The Awakening

The paradigm shift can be painful. Michelle Liew

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My mind-its consequential shift--began years ago.

I had always been the introverted sort- a student caught up in my studies, in a never-ending cycle of work and inconsequential achievement.At the tender age of 19, my health was riding comfortably in the rear seat of my life.

That is, until I suddenly began dropping things in my hands. Becoming clumsy--a foible no one questioned because clumsiness had always been a constant companion. The klutziness was a bad habit tucked away in the drawers of my mind.

Until everything I touched seemed to betray me, slipping through my fingers as though my hands weren't my own. Chopsticks fell from between my fingers. Food fell from my grasp. Everyone put it down to teenage theatrics--another useless ploy for attention.

My grandmother rushed me to a kind doctor, who recommended a life-saving neurologist immediately. He made a diagnosis that was to alter my life--forever.

The Pituitary Schwannomas---brain tumours covering the pituitary gland--clutched the area like a persistent vice, a millstone around my neck. They were cracks in the very architecture of my existence, and challenged everything that I stood for--independence, resilience, emotional hardiness. They were quiet thieves that I never noticed until they signalled--DAMAGE.

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And the damage was no child's play. My mind buzzed like an infernal radio, the deejay refusing to stop.

Memories factured unpredictably, with rare moments of clarity, piercing and fleeting. My thoughts scattered, as though they were leaves in a sudden wind. I chased them blindly, trying in vain to grasp one. Just ONE. But they vanished before they could settle. Before I could organize them. Conversations blurred and tasks compounded--the simplest details were caught in mental knots.

The result of the schwannomas? Turner Syndrome, which left me particularly petite. Shoulders squared. Legs mirroring the rounded bark of trees. The image of my 14-year-old self in the mirror seemed to consume me--or a visage of who others thought I was. Who I nearly thought was myself.

As one of only 2,000 women with this condition, I had oceans of visitors--38 interested doctors, dutifully filing in at 3 a.m. in my hospital ward. The condition deepened relationship divides-- it separated my body from myself, becoming something to discipline, to manage. A vessel for survival, not life.

I was the classroom's oddball--harmless, yet strange. I was not the mortal enemy, but friendships were a precious rarity. People saw what they wanted to, my face, but not the tears gathering in my eyes. They wanted--expected--normalcy, but were unaware that my thoughts were broken fragments that cut me consistently.

The sea of emotional turmoil I was drowning in was overwhelming--everyone expected Michelle to turn like the cog in a well-oiled wheel, to function normally in society. To a large extent, I did. But that cog needed constant oiling--the fragmented thoughts needed piecing together. And swam in that sea myself, many times. There was no boat to assist, or lighthouse to point the way.

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For the longest time, the acceptance of these maladies--a brain tumor, Turner Syndrome--became the definitions of my self and soul. They were who I am, who people expected me to be. Words in a dictionary society wrote and were difficult to erase.

My grandmother turned the chaotic tide--she exemplified resilience, having come through the horrors and rigors of the second world war on nothing but sweet potatoes. Her lessons from surviving the Japanese Occupation of Singapore in the 1940s were a needed beacon--they were reminders that every fallen tower was a foundation for a new one.

"You mustn't let people tell you who you are." She would say. And she lived that philosophy as well, a fighter refusing to back down when cornered. She did as she pleased, never giving in to the whims of others--a rare woman carving a path in a world that tried to confine her.

So I moved, swimming fervently, breaking through the waves of a psychological tsunami into a more peaceful lagoon of thoughts. Finally...paddling. Swimming the breaststroke, gliding effortlessly.

Years as an English Language teacher, mentoring at-risk students, etched my grandmother's lessons deeper in my mind. The kids were me-- trying to climb and conquer their emotional, social and mental mountains, their struggles often dismissed by others. Their respect told me to respect myself.

Now married, my husband is another lighthouse that shines its light when I wander into dark tides. Having fought his wars, he is a constant reminder that anyone can manifest, no matter how scarred they are. Our years together are capsules that contain challenges--and joys--that have shaped our lives.

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The tsunami builds unpredictably, waves that are not easy to tame. But I at least know that I can swim through them, wet, but none the worse for wear. Teaching, writing, and my three dogs are the security blankets in moments of vulnerability and unease. I know that I can come through, despite it all.

I now know that my mind is not a broken window that needs repair. But it is a landscape--chaotic, energetic, full of storms that come intermittently and filled with undefinable beauty.

Over time, I have come to realize that mental tsunamis never stop appearing--growth isn't linear. There are moments when I feel that I have come so far, but incessant waves continue to cover me. Yet, each wave brings a valuable lesson and teaches that growth isn't a wading pool-there is constant flailing, failing and succeeding. What once felt like insurmountable challenges are little pools that one can wade in, if we embrace and not fight them. They are just another part of a journey of trust, and knowing that I can rise when needed.

No, it is not easy to navigate a mental sea-- a mind that has been challenged by illness or the mistaken perceptions of society. With physical difficulties that can consume--facial paralysis, challenges to executive functions--I need a few bright lighthouses like anyone else would.

But I will swim. Unendingly. And arrive at a place of peace, comfort and personal success.