of our casual meetings with the co-founders, we were talking about depression and suicidal thoughts, and they told me that in Spain, unlike Singapore where it’s taboo, it’s perfectly normal for anyone to be seeing a therapist regardless of whether or not they’ve been through serious trauma. Seeing a therapist is self-care, and it will help steady your mood. So, during one of the few calm mornings at home, I told my mother that I wanted to seek help. To my surprise, even though she was slightly against the idea, she went with me to the polyclinic to get a referral.

I was referred to a psychiatrist at Khoo Teck Puat. All he did was prescribed me medication and upped the dosage every other week. The drugs made me tired, mood-less and nauseous all the time. He had diagnosed me with ADHD, severe depression and anxiety disorder. A few weeks/months in, I can’t remember, he asked if I would like to speak to a therapist. I was doubtful of talk therapy and had thought it to be some sort of scam–if I have to pay to talk to someone, why don’t I just talk to my friends for free?

But I was desperate. I wanted to feel normal. I wanted to get out of this black hole I could feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into. Fine, I said, let’s give it a shot. When I found out the name of the therapist assigned to me, I took it as a sign from the universe.

It took probably a year or two before I really trusted and opened up to the therapist. I was in a serious relationship when I finally decided I was ready to commit to my therapy sessions. But of course it ain’t magic–I wasn’t going to be non-depressed overnight. It put a strain on my relationship. Across the board, with previous partners, the issue was always about me being too distant–I invested too little and I would rather spend time with friends than with them, yadda yadda. With this one, I became emotionally and physically attached. I could feel myself changed and I hated it. I was seeking the validation and love that I had never gotten from my mother from this person who had promised to be there “every step of the way”. You knew what you’re signing up for, I exclaimed, I didn’t hide any part of my life from you. Whilst the previous ones had to constantly prompt me to open up to them, I was open to this one. So I had done my part, so I thought. Lo and behold, it ended with that person cheating on me.

The suicidal thoughts came to mind more frequently. No, I was constantly thinking about death. I drank heavily one night and the next evening, my limbs started cramping up, I’m having a stroke, I thought. I called out for my mother and when she saw the state I was in, she thought the worst too. I was rushed to the hospital and the doctor put me on morphine but every part of me was hurting. I couldn’t move. Many hours later, it all subsided and the doctor confirmed that it was a severe panic attack.

Therapy didn’t really help what was happening at home. The *** who was by then an Insurance Agent, had gotten my mum to force me into signing for policies I didn’t even need or had the financial means to pay for. I was a freelancer for many years and because travelling was the only way I could keep myself sane, I loved my freedom. Which in other words meant I didn’t have much savings. Every month, I had to fork out $2k+ for the *** he made me signed for.

The beatings from my mother only stopped when I was in my late twenties. Then came the year, that middle *** hit me repeatedly while my own mother restrained me by holding my hands up so I couldn’t retaliate. All these because I couldn’t stand the way he was treating the mother of my nephew, his ex-girlfriend with whom he had a son outside of wedlock. (For context, he hit her and my mother told her that she deserved it because he was stressed out from work. He then continuously cheated on her without failing to remind her that he only held a wedding ceremony with her because of the kid. Mind you, they were not married in the eyes of the law. It was merely a way for him to get red packets as wedding gifts—he proudly boasted that he made a huge profit from the ceremony.)

I left home that night. I stayed with different friends, even went to KL to be with one of my closest mates. Eventually staying with my mother’s cousin, whom I had gotten really close to, and grandaunt for awhile.

I always thought my grandma loved me. I thought it wasn’t because she didn’t care, when she kept quiet even though she knew how I was being treated at home. I thought it was just that she really couldn’t say anything because my mother wouldn’t listen to her—at least that’s what she told me.

When she knew what the middle *** had done to me, she cried and said she felt heartbroken for me. She said she talked to my mum and that they wanted me to come home. Against my own will, I was nagged and pushed to return. No apologies, nothing from my mother and her son.

*** never stopped happening though. They didn’t feel a twinge of remorse or even momentary guilt. I tried my best. I took care of my nephew and focused on my freelance work. My mother and that son of hers treated me worse than the helper they had hired to help with chores. While the helper got meals bought for her, I had to settle my own meals while busy taking care of his son, her grandson. All the while, hearing her talk *** about me to my relatives. When out of earshot of my mother, they would assure me that they know what I was going through and how miserable I am. But they could never find the guts to stand up to her. She and my brothers consistently humiliate me in public and at family gatherings but I’m supposed to suck it up, smile and pretend everything is cheery?

My birthdays are never a big thing. She could even forget to buy a cake. But my brothers obviously do not share my fate. She would force me to get out of bed at midnight to surprise them with cake and a birthday song. We even went out to a restaurant to celebrate the birthday of the middle *** and I had to pay for it. With her knowing that I wasn’t earning as much as he was.

One day, I decided to move to a rented condo to stay with housemates. Then came the scolding, nagging and comments disguised as a form of concern from my grandparents and my mother’s elder sister. For some reason, when it comes to me, everyone wants to chime in and everyone feels they have a right to object or force me to do things against my will.

They seemed to have completely forgotten what she and her son did to me. My dear grandma even said, well, he isn’t that bad, he got me bird nest for my birthday. That was all it took to buy her love. My friends and the aunt I was close to, came to visit and spend time with me whenever they were free. Even when I moved from Burlington Square Residences all the way to The Tapestry condominium. But not my family. None of them visited when I invited them over. Not even my grandma who said she loves me. If not for the unmedicated housemate with severe schizo, I would have never returned home.

2022, I made a life-altering decision to become a mother. I’ve tried relationships but could never feel comfortable opening up to a romantic partner anymore. So why wait? I could still date in my 60s but a woman’s fertility starts to decline after she turns 35. I was 33. I did my research, talked to people who could help, found a donor I really liked after multiple interviews with a wide and weird range of men. And I got pregnant. On my very first try.

And mind you. The first person I talked to before doing any of this, was my mother. Until now, her support that I was always seeking, was still important to me. She told me that she was supportive, but she never fails to hold it against me. Everything is a transaction with her. She is stingy with care towards me, just like she is stingy with money. The things she says to me when she flies into rage can include how I shouldn’t forget that she has “the right to object” and I should be grateful for her support. My grandma and my mum’s elder sister pay the same lip service–seemingly supportive but their words come packaged with sarcasm and not-so-subtle insults. On the whole, it doesn’t really affect me, I knew I was going to do this with or without anyone’s support. I don’t believe in regrets and I definitely don’t want to live til my last days knowing I didn’t get to fulfil my life’s wish–to be a mother. But it hurts. Knowing that people who are supposed to be your family, don’t make you feel loved, safe, and cared for.

I need help. Because I can feel myself slipping again. And I can’t afford to. I’m almost 19 weeks pregnant and I want my baby to be happy and healthy. I don’t want to fall back into self-harm. I don’t want to be sitting on the window ledge thinking about jumping off. I want to be okay.