As a little girl, I remember been surrounded by books. My childhood home seemed to have books at every nook and cranny of the apartment.

This is the most likely reason for my bookworm status and the reason for my bag always been so heavy - mostly you will definitely find a book, or sometimes two in there and I have perfected the art of watching the telly and reading my books just to maximise my reading time.

What got me all riled up the other day is that while on the bus, I felt terrible and dismayed by the actions of someone else.

The lady seated beside me was reading a book and half way through the journey, she had fallen asleep.  As she fell into deeper slumber, she was less conscious about the book on her lap and the pages of the book was getting rushed by her arm as it moved. While I cannot fault her for this, I felt the strings of my heart tug as the book was being hurt (tho completely unintentionally).

So when she woke up and smoothed down the pages, it no longer seemed to be an issue. Until it she got to her stop. As she was packing to get off the bus – she folded the page she was reading into half. Not a dog-eared tag. It was folded into HALF. I was speechless and I couldn’t believe she did that. But that was not the cake topper. When she closed the book, I realised that the book she was holding did not even belong to her. It was a library book she had borrowed and was mistreating so badly. I almost wanted to say something but unfortunately, by the time I got my wits about me, she already had popped up from her seat and was on the way down the bus.

It’s strange that the young kids these days don’t seem to see books the way the older generation sees them. A getaway from where you are to learning about a castaway on Treasure Island, or the pomp and pageantry of an era gone by. The way the words come off the pages and you can dream up your own little fantasy world and walk through it with the characters. I always think it’s a shame when the child is hidden behind a handheld game or a mobile phone instead of a book to release their imagination.

I’m not so sure if I am liked much by my younger cousins, nieces, nephews and all the children I know as I tend to give them books whenever I can in hopes that their love for books and reading can be cultivated.

So last night was a terrible night for me. I did something I promised myself I will never do again.

I found comfort in alcohol instead of working through it. Today, I feel weak and backboneless if that is even a word. I can’t focus. I keep playing yesterday’s sequences of events back in my head.

As much as I try to re-integrate myself back into my family, there are certain members of the clan that can always set me off. I thought I had prepared myself well enough for yesterday’s showdown. But I guess I didn’t.

It took all my willpower and self-restraint not to create a scene but every thing ate at me inside. I felt like I was completely powerless in that situation. I didn’t know what else to do.

I’m tired of trying to sort myself out after incidents like this. This wallowing for days after is not a good thing either. But it is no use telling myself to snap out of it. Somehow it doesn’t work that way. On other days, I seem to be the epitome of happiness. That no one can believe I am scarred and hurt inside. Yet it is days like this, where I hole myself up to not let anyone see me.

Why am I so afraid to let people know how I really feel? How much I am hurting inside? How much I need that shoulder to cry on, or that support to lean upon? So many see me as their shoulder, support and everything in between. When is it my turn?