Lost answers, forgotten selves
In my primary school years, exchanging autograph books was a thing amongst the girls—you would bring home a friend's autograph book and write in it, whilst she did the same for yours. An autograph entry in coloured and glitter pens would typically include a profile of yourself, your likes and dislikes, your friend rankings in gold-silver-bronze tiers or number of stars—sounds brutal, I know—and a few sophisticated friendship poems, such as, "A ring is round/ it has no end./ That's how long/ I'll be your friend."
Those were simpler days—when my pocket money could buy me Yakult from Uncle Ah Beng's drink stall, and I could get for free, along with my purchase, a small magnet/toy selected from his plastic tray of treasures. Those were simpler days—when I could easily list down my likes and dislikes, when I knew clearly what my favourite things were, when I saw life in black and white, and I could fit things into neat categories—a time when I seemed to know myself—better.
I saw a link for the Personality Ninja test and wanted to give it a try, just for fun. I used to do personality quizzes, even copying and pasting HTML codes so I could display my quiz result badges online. I've always known to take these quizzes and their results with a pinch (or more) of salt but found them entertaining nonetheless. Until today, I am enticed by the notion of someone telling me who I am because I seem to have great difficulty finding the answer to this question myself.
Well, this test surely isn't giving me any answers easily. I couldn't get past the first question because I wasn't able to answer it. I got stuck before I could even begin. As the test seeks to reveal your true personality—before life experiences and society's expectations have otherwise shaped you—you are to derive your answers from the perspective of the original you, taking into account what would have been your original inclinations. I could not even arrive at an answer to that first test question for the current me—what more the person I was as a child—when we are as different as night and day.
I was a talkative and bossy kid. When I was three, I made my same-aged neighbour cry when I stopped him from getting too close to my baby sister. According to Mum, I was fierce. In my grandmother's words to my mother, my brother had competition when I came along because I didn't give in to him even though he was two years older. I was a fighter—I fought my brother a lot, and it usually ended up with me immobile under the weight of his body, though I doubt it did anything to dampen my resolve. I also recall fighting a lot with both my younger sister and my older one. There were times when I was in conflict with all three siblings at once, and it was just me against the world—at least, that was how I saw it then, when in reality, I might have just been pretty hard to get along with.
I was full of ideas, and I wanted everyone to follow along with what I said. When I was successful, that looked like a spontaneously planned scavenger hunt at a friend's nine-year-old birthday party—where all the children followed my instructions to divide into groups, hide items around the house and make a corresponding list for the other team to search for. When I was unsuccessful, it looked like the sheepish nine-year-old me secretly slipping money into my friends' school bags—after having collected weekly club fees from them à la The Baby-Sitters Club, only to have no clue what to do with the money or as a club—to unload the weight of stolen coins weighing on my mind after we had quietly disbanded.
What happened to that version of me?—the one with the fight and the fire, the one so unfettered and free?
I see the moments that have left their mark—the scoldings that came as a result of my impulsiveness and chattiness; the time when I was gaslighted by a teacher at nine years of age, long before I knew the existence of such a word or realised what had, in fact, happened back then; the constant compliments directed to my sister that made me conscious of my outward appearance; the frequent internal comparisons I made against others as I scrutinised all the ways I fell short.
The breaking point came at fifteen when I began to make a conscious effort to change what had once come naturally to me. In the classroom, amongst classmates in a discussion of sorts, I attempted to share my opinion only to be interrupted, yet again, by those who were louder and more assertive and charismatic than I. I recall how sucky I felt the moment I realised that no one was interested in what I had to say—I lost my confidence; I literally felt myself withering up inside—they found no value in what I had to offer.
I stopped talking as much and became wary of sharing what I thought or felt, holding back words and ideas even when they were bursting to come out. Slowly but surely, I declined into this present iteration of me—the one who tries hard to please everyone and worries too much about what others think; who spends an inane amount of time and energy to perfect inconsequential things; who cringes and catastrophises inwardly at the slightest mistake; who tries so hard to be acceptable to fit in, or at least not stick out too much, in a world where I don't quite belong.
Where is the girl who speaks her mind without fear of offending and tenaciously clings to what she believes in even when she stands alone?
I am a shadow of my former self—the startling realisation hits me only in the writing of this post. I had been unaware before of all that I once had and all that I have now lost. I don't quite know what the next step should be, but I foresee that I will be writing more since it helps to unravel the tangled mess that is my mind. Perhaps I will be able to successfully attempt the Personality Ninja test one day. For now, I must accept that I do not yet have all the answers.