Shit for Sale, Part II – A Farewell to False Belonging
14 May 2025
Most of the time, I find that I’ve brought the shit upon myself—no help from others, no external enemies. I am my own cause for grief. May God bless my ignorance, for I seem to have an uncanny knack for creating my own suffering, whether through lack of awareness or simply too much thinking, worrying, and caring about things that should have been let go of long ago.
Even now, as I try to define my faults, I get tangled in knots of stupidity and blurry vision. Despite all my efforts to avoid the same old traps—negative thoughts, ruts worn deep in habit—I slip and slide, again and again, stepping right into the same mud pies I thought I had outgrown. I circle the fire endlessly, afraid of being burnt, yet drawn in by the mystery of what it would feel like to be burnt. I am a moth. I am a record player with the needle stuck in one groove, repeating the same tired lyrics from a long-forgotten song.
“How do I get out of this rut?”
I keep asking myself.
“How do I let go of thoughts, ideas, and attachments I know will suck me into guilt and depression?”
Earlier tonight, I woke at exactly 1:13 a.m., just to store away some food I’d bought for my children’s dinner. Food I’d purchased at my nephew’s restaurant in Sungai Pinang—a place my instincts have long told me to avoid. A place that feels increasingly toxic. But I ignored that inner voice, thinking, No, I have every right to go there. It was once my grandmother’s home.
True, the house was left to my eldest aunt, who was adopted, and despite her passing thirty years ago, her children still can’t legally transfer ownership, not without court proceedings, especially through the syariah court. But just writing about this drags my soul into fatigue. I have no interest in that house—not then, not now. Yet I’ve been accused of harboring such intentions by one of my cousins, a lawyer born a week older than I. When he confronted me, I told him to fuck off. I had no desire to own the place. But his accusation left a bitter trace, and the wound remains unhealed between us.
Until now, I’ve never written this. Even though every time I step into that house, now a restaurant, I feel less like a stranger. It’s run by my nephew and nieces, who inherited the business and grew wealthy from it. I walk in and feel eyes on me, as if I’m there begging for a free meal. I hate the feeling. I hate that I let myself feel that way. Yet I do.
So I write this today, not in bitterness, but as an act of closure. A final cut from the psychological and emotional ties I’ve kept with this place. With this idea of family. The truth is, I have nowhere else to call “family.” These cousins were my childhood companions under that roof, back when we were still innocent. My siblings live on the East Coast, and I am here. Maybe that’s why I kept returning—this misguided yearning for connection. For a place to belong.
But no more.
It was my own mistake. A longing that kept me making poor decisions, showing up where I wasn't wanted, trying to maintain silaturrahim (family ties) when the ties had long been frayed to threads. This morning, as I packed away the untouched food I had bought for my children—food they refused to eat—I felt the full weight of my foolishness. I still owe RM11 for that food. I didn’t even have enough cash on me because my daughter had taken the bank card. I haven’t had a card in years, not since I stopped working. And yet I still try to play the role of provider, protector—feeding mouths that have grown independent and indifferent.
A fool never learns, they say.
And so I ask myself: Am I a fool?
Were my intentions genuine? I thought so. But perhaps I was only clinging to illusions: of family, of duty, of purpose. The devil, as always, is in the details. My niece, who now runs the restaurant, is married into the family. I’ve always felt a cold wall from her, whether imagined or real. And this small stack of mental slights and emotional slaps has fermented in my psyche long enough. It’s time to spit it out.
This is my last post on this matter. My final exorcism. I can no longer keep regurgitating the same sorrow. I need to preserve what’s left of my self-respect. I need to stop carrying others, even my children. It’s time to let them go, to let them steer their own lives.
This is not the best way to say farewell.
But it is the only way I know how to reclaim what remains of my peace.
Epilogue: The Strength to Let Go
I’ve come to recognize that this struggle wasn’t simply about food, family, or money—it was about the deep longing for connection, belonging, and respect. I had been returning to a place that no longer saw me, clinging to ties that felt sacred to me, but perhaps not to them. And in doing so, I overlooked my own worth.
It’s taken me a long time to admit: I am not a fool, just someone who loved too deeply, tried too hard, and held on too long. I see now that letting go is not failure, but a quiet kind of courage. Walking away does not mean abandoning my values—it means finally honoring them within myself.
I release this burden not in anger, but with clarity. I reclaim my peace. I accept that I may never be embraced by those I once called family, but I no longer need to stand at their threshold waiting.
I step away with love, not bitterness. With wisdom, not regret. With hope, not for reconciliation, but for renewal. My story continues, but this chapter closes now, with gratitude for the lessons and forgiveness for all that could not be.
#LettingGo #FamilyMatters #HealingFromWithin #SungaiPinang #CheeseburgerBuddha #EmotionalFreedom #ZenReflections #BlogLife
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