Eric Tian

Details de-identified and changed for confidentiality. Any details that match real people and events are purely coincidental.

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It was too loud in your cubicle so we suggested the interview rooms. It would be quieter there, we said, away from the chaos. You reluctantly agreed. Your nurse stared at us as we walked, and screams followed us from the cubicle next door.

Interview room 1 was taken when we knocked – another shrink, another patient. We bowed our heads in apology. Our shrink knocked on interview room 2 and gave us the thumbs up. In we went, the portal to a sacred space.

The room had three couches and we each took one. The shrink took the largest one and you offered me the one in the corner, leaving you with the smallest. We sat for a moment, mutually understanding the moment’s tenderness.

The triage notes already told us your story: recent behavioural disturbances, an attempt of suicide. Police thought you were psychotic – perhaps you did too. It was our job to confirm this. Your version of events was what we needed to hear.

You knew we knew this already and decided to help us understand.

You took us to the events leading up to this: the break-up, the trauma, the betrayals. As you spoke, your heart broke, and ours ached with you. Your last few weeks had enough suffering to fill a whole lifetime. There was meaning to your madness, you said. I believed you.

Outside, floating clouds shielded the sun, painting the hospital a light grey.

We talked for two hours, the three of us. The shrink was asking you questions, using your responses to decide if you were fit to return home. You played along beautifully. You showed insight and judgment in your account, and when you did, the shrink would hum and nod in approval.

If it were me, I would have let you go right then, but the shrink asked a few final questions and these seemed to make you falter. You began to contradict yourself and made vague, concerning statements. Things you weren’t saying before, and things a normal person wouldn’t say. The shrink frowned at his notes and I felt hope slipping away. Calm tides were shifting.

I prayed you would stop, but it was too late. In the end, the police had a right to be worried. You had proven this at the very end. We had no choice but to enforce a treatment order.

Breaking the news broke my heart. You didn’t want an admission – who does? – but we were compelled to. You called us devils, saying we had no right to do this. You were probably right. We are devils at the worst of times, and a fallen system at the best. People like you deserve angels.

Outside the clouds parted, and the sun scorched the gravel leading to your prison.

From Paul Graham’s fantastic blog post How to Do Great Work:

“It’s not necessarily a bad sign if work is a struggle, any more than it’s a bad sign to be out of breath while running. It depends how fast you’re running. So learn to distinguish good pain from bad. Good pain is a sign of effort; bad pain is a sign of damage.”

Distinguishing between flow state and over-exertion is one of the most critical skills for long term growth – the results are the difference between sustainable excellence and catastrophic burnout. Isn’t it strange that too much of anything good, like pleasure, deep work or runner’s high, can end up being the very things that destroy us?

Small Things Like These is a novella by Claire Keegan, an Irish author who, as the NYTimes describes, “harnesses the power in brevity.” Her short stories collections have won accolades including the Rooney Prize for Irish Literature, the William Trevor Prize, and the Davy Byrnes Short Story Award. Small Things Like These, her latest work, follows a coal merchant named Bill Furlong who discovers the Magdalene asylums and its secrets over Christmas. It is a devastating story of goodness, courage, and religious hypocrisy. Despite being only 80 pages long, it carries a depth of a work far longer. Here are some quotes that stuck with me.

“It would be the easiest thing in the world to lose everything, Furlong knew. Although he did not venture far, he got around – and many an unfortunate he’d seen around town and out the country roads.”

“The next year, when he’d won first prize for spelling and was given a wooden pencil-case whose sliding top doubled as a ruler, Mrs Wilson had rubbed the top of his head and praised him, as though he was one of her own. ‘You’re a credit to yourself,’ she’d told him. And for a whole day or more, Furlong had gone around feeling a foot taller, believing, in his heart, that he mattered as much as any other child.”

“What was it all for? Furlong wondered. The work and the constant worry. Getting up in the dark and going to the yard, making the deliveries, one after another, the whole day long, then coming home in the dark and trying to wash the black off himself and sitting into a dinner at the table and falling asleep before waking in the dark to meet a version of the same thing, yet again. Might things never change or develop into something else, or new?”

“She looked at the window and took a breath and began to cry, the way those unused to any type of kindness do when it’s at first or after a long time again encountered.”

“As they carried on along and met more people Furlong did and did not know, he found himself asking was there any point in being alive without helping one another? Was it possible to carry on along through all the years, the decades, through an entire life, without once being brave enough to go against what was there and yet call yourself a Christian, and face yourself in the mirror?”

“The worst was yet to come, he knew. Already he could feel a world of trouble waiting for him behind the next door, but the worst that could have happened was also already behind him; the thing not done, which could have been – which he would have had to live with for the rest of his life. Whatever suffering he was now to meet was a long way from what the girl at his side had already endured, and might yet surpass.”

To be born, we needed:

• 2 parents
• 4 grandparents
• 8 great-grandparents
• 16 second great-grandparents
• 32 third great-grandparents
• 64 fourth great-grandparents
• 128 fifth great-grandparents
• 256 sixth great-grandparents
• 512 seventh great-grandparents
• 1,024 eighth great-grandparents
• 2,048 ninth great-grandparents

We needed 4,094 ancestors over the last 12 generations to bring us to who we are today.

How many stories, sacrifices, hopes, and dreams have contributed to your existence? How many moments of euphoria and joy? How deep the depths of despair and loss? How many chance encounters that needed to occur?

We have never met most of our ancestors, yet we carry these histories with us as we exist.

From an ancient Indian proverb: “Walk like you have 3000 ancestors behind you.”

A friend of mine often asks this question. He is a curious individual and one of the most critical thinkers I know. His examined takes on a range of topics often make me question my own beliefs.

Yet in conversations he prefers to listen, often defaulting to these four words. Since most opinions offered are automatic and safe, by asking “what do you mean?” he begins to uncover a person’s true examined thoughts.

One day while observing a conversation between him and a colleague, I noticed him using this question multiple times. His conversation partner would burrow his brow at this, not used to having his answers examined. The flow of topics drifted wildly but my friend listened without judgement. At the end of it, my colleague looked exhilarated.

“I learnt a lot about myself over this conversation,” he said. My curious friend simply smiled.

This is what makes him a good listener, I think.

Today on my morning jog, I noticed there was an oddly large amount of runners in the streets. After asking around, someone told me that today was the Run Melbourne running festival and I had found myself next to the race course. I decided to watch for a while.

My vantage point was unique for it was at the final turn to the finish line. As runners made the turn, they would see the tall banners reading FINISH, and behind this, food and drink stations and volunteers holding stacks of medals. This was usually transformational and runners would grin and pick up the pace. No matter how tired, the sight of the finish line unlocked some last reserves of energy for a final sprint. Watching exhausted runners find a second wind with this final turn brought me much amusement and joy.

As I was about to leave, I noticed an elderly female on the race course. She was limping and breathing heavily and onlookers beside me murmured that she looked unwell. Her pace slowed from walking to hobbling, until she stopped right before the final turn.

“I can’t do this,” she cried, putting her hands to her knees. “It’s over.”

Onlookers and fellow runners stopped to show their support. Some offered her water, some shouted words of affirmation, others asked if she needed an ambulance. One person was already waving a first aid person to come over. None of these methods worked – she would not accept help, nor budge. It seemed like her race was over.

That was, until a middle-aged gentleman came jogging past. Noticing her predicament, and realising the point in the race, he gently led her to the turn, which was only a few steps away, and pointed her to the finish line. “Look how close you are,” he yelled. “You can do it!”

This was the final flame that she needed. Picking herself up, the lady took two shaky steps, then transitioned into a sprint towards the finish line. She never stopped until the end, even passing some runners along the way. I couldn’t see exactly when she crossed the finish line for the sea of runners clouded my view. But in the distance, I could’ve sworn I saw a thin arm punch the air in victory. I never saw her again.

In her moment of distress, most onlookers and runners offered this runner first aid, water, or encouragement. But what the man who saved her understood is that what she truly needed was hope. She was in a broken state, and the sight of the finish line rescued her. Today was a humbling reminder that sometimes what people require in their darkest times is simply hope of something better. Without this, no progress can be made.

In 2001, when the 54th and final volume of the Animorphs series was published, fans took to the internet to vent their frustration at the dark, unexpected twist in the final chapter. In response to her readers’ complaints, Animorphs author Katherine Applegate issued this letter explaining her decision. It is a refreshing, honest message, and one that I am starting to realise more in my current psychiatry rotation.

Spoilers ahead!

“Dear Animorphs Readers:

Quite a number of people seem to be annoyed by the final chapter in the Animorphs story. There are a lot of complaints that I let Rachel die. That I let Visser Three/One live. That Cassie and Jake broke up. That Tobias seems to have been reduced to unexpressed grief. That there was no grand, final fight-to-end-all-fights. That there was no happy celebration. And everyone is mad about the cliffhanger ending.

So I thought I’d respond.

Animorphs was always a war story. Wars don’t end happily. Not ever. Often relationships that were central during war, dissolve during peace. Some people who were brave and fearless in war are unable to handle peace, feel disconnected and confused. Other times people in war make the move to peace very easily. Always people die in wars. And always people are left shattered by the loss of loved ones.

That’s what happens, so that’s what I wrote. Jake and Cassie were in love during the war, and end up going their seperate ways afterward. Jake, who was so brave and capable during the war is adrift during the peace. Marco and Ax, on the other hand, move easily past the war and even manage to use their experience to good effect. Rachel dies, and Tobias will never get over it. That doesn’t by any means cover everything that happens in a war, but it’s a start.

Here’s what doesn’t happen in war: there are no wondrous, climactic battles that leave the good guys standing tall and the bad guys lying in the dirt. Life isn’t a World Wrestling Federation Smackdown. Even the people who win a war, who survive and come out the other side with the conviction that they have done something brave and necessary, don’t do a lot of celebrating. There’s very little chanting of ‘we’re number one’ among people who’ve personally experienced war.

I’m just a writer, and my main goal was always to entertain. But I’ve never let Animorphs turn into just another painless video game version of war, and I wasn’t going to do it at the end. I’ve spent 60 books telling a strange, fanciful war story, sometimes very seriously, sometimes more tongue-in-cheek. I’ve written a lot of action and a lot of humor and a lot of sheer nonsense. But I have also, again and again, challenged readers to think about what they were reading. To think about the right and wrong, not just the who-beat-who. And to tell you the truth I’m a little shocked that so many readers seemed to believe I’d wrap it all up with a lot of high-fiving and backslapping. Wars very often end, sad to say, just as ours did: with a nearly seamless transition to another war.

So, you don’t like the way our little fictional war came out? You don’t like Rachel dead and Tobias shattered and Jake guilt-ridden? You don’t like that one war simply led to another? Fine. Pretty soon you’ll all be of voting age, and of draft age. So when someone proposes a war, remember that even the most necessary wars, even the rare wars where the lines of good and evil are clear and clean, end with a lot of people dead, a lot of people crippled, and a lot of orphans, widows and grieving parents.

If you’re mad at me because that’s what you have to take away from Animorphs, too bad. I couldn’t have written it any other way and remained true to the respect I have always felt for Animorphs readers.

K.A. Applegate”

Last night,
A soul I had known
Departed this world.

She left no note,
No wishes
No final farewell.
Just her dog next door,
And on the floor:
A vial, cannula, syringe,
And four drops of blood.

Where are your unspoken dreams?
Your daring hopes?
Your thoughts that only you could muster?
Your worldviews?
Your gifts for singing, for dancing,
And spreading love?
The world is surely a worse place
Without them.

How I wish I could have been with you,
Hugged you,
Shared your heavy load.
Told you that This too shall pass.
For all winters lead to spring
And all nights lead to dawn
And no matter how dark the forest,
There is, however unseeming,
A way out.
What I would give to fight demons with you
What I would give to see you again.

Rest in peace, my friend.
Tonight we mourn,
We remember,
We reflect.

Rob Walker from The Art of Noticing recently highlighted the importance of being “open-eared”, or the exposure of one to new sounds. There, he cited the observation that people tend to get less curious about music over time – a pity, for the thrill of discovering new songs and sounds can enrich people regardless of age. To build open-earedness, Rob gave five suggestions, to which I’ll highlight two:

1. Make listening to new/unfamiliar music a habit, or even a ritual. 

2. Listen to music you don’t like. 

Since then, I’ve left the warmth of my usual Spotify playlists and ventured into unexplored territory. My first experiment was with hard rock. Next, I tried electronic dance music (EDM). My most recent genre was french pop. With these, I put on a one-hour playlist and listened while either studying, exercising, or commuting, and took notes on how I felt. And there have been some fun discoveries – not just in music, but in myself as well.

Music wise, I enjoyed hard rock more than I expected. The harshness of the singers was initially intimidating, but over time I appreciated the vocals and instrumentals as passion. Hard rock also doesn’t shy away from addressing difficult topics like mental illness (Evanescence – Bring Me To Life) and sexual assault (Nirvana – Rape Me). The combination of high-energy singing and generally engaging lyrics was a rollercoaster experience. With such a wealth of repertoire, I intend to explore this genre a bit more.

The musical highlight was discovering an amazing French artist called Stromae. While I don’t understand French, he combines the intrinsically elegant language with his unique pop sounds to produce some astounding pieces (I look up the lyrics later). My favourite is Formidable, a song on the passion and messiness of love, in a similar vein to Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. On YouTube you can find a wonderful music video with English subtitles that I have watched at least ten times.

With EDM, I discovered that I prefer music with lyrics. EDM did not suit me because there were no words to connect to, just a synthetic tone and upbeat rhythm which I found to be distracting. Classical music seems to be the only exception to this, the medium which I believe best captures Beethoven’s tenet that “Music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy.” That being said, I still intend to try other non-lyrical genres in the future, to see what fun creations lie in this world.

Next up, I intend to try Indian music, rap, and tribal music. More updates to come.

Two months ago, I submitted two short stories to a small online journal called Backstory. After clicking ‘send’, I promptly began work on another project. I had been rejected five times across multiple prizes this year, and if history predicts the future, it would be unlikely these would be accepted. With such an abysmal track record, you learn to not have high hopes. You need to keep moving.

But this time, my stories were accepted. Both of them. When I found out, it felt like the sky parted its clouds and finally recognised me as a writer. I could now tell people that my stories were legit, that they could find my work online. I had a biography page! That was surely something not many people could claim they had. When I received notice that my stories were finally published, I dropped the day’s responsibilities and celebrated.

You might wonder what a win like this might do to a person. I’ll tell you what it did to me. It ruined me. I slowly developed a god complex, a sick sense of narcissism, and began thinking that my days of amateur writing were behind me. A publication meant I could practice less because I had made it. In my pride, I half expected people to exclaim on the streets, “Hey, aren’t you that guy that wrote for Backstory? Those were great!”.

If this reaction seems absurd, you are right. Since the creation of this blog, my writing has been for an audience of one: myself. A publication like this shouldn’t change anything. Also, nobody gives a toss about two short stories in a small online journal. Even I had never heard of them until a few days before, and I regularly consume media like this. Thinking back, it’s likely that the only stories accepted were the only submissions the editors received.

The saddest part of all this is that the stories aren’t even that good. Reading them now, faults stick out like thorns: inconsistent plot points, undeveloped characters, inelegant phrases. Yet with the external validation of a publication, I slipped into arrogance, and this stopped me from doing the one thing that would develop me further: continue to write.

People talk a lot about getting through tough times. Self-help books preach ideals to conquer adversity through tips to inspire action and motivating quotes like “tough times never last, but tough people do.” Not so many people talk about the dangers of success, and the difficulty of showing up when the fruits of your work have been realised. It leads one down the road to complacency, which is a journey into hell.

Today marks one month since my two stories were published, which marks one month since I have touched any fiction writing. It is sad day.

You can read my two stories, The Magic Cow, and The Golden Apple, here.