“To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance.”
– Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), an Irish writer and playwright, famous for his sharp wit, elegant style, and brilliant one-liners.
SOME people live in my heart. This is not a sudden realisation. I began to be aware of it as far back as the second half of the 1960s when I was in secondary school.
Now in my semi-golden years, my heart is like a cosy little village, with everyone assigned a cottage and a decorative flower bed. Some are proper fixtures – the sort who’ve been there so long they’ve probably started rearranging the furniture. Others come and go like bad weather: sudden, dramatic, and gone before you can find the umbrella.
And sometimes I sit there, in my own unnecessarily emotional little way, wondering why they live there at all. Why them?
It’s hard to be objective about who lives rent-free in your heart when you’re the one collecting the imaginary keys and handing out the imaginary welcome baskets.
I tried to reason it out, because I’m nothing if not someone who enjoys overthinking in a quiet corner. Many of them are in me because they matter. I love some. I like others. A few are probably there because I’m sentimental and my brain hoards memories the way some people hoard carrier bags “just in case”. The heart, apparently, is not a minimalist.
But then there are days when reality turns up, uninvited, wearing muddy shoes, and bites me right where it hurts most – yes, the heart. Not the bank account, not the pride, not the lower back (which, frankly, would make more sense with age). The heart!
That’s when I have this glorious, painful revelation: the person who truly rules my heart is not my family, not my friends, not some great love, not even the combined suffering of humanity.
It’s me.
I’m the landlord. I’m the tenant. I’m the nosy neighbour who complains about noise. I’m the entire management company, sending myself passive-aggressive letters about late payments.
Who am I kidding?
Yes, yes, I do love people. Of course I do. I’m not a complete villain, twirling my metaphorical moustache while locking the gate to emotional fulfilment. But if we’re being honest – and apparently today we are – I seem to love myself more. Not in the glamorous “self-care” way people post about with candles and face masks. It’s more in the very ordinary, mildly embarrassing way, where my own needs always, always shove to the front of the queue.
And it bothers me.
It bothers me because I’d like to believe I’m noble. I’d like to believe I’m the kind of person who would give their last bit of rice to a starving friend, while smiling warmly, and then fainting gracefully from hunger. But real life is not a charity advert. Real life is me, standing in front of the fridge, hearing my stomach growl like an angry dog, and thinking: Right. Food. Now.
When I’m hungry, do I think about others? No. I eat first. Then, in the rare event there’s anything left, I become generous. I become the saintly sort who says, “Oh, do you want some?” as though I haven’t just eaten like someone preparing for hibernation. Suddenly, I’m Mother Teresa with a full plate.
It’s not even just hunger. It’s everything.
Take mornings – that daily experiment designed to test whether I’m capable of being a functioning adult. When I wake up, the first person I think about is not my family, or my friends, or the state of the world.
It’s me.
Not in a poetic way. Not in a “I wonder who I am” sort of philosophical dawn moment. It’s more practical than that. More urgent. I need to get up, I tell myself.
Then: bathroom.
Then: brush teeth.
And while I’m brushing my teeth – because apparently even dental hygiene must double as an internal planning meeting – I’m already arranging breakfast in my head. Toast or cereal? Nasi lemak or laksa? Tea or coffee? The questions line up neatly, as if they’ve been waiting all night.
It isn’t ambition driving this. It’s strategy. How much effort can I tolerate without resenting everyone alive? What is the minimum viable morning that still counts as respectable?
By the time I spit out the toothpaste, I’ve mapped the next thirty minutes of my existence. No grand reflections. No spiritual awakening. Just a quiet negotiation between responsibility and resistance, carried out in pyjamas, under fluorescent light.
Then it’s: What do I wear? Something comfortable, something acceptable, something that says “I have my life together” while still allowing me to fall apart in peace quietly.
And in all of this, I am thinking about myself and nobody else.
No part of me, at 7 am, thinks: I wonder if my colleague is emotionally fulfilled today. No. I wonder if I can find socks that match. I wonder if my face looks tired. I wonder if I have enough time to scroll for five minutes and then pretend I didn’t.
If this were a film, it would be the part where the narrator says something profound about human nature, and we all nod, and someone wins an award.
In real life, it’s just mildly annoying because it’s so obvious, and because it’s so consistent.
Also because it makes a mockery of all the grand, soft-focus ideas I have about myself when I’m in a reflective mood.
So, what does this mean for the lovely little village in my heart?
Well, if I’m drawing up the official resident list – the one reality insists on making me sign – it goes like this:
At the top, in the biggest house, with the best view and the most ridiculous amount of storage space: Me.
Below that, in a neat row of smaller homes: family members, friends, colleagues, and the rest of humanity.
Me first. Others later.
It’s not flattering, but it’s true.
And before you start imagining me as some sort of emotional dictator, let me be clear: I’m not sitting on a throne made of ego, cackling while the peasants beg for scraps of my affection. It’s subtler than that.
It’s just the quiet reality that my life runs through me. My body complains first. My mind panics first. My needs shout the loudest. My discomfort gets immediate attention. That’s just how it works when you’re stuck being yourself for your entire life.
There’s also the inconvenient fact that I can’t outsource my existence. No one else can sleep on my behalf. No one else can go to the toilet for me (and thank goodness for that). No one else can chew my food, carry my headaches, or stop my thoughts from spiralling at 2 am like a washing machine full of bricks.
So yes, I prioritise myself. Not because I’m special, but because I’m trapped.
That realisation doesn’t magically turn me into a better person. It doesn’t make me kinder, or more giving, or suddenly eager to sacrifice my lunch for the good of mankind. But it does make things … clearer.
Maybe the heart isn’t some noble guesthouse where I selflessly host everyone I care about. Maybe it’s more like a small, slightly cluttered flat where I live permanently, and other people visit.
Some visit often. Some feel like they’ve got their own key. Some sit on the sofa and leave crumbs in ways that haunt you years later. Some pop in, make an impression, and disappear again.
And I, of course, remain there, always. Paying the bills and doing the washing up, overthinking everything in the silence after they leave.
There’s something almost comforting in that, if I’m honest – and I hate admitting that because it sounds suspiciously like personal growth.
But perhaps it’s not selfishness in the cartoon sense. Perhaps it’s simply the order of things.
I am the centre of my own life because I can’t be anything else. Other people matter, yes. Deeply. Painfully. Some of them have changed me. Some of them have kept me alive in ways they’ll never know. Some of them have made my heart feel like it has windows.
But even then, it’s still my heart.
So, I suppose the people who live in my heart do so the way anyone lives anywhere: by being invited, by arriving without warning, by leaving their marks, by shifting the atmosphere. They matter. They count. They have their corners and their familiar seats.
It’s just that I own the place. Not because I’m exceptional, but because I’m the one permanently lodged here — day after day – brushing my teeth and planning breakfast as if it were a military operation.
I’m the one who deals with the plumbing, the leaks, the flickering lights. I’m the one reading the fine print of my own thoughts at half past six in the morning.
And at the end of it all – after the sarcasm, after the cynicism, after the slightly depressing audit of my emotional property portfolio – I can accept it.
Me first. Not as a slogan. Not as a banner waved in triumph. Not as a claim of superiority.
Just as a fact.
And honestly? Given the state of the world, the very least I can do is make sure the main tenant is fed, washed, and wearing matching socks. Once I’ve managed that small heroic act, then I can look around, open the windows, and make proper space for everyone else.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com
