Becoming Fifi: Chronicle of Change - 26

April 14th,

Dear Journal,

What’s new? Well, let’s begin with my more pliable feet. It would seem that after hours of massaging them, my wish has been granted, albeit with a twist. I can now coax my feet into shoes with heels a tad bit lower - we're talking four or five inches here, which most women would still arch an eyebrow at. Ah, the irony of my life; While I can slip into these "lower" heels, a few minutes of actually attempting to move in them is akin to walking on a bed of heated coals. It seems while most women suffer the pain of walking in high heels, I'm accursed in the opposite manner.

Lately, I've found myself reaching out to my sister, Ani, almost every day. We've fallen into a comforting routine of daily chats. The distance, combined with the weight of my secrets, makes our conversations bittersweet. I can't tell her about Fifi or the convoluted web I've found myself entangled in. Instead, my life in Jakarta, when relayed to her, takes on a slightly altered hue.

The wedding boutique transforms seamlessly into an English cram school, where instead of dresses and complaining customers, I deal with books and difficult students. And Annisa, dear Journal, becomes my girlfriend in these tales. This little fabrication gives me an excuse to express my frustrations and seek Ani's advice without raising undue suspicion. "She's a bit bossy today," or "We had a disagreement about an outfit" are the kind of lines I feed her. Ani, bless her heart, always listens intently, offering words of wisdom, sometimes even berating me for not being understanding enough.

It's both comforting and heartbreaking. Comforting because her voice, so warm and familiar, anchors me during these turbulent times. But it's also heartbreaking because the lies pile up, creating a barrier that wasn't there before. Every laugh, every shared joke, every piece of advice feels like another brick in the wall of deception I'm building between us.

Yet, amidst this tumult of emotions, Ani remains the lighthouse guiding me through the storm. Even if she doesn't know the real tempest I'm navigating.

Speaking of navigating, my days have found a new and unexpected compass: Kartika. With Fatri's wedding preparations escalating at a frenzied pace, I've found myself gravitating towards her bubbly and light-hearted presence. Kartika, with her quirky smile and playful eyes, offers a welcome escape from the whirlwind of satin, lace, and nuptial chatter that’s incessantly swirling around me.

Our bond, if I dare call it that, is fascinatingly simple. You see, the delightful dance of languages between us serves as an advantage. The language barrier ensures our conversations are light, brief, and peppered with humour. It's a mutual understanding: we communicate with a funny quip here, a raised eyebrow there, or even a shared laugh at something we spot. The tranquillity of not having to constantly switch between English and French, and not having to navigate deep conversations is liberating in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

Take today for instance. After a week in the boutique inundated with bridal talk, the prospect of a shopping excursion with Kartika was a breath of fresh air. A break from the monotony, from Annisa, and most importantly, from anything wedding related. It wasn't just any shopping trip, though; it was a quintessential Kartika experience.

Picture this, Journal: me, in an accessory store, my insides a tumultuous blend of resistance and resignation as Kartika, with infectious enthusiasm, covered me with a cascade of bangles, bracelets, and finally, a flamboyant ring she slipped onto my finger with childlike glee. As I glanced into the mirror, there was a pause, a breath of disbelief. Reflected back at me was this slender, unmistakably feminine figure with a fiery mane that contrasted starkly with the deep blue of the pumps elevating me off the ground. My makeup softened my features, and the snug black minidress with its white zigzag patterns clung to my feminine frame. Yet, much of its design was obscured due to a super soft, white, asymmetric jumper. The image screamed chic, albeit with a touch of sexiness.

The image before me, sketched here in these pages, was so distant from the David I remember. Each shimmering piece of jewellery Kartika playfully adorned me with was merely another layer on an already heavy ensemble. The dress, confining; the heels, a towering challenge; the makeup, a mask; and the wig, a relentless weight on my scalp. While these items weighed me down, both physically and mentally, the jewellery became the proverbial cherry on top. To Kartika, the gentle clinks and jingles seemed to amuse, but for me, it felt like an echoing reminder of the transformation I was ensnared in. Yes, there were moments of laughter and jest with Kartika, but beneath it all, a profound longing to shed these layers and rediscover the simpler David pulsed steadily.

(See image 26)

But amidst this dissonance, there was also a realization. With each moment of discomfort came a moment of connection, a moment where I felt seen. The fleeting glances of recognition, the times when Kartika's eyes would hold mine, reflecting understanding or maybe empathy. They were subtle, these moments, yet they grounded me.

Today was an odd blend of emotions: a dance of reluctance and acceptance. There's this unexpected bond forming between Kartika and me. It's not about the jewellery or the dresses, but about those shared moments that lie in between - the shared chuckles, the silent acknowledgements.

It's late now, Journal, and as I lay here reflecting on the day, I can't help but feel a myriad of emotions. Gratitude for having Kartika and Ani there for support, frustration at my circumstances, and an ever-present yearning for familiarity. But for now, I find solace in these pages, where I can confide my truest thoughts, feelings, and even the sketched memories of a day that seemed so distant from my past.

Goodnight, Journal. Until our next confession.