Instagram has been making me feel sick recently. I have a 15-minute screen limit and I keep hitting “15 more minutes” again and again. Scrolling through my feed, I get nauseous. It sits in the pits of my stomach and I want to vomit. I’m desperately seeking for something that the platform can’t provide.
Growing up, I would get home from school and open Facebook to 99+ notifications. None of them bots or notifications of things I don’t care about. Almost all of them were from online community interactions – comments, chats; caring, clumsy. The occasional poke here and there. Oh look, my aunt posted a blurry family photo in a Meitu frame. I go through them and each click brings me closer to someone across the seas. It felt good knowing they see me too. …I miss my white Sony VAIO E-series running cracked Photoshop with a bloated battery (I know).
There’s also the whiplash and the envy. I miss my friends. I catch up with their lives through the occasional story and photo dump post. They’re busy, I’m busy. Reaching out shouldn’t feel as heavy as this. I miss them so much, but it doesn’t really matter if they miss me or not. Sometimes I wonder if I like the idea of having someone to miss more. It’s pathetic, to think about it that way. I see my friends happy, I see an ad, I see a genocide, I see an ad. I want to throw up.
Facebook circa 2012 saw my carefree postings as a young teen – after-school thoughts, age-appropriate swears, opinions on anime – and I would get responses back, equally as carefree. Now I can’t even post without thinking about its life after me…without me. Going private isn’t an idea I want to entertain. Some call it pride.
More than anything, I’m ashamed of myself. It’s easier to make connections on the internet now than ever, but why do I feel more disconnected from everyone else? Sometimes it feels like shouting into a void. It’s the lack of intentionality that I also fall trap to… I struggle to leave comments on public posts, never interact in a Discord server, and lurk on various subreddits. Despite the veneer of anonymity, is anyone else also more anxious online than IRL? Please tell me this performance doesn’t come easy for you too.
I think I’m using social media (aka Instagram) wrong. I know I’m projecting unrealistic expectations based on a simpler time. With the platform, it seems like a bad habit turned second-nature. It shouldn’t be this deep, but my head is soft and pressure leaves spots. I will wake up 3 months later and this won’t matter anymore.
I spent the first week of 2024 absolutely bed-ridden. A 39º fever raging on its 4th night, Lemsip and Pei Pa Gou in my system, listening to the temperature scanner’s constant red beeping. My partner, despite all his bar studies, made sure I was alive. There was no feverish dream, there was no deep longing for home (as home was next to me), it was banal as it was painful. I feared the heat would sear my brain. It didn’t. It was just something in the air – a viral infection – the clinician on 111 told me after waiting for 4 hours. They caught it themselves just last week, advised that I could drink more tea. I didn’t. But I got better and showered for the first time in 4 days.
(travelling)
At the cusp of recovery, I went to London. To meet up with a dear friend pursuing her translation dreams in Colchester. Last time we met was 12am in a car parked at my front porch. For lunch, she invited her Malaysian friend pursuing a PhD in London, working between theatre and culture and words of different languages. I think about how the world is so connectively small, which makes it overwhelmingly huge. I think about Malaysians who are constantly underrepresented in their own home. How one of the many Malaysian diaspora experience is to be adaptable, because we can only rely on the Malaysian spirit. What national/governmental infrastructure is there for us to rely on, when we don’t have equal rights? We had great conversations about many small things. It was comforting to hear about other experiences and passions with no pretence. I listen on about Chinese-English drama and books, scholarships and taxes.
(the longing spirit for malaysia can be brought anywhere, because there is no material infrastructure to rely on.)
While in Colchester I went to see the sea. Yes, in winter, especially in winter. An hour bus ride brings me to Clacton-on-sea. The strong winds pushing me away, pulling me back. I spun along with the force of its gusts. The pressure making it hard to breathe through my nostrils. My fingertips numb – they’ve always been cold in the UK – despite tucked in my coat pockets. I felt so small and I absolutely loved it. It felt like the universe loved us there too, gifting us sunny and blue skies throughout.
The coastline spread across Clacton-on-sea and Frinton-on-sea. I went with Sharon, and met up with a local acquaintance of hers. As we walked along the beach, he talked about personal histories of fish and chips, fair rides on the pier, swimming pools for model boats. He drove us down to Frinton and brought us to frequented places, even pointed out a (free and clean!) public toilet hidden behind the high street. When the bus back was cancelled, he drove 30-minutes to bring us home. My fingertips warmed up from the selfless action of doing favours for strangers.
(manchester)
And then I went back to Manchester, where once again, I continue looking for a job. Foreign face in a foreign country whatnot. I talked to a Taiwanese illustrator who’s also job searching but to no avail. Throughout the process, I have found that I have a low tolerance for office bureaucracy, and that being honest has served me better than if I hadn’t. Of course, I still had to concern myself with self-preservation to some degree, and read up on job hunting tips. It’s honestly so arduous and soul-sucking, but the interviews I’ve gotten have been rather pleasant. No HR, no recruiter, no middle men. Just people wanting graphic designers.
But going back to Manchester also meant I went back to my home away from home. My partner and I celebrated our 7th anniversary with a simple homemade dinner. While I do have…considerable experience in the kitchen, I must admit my skills are better served in prepping ingredients and washing up. So, I made rice while he cooked us sweet and sour pork; I cut all the onions while he put foiled fish in the oven; I set up the table and he made miso soup. We ate and watched Lord of the Rings. We slept in each other’s arms – medical tape over his mouth for snoring, and a self-moulded mouth guard in mine for bruxism.
On a chill Friday night, my friends and I gave out blankets to people who are unhoused. I didn’t know where we were going and ended up in Fallowfield with a 20% phone battery. We walked all the way to the Curry Mile, which is a nickname for a stretch on Wilmslow road. Turns out it’s a famous food spot, developed in the 50s and 60s to serve south Asian migrants. Blankets were passed out, 3 duffle bags full, and we ended the night at Pepe’s Piri Piri.
(on company)
Sometimes I feel terribly alone. I feel like the worst person in the world. I feel that breathing is laborious. Cognitively, I know that I’m not but I feel it deeply, the ghosts of my past making itself known. The worms in my brain are feeding off my self-sabotage. I can trace them wriggling between the gaps they create, or are they just filling in the void that was already there? Being self-deprecating was the way I survived as an adult-to-be.
The loneliness was curbed with a rather simple solution: cooking. More specifically, my friends and I have started cooking for each other on a non-regular basis. Just whenever someone feels like it, and shows up with ingredients. I’ve also met up with people working in the MCR creative industry from cold emailing, and by putting myself in the painful situation of talking to strangeres – about others, about myself – it made me feel better. I found out I have a terrible habit of speaking softly, especially when I’m scrambling for an answer.
(palestine)
This is all happening while the genocide on Palestinian people are still underway, and the land and their culture devastated. Please continue your efforts in any means of sharing online, donating, speaking out, sharing it with people in your life, boycotting, marching etc.
We are way past the moment of educating ourselves, but if there’s a chance you’re unclear, spaces you inhabit will have resources on it. Because I watch many video essays on the game industry, here’s a video by PeopleMakeGames: The Games Industry Must Not Stay Silent on Palestine. Because I love Hatsune Miku, here’s a Xwitter thread by hourly hatsune miku on Palestinian resources. Also to read > decolonisepalestine.com. Whether you do the above or not is not an inherent indicator of morality, but it helps others, and that should be a weighty enough reason.
“Self acceptance is found in imperfect solidarity.”
– Alice Sparkly Kat
Also, note to self: Speak louder. You’re already saying it.
