by Ken Ee
Tonight, I’m hosting a dinner party. Care to join me?
For this party, I’ve spent 19 years of preparations, double, triple-checking everything, the floral arrangements and food on the table, paintings on the wall, all at where they belong. When you arrive, a young man in a well-pressed suit greets you, but behind his friendly smile, he’s counting the hours until he leaves work. Barista by day, concierge by night. I like this young man; we are very much alike, always locked in a race with time. I wonder if he has ever been alone with his thoughts, if the night ever consumed him like it did me, if he ever felt an empty void consuming against the hours.
This man in a suit has a name. He is called denial.
The Opening Act
We all have to look our best for parties. For me, it was a full bottle of concealer for the restless nights, perfectly-polished nails to hide my fingerpicking habits, and months of finding a dress that covers up my battle scars. It was doing everything to make my presence known, to be adored, envied, or admired, while hiding the repulsions beneath.
What are you wearing tonight? I imagine you showing up in your best armor, making a divine appearance, because aren’t we all humans that yearn for acknowledgement from a room full of strangers? You make your way through the crowd, hoping to recognize a familiar face, but there is none. You are feeling uneasy, just like I am, using the excuse of “touching up my makeup” to avoid meaningless conversations. And there, you meet a lady.
The lady sat herself down on the bathroom floor hours ago, and she is a guest just like you. She’s wearing an elegant blue evening gown. When you both meet eyes, she gives you her greatest smile, as though you didn’t catch her trembling hands and hot flushes her makeup couldn’t hide. Nevertheless, she stood up, readjusted her gown, and left the room.
Months ago, we met in a situation like this. I sat on the bathroom floor, smiled and told you I’m fine. I wonder if you remember. I was like her, except if it happened again, I would be unafraid to tell you. I am not fine, I am afraid, terrified. My emotions are uncontrollable, and I can’t stop my thoughts from wrecking me. I would like you to hold my hand as I sit through till the end of this.
I wonder if she’ll ever feel safe enough to seek help and comfort from others, because I didn’t. My heart was strongly guarded, and my mind was caged with destructive thoughts. Why am I here in the first place? I wonder if she’ll see me at my worst, find herself in my struggles, and start to face them instead of hiding away. Do we share the same thoughts? Or perhaps, do you see yourself in her?
This lady in blue has a name. She is called suppression.
Dining in Dispute
You exit the main room a few minutes after and into an adjacent empty ballroom. A moment of delight: you’ve escaped the awkward small talks. You take a moment to recollect yourself before walking towards the dining hall. You hear clinks of champagne glasses and the harmony of forks and knives on a plate as you walk closer. All of a sudden, all noise is drowned out by a woman’s shriek. You take a closer look. The man in suit who greeted you earlier accidentally spilled a tray of champagne glasses on the lady in blue, who you met in the bathroom.
You watch as her mascara runs everywhere; this is possibly the worst case scenario she has imagined countless times the night before. She vents out her anger at the man and he stands motionless, frustrated at his mistake and the consequences he would have to face.
When denial and suppression meet, what are the odds that would happen?
The lady in blue is no longer faking a smile, and the man in suit is making a frown. Isn’t it fascinating how an unexpected conflict can activate temporary courage to feel and express our true emotions, even for a split second? At the same time, conflict brings hurt. Both of them leave the room. The lady sits herself down back on the bathroom floor, and the man sits himself down on the door entrance, both feeling guilty for what they did to each other.
You witnessed it all, as I did.
Whispers of Confession
Everyone enjoyed a moment of silence, as did you. It was in that bit of conflict that the stellar atmosphere of the room was shattered into imperfect pieces. The dinner table no longer kept its symphony, conversations bubbled up here and there from the quiet tension. And that’s what I expected.
Now, I bet you’re wondering what happened with the lady and the young man. With this curiosity of yours, you walked out the dining hall and went outside for some fresh air. You spot them both sitting on a bench beside the entrance, and it’s as though they’ve been sitting there for ages. You hesitated whether or not to advance towards them, but before you took your first step, they turned their heads, looking towards you. As you introduce yourself, they did too, and you are surprised to find out that their names aren’t the names I told you, and it gave you a bigger shock to know that the two of them have the same name.
When denial and suppression deals with conflict, the lady in blue and the man in suit now share the same name: acceptance.
The three of you walk back into the dining hall. All the guests look so different, and strangely, the same. When acceptance both arrive, the act of play-pretend starts to drop. All the guests are no longer faking smiles and laughter, instead empty conversations are unapologetically replaced with silence, each focusing on their own plate.
The food on our plate represents our thoughts, with the fork and knife representing our control over what we put into our mouths, or so, what we feed our minds. When we start to accept our thoughts, we use the fork and knife to filter them, the knife cutting apart destructive thoughts, and the fork pinning down to constructive ones. At times, we have to be selective of what’s on our plate, because a full plate could often lead to an upset stomach and an empty one could cause a starving body.
The Final Toast
I wonder if you’re enjoying this dinner party, or if you’d prefer walking out and letting your thoughts remain unscathed. Eitherway, this is simply my first try in 19 years, and there’s always a next dinner party you could attend.
After the dinner comes a celebratory toast. This toast signifies the start of our healing journey. When this dinner party ends, the lady in blue will find strength to seek help to face her anxiety; the man in suit will take a day off from work to explore the city alone, and with that, he will recollect old pieces of himself that he once lost and discover new things about himself that he never thought he’d find.
Both of them enjoy a final toast as they begin their own journeys to heal.
Here’s a toast—it is to us, slowly shedding our dresses and armors, being naked with our bare souls laid in front of each other. It is you and I, ready to have authentic conversations. It is no longer a simple dinner, but one that forces you to show up, nourish yourself, stay longer than you would to reconnect with your mind, put down your guard, and become whole again.
Closing Curtain
We are nearing the end of this dinner party. Till now, we have not encountered each other. We are both observers in this party, and so we get the clearest view of everything that has happened throughout the night. In this dinner party, we may be seated at different tables, but we’re still in the same room.
Although we did not meet at tonight’s dinner party, perhaps a deja-vu connection was made, through the eyes, the heart, the mind, or the soul.
As I am now, not perfectly-dressed as I’m typing this, back to reality with you that are reading this. You will soon exit the page, and this is what I call a closing curtain. The beginning of another beginning.
Tonight, I’m hosting a dinner party. Care to join me?