Heavily Pregnant

I’m heavily pregnant and standing in a hospital with my mother and a male doctor.  They’re discussing details about my childbirth.  Which is today.  What?   I’m scrambling to comprehend the situation.  My mother is releasing very personal information about me, then accuses me of not wanting the baby.  I wonder how I’m this far along in the pregnancy, why I haven’t done anything about it sooner, but since I’m already here and it’s too late to terminate, I say: “If it’s healthy, I will take care of it.  If it’s not, then I don’t think I can.”  I notice I used ‘it’ and said ‘take care of’ instead of ‘care for’.  My mother rolls her eyes and shakes her head.  Something within me has a strong inkling that there will be severe complications with this child, because how could I be pregnant?  They don’t know this; it’s my first pregnancy medical check-up and first childbirth wrapped into one.

The doctor calls over two other younger male doctors who will be overseeing my delivery and explains to them my “difficulties”, as he calls it.  He skirts around with many other synonymous terms, meaning to say that I’m a strange patient with mental issues.  I look at the two doctors and notice that they resemble each other, being of a similar height and build.  Both are fairly short and petite-sized. They remain mute and nod their heads periodically at the explanation of my case.

My mother’s not around anymore so I pluck up the courage and ask the two doctors whether I could see them in private.  We head into a small room, just wide enough to fit a round table, and that could only be closed with a heavy curtain divider.  They sit across from me.  I skip the social niceties and dive right in, prefacing my question with: “There’s Google now so we’re able to search for possible explanations, but…”  I drop the bomb.  It takes them by complete surprise.  It’s a medical marvel, a rare medical mystery, though not the first as I’ve heard of such cases before, but rare and unusual.  It explains to them somewhat about my personal “difficulties” and reservations.  Then I realise there’s someone new sitting between them.  I thought this was a private session? 

“Wait, who is he?” I ask.

“Oh, he’s…” One of the doctors begins to explain but I’m not really listening as it’s just bullcrap and this whole situation is already too much for me to handle without having a nervous breakdown.  Then I realise I’m now in a crowded room, a medical classroom of sorts, with rows of medical doctors behind me peering up at the screens above me detailing my case in different languages.  The doctors discuss openly and loudly about my case, pointing at certain things on the screens.  I hear a female doctor speaking in French and spot French sections on the screens.  I try to decipher what it says about me.

Then I’m left alone in that room to mull over my predicament while they make the preparations for my childbirth, I assume.  I sit and peer out into the hallway of the hospital, where a few nurses in scrubs buzz about from time to time.  I think about the absurdity of all this.  The betrayals.  The mounting anxiety.  The puzzling questions.  Worries about the labour pains, the delivery.

When I see a couple of figures heading straight for the room I’m in, I face a bolted-down chair and grab on to it tightly.  I feel myself being pulled away from it.  They’re trying to pry my fingers apart and drag me away.  I don’t want to go, I don’t want it to happen, so I grab on with all my might, struggling to hang on.  But they’re too strong and I’m outnumbered.  My grip begins to slip and I quickly switch to grabbing on to an adjacent chair, feeling as though I’m fighting for my life, fearing what will happen if I lose my grip, but it’s a losing battle.  

My grip slips.

This dream was right after another bad one where I was jolted awake by a loud crash when something in my room fell to the floor. My heart was pounding right through my chest and punching the bed with every beat.


Trust Broken

She’s broken my trust. She’s broadcasted the private messages I’d sent her to her entire extended family. It’s written in Mandarin so I’m having difficulty reading it and looking up the translation for a few words. I wonder what else she’s been reporting about me, and worry about how much access — unauthorised access — she has to my personal data.

She’s broken my trust multiple times before. This is the final straw. I’m closing the door on her permanently.

Escorting a Walking Caricature

I’m seated in the middle of a long table at a somewhat classy restaurant with a group of people. It’s the end of our meal so we stand to thank and say goodbye to one another. I glance at my watch and realise that I’ve overshot my next important meeting by two hours! I’m supposed to be meeting my new client at this same restaurant. I swerve my head to the right to begin scanning the environment for him. My eyes first land on a slightly disheveled man. We make eye contact and there’s an innate understanding between us that the other is who we’re supposed to meet even though this is the first time we’re seeing each other.

He looks like he has just entered the premises and is a little out of breath, which I’m relieved by. But those details are not what strike me the most. It’s his unnaturally large head and exaggerated features: a very high forehead; an incredibly long, broad chin; extremely wide and angular jaws. He’s a walking caricature. We greet each other and then proceed to do the awkward “social do-si-do”: I ask if he’d like to start now, or later if that’s better for him; he says he’s fine with whichever but asks if later works better for me. There’s a misunderstanding about which we’ve both settled on but, in the end, we decide to start now.

We sit at a table for two, across from each other, and start making conversation. He seems quite at ease talking to a person he just met and is a natural conversationalist. While I, on the other hand, am nervous and overthinking about what to say and how to respond. He is my first client since I’m new to this line of work — escorting, or whatever it’s called, where I’m being paid to accompany a client by dining with them at a restaurant. I try to feign good conversational skills; after all, that’s what he’s paying me for — to socialise with him. I try to act natural, behave comfortably, and, to the best of my ability, try to hide my anxiousness. I worry that he’ll see through my act and know that I’m a fraud. What did I get myself into? Why have I gone into this line of work when I don’t possess the skills needed and when I’m unsuitable for this job?

As he talks, my mind wanders to analysing why he’d pay for such a service. He seems like a friendly, likeable, and casual person, so why would he need to pay for companionship? Is it just because of his appearance? Or is there something more sinister underneath his friendliness? Is he expecting something more from this service? Am I in danger? How can I leave this place safely after we’re done? What other routes and backup plans do I have if he were up to something?

The Champion

I’m walking down a hallway on my own when an ENFP appears by my side.

“Come on,” he says, and gestures for me to follow him.

Puzzled, I question his motive, to which he keeps a mystery.

He walks ahead and leads me round a corner into a secluded area with more privacy. I’m still a few steps away when he turns around to face me and gives me a smile. There’s something peculiar about his smile, but I can’t figure out why.

Just then, two other figures emerge by my side: a man and a woman. I turn to them and then it hits me, and I understand the ENFP’s smile.  

The man asks me, “What’s wrong?”

“He’s dying,” I squeak, and start bawling uncontrollably.

It’s an ugly cry. I chastise myself for crying in public, in front of people, and especially in front of him. It speaks volumes to them — it’s releasing so much information to him — but I can’t stop. I’m too embarrassed to look at him and can only imagine what his expression is as he sees me wailing.


I’m in a classroom with the ENFP. It’s odd that there are no other students around, and awkward to be alone in an empty room with a stranger. He strikes a conversation with me about a new activity he’s trying: drawing his self-portrait — and asks if I have any advice. I immediately take an interest in the topic and in him. I explain a few things about shading and lighting to him, and start sketching his portrait with a pencil to show as an example. I chastise myself for my lack in drawing skills and I inform him that I’ve not drawn in years so I’m very rusty.

The professor bursts into the room, late for the lesson, and hands us a stack of notes each. On them are numerous printed images that were haphazardly placed, which we both no doubt know that they were copied and pasted from Google images just before he came here. He tells us to complete an assignment based on the provided notes and orders us hastily out of the room to begin the assignment at once. Peeved, we walk to an adjacent building together to continue our conversation on drawing.

The next day, I’m in the classroom again but this time there are more students around. Many more. I see him amidst the horde but it’s getting too much for me to handle so I leave and walk to the adjacent building for a breather. He appears soon after and asks if I’m alright.

On a separate day back in the crowded classroom, I walk out again and head to the same place. But this time, the other spot is crowded and rowdy too. So I venture further down the path and find a quieter spot. After some time, I realise that I’ve been waiting for him to show up, just like before, and the disappointment has been building inside of me as he hasn’t turned up. I start to question my motives and why I’m feeling this way.

Why am I waiting for him? Why do I expect — and want — him to come looking for me? Am I trying to play games? Am I testing him? Am I developing feelings for him? Has he lost his interest in me and found other more interesting fellows to talk to in class?

It then occurs to me that this is a new place that I’m at so he may not have known where I went.

This dream might be due to an amalgamation of the ENFPs I’ve met in passing recently or talked about in conversations, along with fictitious ENFPs and those in the media.

Just a few days ago, a little ENFP boy of about 10 or 12 started chatting with me on the train. He took an interest in the book I was reading and so we started talking about books and then movies and then Star Wars, which he was particularly excited about. We chatted until it was his stop, and it was the first time that I’ve talked this long and this easily with a stranger. The ease at conversing with anyone and the ease at putting others at ease are things that I greatly admire about ENFPs.

A Bad Dream

Animals from videos I watched recently visited me in a dream, but not in a pleasant way.

There were frantic struggles and shrieks. They were in agonising pain and couldn’t escape. The woman inflicting pain on them laughed at their cries of distress. There was a complete disconnect from their suffering. I couldn’t help; I was merely an observer of the ordeal. I could do nothing but watch the horror unfold.

I managed to save one. I huddled it close, trying to soothe and calm it down. Its eyes were wide with terror; its fur was matted with blood. I tried to communicate nonverbally that it was safe now, that it needn’t be afraid of me, that not all humankind had to be feared, that I was taking it to the hospital.