Run To You, But To Me

 

This was the first house I bought at the end of 2010. I started living there by myself in the first quarter of 2011. I worked my ass off. Sold my secondhand car to buy that house, because Mum wanted me to. I never liked the neighborhood, but she insisted. Said I should live closer to her. It felt like the least I could do, you know? Let her finally visit her eldest daughter in her own home. She didn't congratulate me. Didn't say she was proud.

She said, “This is exactly what you need to do as a woman. Provide for yourself better every day. Buy more properties, land, jewellery—those things will be your safety net.”

I couldn't afford furniture. Only the essentials, for the two bedrooms and the kitchen. No chairs, no sofa, no coffee table in the living room. Just a really good Persian carpet, a big-ass Axl Rose poster, and a few photos of me with my ex-boss or favorite musicians. When nosy neighbors dropped by, they made sure I heard their sarcasm: "She can afford to buy this house in cash, but no furniture? Wow. What a career woman she is."

Most of them were young full-time mums with toddlers who nearly wrecked my collectibles—vinyls, Star Wars replicas, rare signed band tees I had framed and hung on the walls.

I couldn't afford a handyman when the rainy season came, and the trees clogged my roof drainage. So I climbed up and fixed it myself, rain pouring, thunder blasting like a rock concert. I couldn't afford help when the water pump overheated during the summer. Fixed that too, cursing faster than any Eminem tracks.

I blamed my unstable financial state on that house.

I’d already sacrificed so much to live there.

Woke up at 4 a.m., Monday to Friday.

Took a ride to the train station at 4:45.

Got to the office by 7.

Changed in the bathroom. Started work by 7:30.

I fucking hated that phase—even though, yeah, I technically owned a house. Somewhere outside the city.

But the worst part wasn’t the commute.

It was coming home around 10 or 11 p.m., unlocking the door, saying automatically,

“Hello, I’m home…”

And hearing nothing.

Not even a pet.

I was lonely.

So goddamn lonely.

Barely able to function socially.

And when I did have energy—usually Thursday or Friday—I got drunk.

Head-over-heels drunk.

Just to numb it.

Mute the screaming in my head.

A friend would take me home. Or the same Blue Bird driver I’d pay to wait for me outside, just so I had a safe ride home after those drunk-ass nights.

I lasted eight months.

Told Mum I couldn’t do it anymore.

I needed to live in the city—be closer to work.

More time to rest.

More time to see my therapist.

More freedom to get drunk without worrying about how I’d get home safely.

She was disappointed.

Didn’t bless the decision.

Didn’t like the idea of me going back to the city and taking more business trips—domestic or international.

She said,

“You should be more grateful. A woman your age affording all this on her own? When I was your age, I barely had enough to buy my first house. I worked my ass off to raise you and provide for your grandparents. Then, when I had a house, I had your stepfather to support me.”

And I said,

“Exactly. When you had your first house, you had a husband running at least two businesses. You were a full-time mum with three kids. You managed his money for the household. Me? I’m a single fighter. Recently divorced. Going to therapy just to stay afloat. Don’t compare us. We’re not the same.”

Eventually, I rented that house out to a young family.

They trashed it.

Stole everything that wasn’t nailed down.

So I bought an apartment in the city.

Bought another secondhand car.

Rebuilt my life—and career—from scratch.

Even though I was still drowning in loneliness and an emptiness I couldn’t name at the time,

I survived.

Through nightmares.

Through therapy.

Through meds.

Through heartbreaks.

Through broken friendships.

Through bittersweet memories with colleagues, ex-bosses, and the fancy companies I used to work for.

I’m mentally drained and can’t sleep tonight.

My mind drifted back to that house.

To that chapter.

When the rollercoaster still felt thrilling. Chaotic. Sometimes charming.

Chasing temporary highs was my daily routine.

Getting wasted on weekdays and still showing up sharp at the office?

Achievement unlocked.

City-hopping on weekends just to catch a concert?

Non-negotiable.

My life was a high-speed, non-stop ride.

And I never gave myself space to breathe.

Never really rested.

Never slowed down.

I don’t know why, but a few minutes ago, I hit play on “Run To You” by Whitney Houston and started writing all this.

I stared at my wall, covered in yellow sticky notes.

My thoughts.

Most of them bitter. Some harsh.

But all of them mine.

This part of the song still knocks the wind out of me, because I was that woman:

“Each day, each day I play the role

Of someone always in control

But at night, I come home and turn the key

There’s nobody there, no one cares for me

Oh, what’s the sense

Of trying hard to find your dreams

Without someone to share it with?

Tell me, what does it mean?”

And now, I finally understand why I chose that song.

Because I’m not in that place anymore.

Yes, I still live alone.

Far from my family.

But I have Bella, my cat.

She’s always there when I get home.

I have my extended family here in the compound.

At the gym. On the road.

The “you” in the song? It’s no longer just one person.

It’s the people who’ve stayed.

Near or far.

It’s my cat.

Even the stray cats are trying to jump her and, you know, do their thing.

And I don't feel like running away anymore.

And when I do feel like it?

The people in my life—and my cat—remind me I have a home to return to.

Yes, I rent this room.

I don’t own property. Or cars. Or bikes anymore.

But I still have a home.

And maybe that’s what matters.

To some extent, it doesn’t matter how you look back on your past from where you stand now.

What matters—at least for me—is that you know you made it through.

The chaos. The highs. The heartbreak.

You’re still here.

Still grounded.

You remember your roots.

You know your strengths. You accept your flaws.

And you keep going.

My past doesn’t define me.

But it did shape me.

And honestly?

I’m proud of myself.

From time to time. Ha.

Ubud, 15th July 2025

“Run To You” – Whitney Houston