5
Lilith Ng Xin Yi

The first time I prayed seriously was when everyone started avoiding me after I told Jane about my HIV status. I asked God why, why am I treated so unfairly? Why do people think it’s cool when Jane coughed but scrambled away when I did the same?

God did not answer me. I continued to pray, even after my church friends wanted me to play with them. I kept on praying on that Sunday; my mind devoted to only one thing: An answer.

Even when my mother told me it was time to go, I pleaded no; let me stay, for God had not answered me. My mother urged me to go, saying that sometimes, there are no answers to certain questions. I pleaded again. No, let me stay. My mother started to pull me away.

I turned to my mother. I was nine years old and I eyed my mother, saying, “Mama, is there still a God? If there is, then why, why is it that I am HIV-positive and all my friends are not?”

My mother kept quiet and let my question hung in the air. She allowed me to stay there.

Nebuchadnezzar looked at the amulet. "Who are these?"
The Alphabet of Ben-Sira

I just want it to end.

When I was eleven, I thought the stigma would be gone, for after my end-of-year examinations, my mother suddenly said, “You could be HIV-negative. Because I never tested you for HIV after you were born. I just read the newspaper and it said that the chances of a parent passing the HIV virus to a child are not 100%... I always thought it was. Sorry.” The enticing thought of the stigma disappearing ran through my mind and I immediately went for the test.

When I got a negative for my HIV test, I remembered how happy I was, punching the air in delight and jumping up and down on the sofa. I had the urge to declare this information during school assembly.

The next day, I went to school as usual. The girl sitting beside me, Felicia, kept a distance away from me. I moved closer to her and, as she shifted uncomfortably away from me, I said, “Hey, Felicia, I just had a HIV test. Guess what the result was?”

Felicia shook her head.

“The HIV test shows that I am negative! I’m HIV-negative! Know what that means? That means I don’t have HIV! I don’t have AIDS!”

When Felicia replied, she did not even need to think.

“But your mother is a prostitute. Prostitute gives birth to another prostitute. Prostitutes get AIDS.”

But it never ends.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

If there was one word to describe my mother, then it would be one that did not require much thinking.
Dirty.

I had always probed my mother on who my father was, when my classmates told me how cool their fathers were. She would then tell me that my father was far, far away. That day, I returned home, yelled at my mother and demanded to know where exactly my father was.

“I’ve told you: He’s in a –”

“I’m twelve years old.” I gritted my teeth. I had known the truth long ago: I just wanted the words to come out from my mother’s mouth. My mother blinked a few times and walked away. “Don’t avoid the topic, mama.”

She continued to walk towards the Living Room. In our apartment, there were only four places to go: The Living Room, my mother’s room, my room and the kitchen. I realized I was shaking profusely, my heart beating so fast that I wanted to jump at her and smash her head with my fists. I grabbed the vase beside me, aimed for the wall and tossed it. It shattered into pieces and the noise made my mother wheeled around to face me with red eyes.

“Tell me!”

She stared at me. I knew a lot of things then: I knew that she had quit being a prostitute after I was born and that she had given up her luxury lifestyle when I was one year old. That she converted to Christianity and took me to Church every Sunday. That she changed everything in her life upon converting to Christianity. That she started dating a guy ten years older than her when I was six; but when the guy realized she was HIV-positive, they broke up immediately. That she still prayed everyday for our happiness. I knew so much, even through she told me so little.

“Tell me.” I reached for the speaker beside the television and threw it in her direction. It landed about two metres away from her and bounced once before the casing cracked.

“I said –”

“Stop it.”

“– tell –”

“Stop it –”

“– me –”

“Stop it now!” she yelled and tears began to fall from her eyes. “For Christ’s sake, stop it!”

“Tell me who my father is!”

“Stella, listen –”

“Just fucking tell me!”

“Show me some respect! I’m your mother –”

“No.” I took big steps towards her and as I neared the speaker, I kicked it aside with my bare foot. I felt a searing pain but, strangely, my anger dissolved the physical pain. “Does a prostitute deserve respect?”

My mother slapped my right cheek and my head swung along with the flow of her hand. There was a period of silence as I bit my lips and eyed her crossly. The air stilled all of a sudden and our stares lasted for a minute.

“You don’t know who my father is.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The first psychiatrist I saw was a young woman in her late twenties. I was referred to her upon my mother’s death. I was to go to her Clinic, the Child Guidance Clinic, which was located within the premises of Singapore General Hospital. It is a government-funded psychology clinic for people aged nineteen and below.

The psychiatrist asked me to call her Dr. Kelly. She did not look like a psychiatrist; instead, she looked like the young executive who always takes the train home in the evening, attracting looks from both young and old men. She often wore tight-fitting blouses and I wondered if she did that to seduce other doctors.

Although I had told her a lie, she knew the truth. I told her my mother went crazy and used a needle to infect me with the HIV virus. Dr. Kelly reacted professionally: She did not step away from me nor was she surprised. When I spoke, she did not try to keep a distance. She did not shun me even when I came in with a bruise on my arm.

Every week, Dr. Kelly would check on the progress of my condition and then, after that, I would be sent to a therapist who would do some therapy on me. The therapist, a thirty-something man with thin hair, would then talk to me and ask me to do stupid things: like bringing something from home to the Clinic. It was for me to “face the facts instead of escaping from it”. I followed all his stupid instructions.

After taking several IQ tests, Dr. Kelly told me that I am “highly gifted” and that if I use my intelligence well, I will be very successful in the future. I just shrugged at her comments.

I only stopped going to the Clinic after I met Brian, my ex-boyfriend. I wanted to detach myself from the past and leaving the routine appointments with the psychiatrist will complete the new me. I told Dr. Kelly about it and informed her that I had recovered completely. She assessed me, agreed with me and then wished me all the best before discharging me.

I felt a sense of loss when I was no longer going for the appointments. In the past, I would have something to look forward to every week: Talking to a psychiatrist who was going all out to make me feel better. Dr. Kelly had become my only chat-mate. But I knew that detachment was inevitable and that this decision would actually start a new Stella Ng.

I was so wrong. It never ends.

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