The corny strangle-worthy cliché goes, “A friend in need is a friend indeed.” I like to think that I’m one of those clichéd, incorrigibly cornified people who would drop everything they do and rush to the side of a friend in emergencies.
And indeed, it’s what I’ve stuck to and done so far. It’s like my love for the people around me is indispensable. Go ahead, pop a coin (in the form of a text message or phone call with a tear or two) and a snicker bar of non-judgmental support, warmth and comfort will pop right out of my vending machine hole.
I think this compassion stems from my own youth in growing up and accepting myself for who I am. My recent reading frenzy of brain science and psychology produced research done by psychologists in Stanford University in which the parts of our brain which work when we are suffering, light up too when we witness another person suffering. It fuels our ability to empathize with others and is theorized to be a social binder.
It is, of course, a teeny weeny bit more complex than that but I’ll bore the nuts out of you if I went on and on about which parts of the brain, and neurons and blur blah blare.
As for me, I care so much about other people that I’m guilty of forgetting to care about myself. Coaxed a friend out of taking a leap out of the window? Been there. 16 years old. Received a friend in my arms as she runs out of the bar after a dramatic and tearful break up? Done that; Timbre, a few weeks back. Got into a weird relationship with someone because I pitied the person? Got a tshirt for that (and I wore that rag straight from the Louis Vuitton traveling emotional baggage for a few months I might add).
It seems like I’m brought up to be compassionate. My grandma used to say to me since young that in order to be treated the way I want to be, I first have to treat them that way. That would be true except that she didn’t belong to a generation of cosmopolitan sipping, bug-eyed shades wearing, caffeine addicted mirror-worshipers.
But still, until recently, I believed in the inherent good of all people.
Perhaps, it’s the bright city lights, the constant jostle to not have your face shoved in some auntie’s unshaven armpits in the train, paying exorbitant amounts for bad cuisine and the constant pressure to be productive that has chipped the goodness of us frazzled city folk.
So what happened with me that I’ve lost faith in the good of humanity?
I guess everyone comes upon some time of his life in which he re-thinks the relationships he’s built around him. Parents suddenly make glaring human errors. Friends blow you off in the last minute even though you’ve planned your day around the meet up – or worse still they mysteriously pull off disappearing acts worthy of a David Copperfield show when you need them most.
Or when you do meet up, they remain relatively uninterested in what you have to say and drone on and on about themselves – which is what happened to me over a cunt coffee and bullshit bagel session at a certain cafe which reaps a heap of the pink consumer dollar.
He called me up saying we had to catch up and I agreed since I haven’t seen him for months and I ended up fidgeting restlessly since he cuts in everything I say with things about himself.
I try my best not to dump my woes on people and when I do, they get only the tip of the iceberg. I figured that it was bad enough I’m paying shrinks to listen to my narcissistic self jabber on and on about my life without shamelessly imposing my life stories on my poor friends.
It was while on the way home, in the crowded train that I realised, it’s time I shifted the focus to myself. In fact, I remember lunch with Darryl on a Friday at the place which he says is for People-with-too-much-money-and-nothing-to-do-on-a-Sunday-afternoon when I told him my main priority right now was myself.
As selfish as it sounded, looking back, I’ve neglected the relationship I have with myself and invested too much on others, only to come away feeling disappointed. Perhaps that’s where the problem lies. The other strangle-worthy corny quote goes, “If you can’t beat them, join them.”
I guess I’ll just have to be content with being as cynical as the rest of the population with their faces shoved up the sweaty, unshaven armpit of some random jade bangle-wearing auntie on the train. I shall save some of my snicker bars for myself and not give it all away. But of course, you’re still more than welcome to pop a coin in. But I’m saving some so that the next time I’m hit hard by some horrendous life event, I’ll make sure I pop a coin in and savour my snicker bar, myself. 
