I guess I could say that I miss the times my dad used to train my like my whole life was a military camp. He started this routine training when I was P1. That was 13 years ago.
Because despite everything, it did teach me discipline, and it taught me to be tough enough to survive without the comforts of life. ( His methods had much flaws though, but I shan't elaborate about it here, its far too personal)
My dad has stopped enforcing this disclipline routine of 1. You will run 10km this week, split into 2 different sessions, 2. You will not bathe in cold water and to make sure you don't cheat, I will cut off the water supply to your bathroom so you will not get cold water. 3. You will sleep without a fan every alternate day of the week... and so on and so forth 2 years ago just before my O levels. I was so happy to rid myself of the 'torture'- of course, my dad called it 'exercise'.
I remember hating this strict regime and hating everything associated with it- the treadmill, the road that led up to my house when my dad forced my to run that route whenever the treadmill broke down(probably from the immense number of times I cried and stomped and raged but was still made to run anyway), Wednesday and Saturdays ( or Thursdays and Sundays, depending on whether or not my dad decided to be kind enough to postpone the '"exercise" for me), and essentially, my life. I remember how I'd have to plan my school schedule around my "exercise" routines, ensure that a hectic day at school where I ended at 5pm after CCA didn't clash with a Wednesday/Thursday and when it did, I was sure to pull an extremely long and black face on the way home to show my unhappiness with having to return home to yet another round of torture- I mean, exercise. I remember how I rushed my bath in 5 mins because there was a thunderstorm raging outside and I had no nice, warm water to bathe with. How I couldn't sleep at night because mosquitoes would bite me and I was too hot and sweaty to sleep. How I displayed all this culminated unhappiness in a resentment at my dad's training, wondering if my dad had forgetten the fact that he had a daughter, not a son. How I was horrified when my dad told me that he wanted me to 'sign on' in the SAF once I hit 18/19 and serve the country as if I were a boy.
But there were things that subconsciously make me thank this tough training- things that sometimes, I fail to notice. The time I ran for my school's annual cross country and came in 9th position in the school. The time I ran for my JC's intra-school race and came in 11th. And since P4, ever since we started having Physical Fitness Training (PFT), how I'd always come in 1st in class with a timing of 7 mins in primary school when, as part of our PFT, we had to run 1.8km. How I used to come in first in class ( I was from an all girls school) with a clocked timing of 11-12 mins in secondary school and JC for my 2.4km, also for PFT. In a subscious way, maybe running constantly did help after all.
Then there were school camps, where many other girls would be whining about not having warm water to bathe with, and how they'd all avoid that one last cubicle which didn't have the warm water they wanted, and how I'd be very happy to use that cubicle to bathe in- because it meant that I had more time to pack my things and pick my sleeping area in the tent. Or rather, I was the only one to sleep because everyone else stayed awake from the heat and the mosquitoes.
It's been 3 years since my dad last enforced this form of routine on me- or for that matter, any routine at all. And while I hated it, I could perhaps say that right now, I miss it. I miss the tough training, but most of all, I miss how I didn't have to worry about needing to discipline myself- because my dad would do it for me. Notwithstanding the fact that all that running kept me fit. And all that is perhaps a far cry from an actual military camp. Whatever it may be, I look upon all that training with more fondness than I ever did in the past. With the fact that yes, it has brought me some good. And despite the routine my dad put me through, I want it back- well, that part about the running, I guess.
But I'm 19. I'll be 20 next year. I can't get it back anymore.
Because despite everything, it did teach me discipline, and it taught me to be tough enough to survive without the comforts of life. ( His methods had much flaws though, but I shan't elaborate about it here, its far too personal)
My dad has stopped enforcing this disclipline routine of 1. You will run 10km this week, split into 2 different sessions, 2. You will not bathe in cold water and to make sure you don't cheat, I will cut off the water supply to your bathroom so you will not get cold water. 3. You will sleep without a fan every alternate day of the week... and so on and so forth 2 years ago just before my O levels. I was so happy to rid myself of the 'torture'- of course, my dad called it 'exercise'.
I remember hating this strict regime and hating everything associated with it- the treadmill, the road that led up to my house when my dad forced my to run that route whenever the treadmill broke down(probably from the immense number of times I cried and stomped and raged but was still made to run anyway), Wednesday and Saturdays ( or Thursdays and Sundays, depending on whether or not my dad decided to be kind enough to postpone the '"exercise" for me), and essentially, my life. I remember how I'd have to plan my school schedule around my "exercise" routines, ensure that a hectic day at school where I ended at 5pm after CCA didn't clash with a Wednesday/Thursday and when it did, I was sure to pull an extremely long and black face on the way home to show my unhappiness with having to return home to yet another round of torture- I mean, exercise. I remember how I rushed my bath in 5 mins because there was a thunderstorm raging outside and I had no nice, warm water to bathe with. How I couldn't sleep at night because mosquitoes would bite me and I was too hot and sweaty to sleep. How I displayed all this culminated unhappiness in a resentment at my dad's training, wondering if my dad had forgetten the fact that he had a daughter, not a son. How I was horrified when my dad told me that he wanted me to 'sign on' in the SAF once I hit 18/19 and serve the country as if I were a boy.
But there were things that subconsciously make me thank this tough training- things that sometimes, I fail to notice. The time I ran for my school's annual cross country and came in 9th position in the school. The time I ran for my JC's intra-school race and came in 11th. And since P4, ever since we started having Physical Fitness Training (PFT), how I'd always come in 1st in class with a timing of 7 mins in primary school when, as part of our PFT, we had to run 1.8km. How I used to come in first in class ( I was from an all girls school) with a clocked timing of 11-12 mins in secondary school and JC for my 2.4km, also for PFT. In a subscious way, maybe running constantly did help after all.
Then there were school camps, where many other girls would be whining about not having warm water to bathe with, and how they'd all avoid that one last cubicle which didn't have the warm water they wanted, and how I'd be very happy to use that cubicle to bathe in- because it meant that I had more time to pack my things and pick my sleeping area in the tent. Or rather, I was the only one to sleep because everyone else stayed awake from the heat and the mosquitoes.
It's been 3 years since my dad last enforced this form of routine on me- or for that matter, any routine at all. And while I hated it, I could perhaps say that right now, I miss it. I miss the tough training, but most of all, I miss how I didn't have to worry about needing to discipline myself- because my dad would do it for me. Notwithstanding the fact that all that running kept me fit. And all that is perhaps a far cry from an actual military camp. Whatever it may be, I look upon all that training with more fondness than I ever did in the past. With the fact that yes, it has brought me some good. And despite the routine my dad put me through, I want it back- well, that part about the running, I guess.
But I'm 19. I'll be 20 next year. I can't get it back anymore.
