Saturdate

It was a busy week for both me and Papa, and we didn't have Lucia during the latter half of the week, so it was nice to be together this way.

Before we left for lunch, Lucia was playing around with the closet. She was named after Lucy from the Narnia Chronicles, so it was fun watching her play. Perhaps she went to Narnia?

During lunch, Lucia was up to her usual antics, but since she had her noodles and soup, she was a happy camper.

Papa will fly to Singapore tomorrow to give more seminars and workshops, and I shall be ulila again till next year's visits. Hay.

Outtakes

Today, at work:

Click on the picture to get a better look-see.

My co-workers and I did a mini photo shoot to participate in Library For All's (LFA) campaign to make books easily accessible in third world countries. (We were supposed to explain why we supported LFA, hence, the sign says, "Because we know what it's like NOT to have access to books.") These didn't make the cut, but I thought they were still pretty kickass.

It was a fun little break from the usual stuff I do (although the stuff I usually do is also fun). Best of all, it was for a cause that was dear to all of us. Do check out LFA's site to know how you can help (and participate!).

Pictures are by Adam David and that shy fellow beside me is Charles Tan.

How to Apply Make Up Like a Feminist (Insert Wink Here)

I just need to repost this here because it's the funniest thing I've seen since ever.


Incidentally, sans a good handful of the products used here (I only use 4 every day: powder, blush, eyeliner, and an eyebrow kathingy; 6 if I want to be fancy via mascara and, yes, red lipstick), this is the only kind of made up face I am capable of achieving.

 I guess that makes me a feminist. Whew. :P

Unica Hijas

I'm addicted to taking pictures of my daughter and the things around us. But I often forget to take a picture of myself as proof that I'm also there, so I'm usually reduced to awkward-looking selfies.

This picture, then, is such a treat.

At the courtyard across where we live. Taken on June 23, 2013.

Papa took this picture. A picture of his unica hija holding her unica hija.

Sometimes, I'm so busy thinking of myself as a mother, I often forget that I am a daughter, too. Thank you, Papa.

Spite

Dear You,

I don't think I've ever written you a letter. Which makes sense, because I don't think we've ever actually talked meaningfully. That one time we attempted to talk, you didn't really hear me. You only heard what you wanted to hear, and we moved along with life hoping that that would be enough. But that wasn't enough. In fact, it made things much, much, much worse.

How I want to tell you that I blame you for my brokenness. How you made me feel powerless. How you made me weak. How you shamed me into silence just so I could keep the ugly and fake peace that I thought would keep my family together. How you made me so angry as to be rendered silent and festering and rotten. How, in the end, I was too weak to fight my demons and how eventually, I was too weak to want to live.

I hate you. With all my heart. With the same vitriol you used whenever you called me "Katrina", making my given name sound like a cuss word with each utterance. With passions I have yet to master. With real memories that beget made up memories that come as nightmares. With a strength I thought I was never capable of. With emotional resources that I have long thought of as bankrupt. With a fear that awakens the most ancient and primordial instincts to protect my child from you. 

Of all my triggers, you are the only one that has this much power left over me. I still have nightmares about you, about waking up in that house with you, and realizing that I am trapped and rendered mute all over again. One time, I was walking down the street, and I heard someone who sounded like you -- shrilly, high-pitched, with the same condescending tones. I wanted to look behind me to make sure that it wasn't you (for what on earth would you be doing in my neck of the woods anyway?), but I couldn't take the chance, and so I ended up running home.

Such is the effect you have on me. The mere memory, hint, possibility of you brings fear into my heart. And anger. So much anger.

But you know what? I'm so tired of being afraid of you. I'm so tired of being angry at you. Because despite the best efforts of the people who love me the most to shield me from you, to make sure you never have a say in my life again, you will always be in it because of who you are to the people I love the most. 

Your birthday is tomorrow, and I shall do my best to set these feelings aside, even for just a day. I will not wish that you have a happy one, for that would be disingenuous. I will not wish that returns be happy nor numerous. 

Instead.

On your birthday, I will allow myself to celebrate the fact that I lived, in spite of you. That I am living in spite of you. That I shall be happy in spite of you.

(To spite you, to spite you, to spite you...in spite of you, in spite of you, in spite of you.)

But I am so tired of hating you. So watch out, I shall stop hating you soon, because I've decided to use that energy to love myself, my daughter, and other people instead. And when that happens, what would become of you?

But that's not my problem anymore. 

Sincerely,

Katrina

Almost

This is a post that I've kinda been dreading to write. A lot of one year marks are coming up. As difficult as the past year's events are to relive, they help remind me to be thankful to still be alive. However, before I get to that part of the year, I have to relive...these next few weeks. These coming weeks mark the first year since...things started getting really bad.

---

I was in the middle of writing one of the many emails I send during the day. It wasn't a particularly important email and so I allowed myself to focus on the song blasting from my iPod, randomly selected by the all-ubiquitous shuffle. I realized that it was a song that I used to listen to every day in those two weeks that separated both instances of confinement in the basement last year.

Since I Stockholm Syndrome-d my way through both confinements (how could I not fall in love with those antiseptic halls and round-the-clock sedatives?) those two weeks sandwiched by my basement stints were actually worse than my stay(s) at the basement.

Each day I would ask myself why I wasn't better yet. Why I always felt numb. Why I couldn't eat. Why I still felt like I should've died. Why I couldn't find comfort in my daughter's hugs. Why I couldn't understand why my husband wanted to take care of me...It had gotten so bad (much worse) that I ended up going back to the hospital.

But it hasn't been a year since those weeks yet. So, I shall have to suspend those memories and their corresponding feelings up in the air for now.

In the meantime, this is me not writing about all that yet.

---

Also, I'm making a playlist for when I'm at work.

A Month In...

This week was tough, to say the least.

But there are some things I realized:

1. My support systems are intact. “Do you want company or do you want to be alone?” Alone. “Did you sleep well?” Ish. “How are you?” “How are you?” “How are you?” (8 am. 12 nn. 8 pm.) “Have you eaten? Are you lying? Stop lying, start eating.” … “Let’s go to the Great Unknown. Holding hands tayo.” Let’s.
2. I actually love my job. I’m learning so many new things, meeting so many people, making new friendships. I’ve had a tough week, but I didn't want to miss work because I like what I’m doing, and I actually really like the people I work with.
3. There will always be assholes out there (hiding behind Nice Guy clothing), but I realized I still want to believe in the best in people because…I interact with so many people who strive so hard to be the best they can be. (And sorry, but there really is no other way to describe those sorts of people.)
4. In spite of my tendency to leave people (wondering) because I withdraw within myself  when I’m sad, distressed, overwhelmed, or having an episode – people don’t leave me. While some not only let me walk away (and do things to make sure I will never want to go back), the people who really love me stay. Because they know I need them to be there. And so they stay. They just refuse to leave, they refuse to give up on me. (And besides, I’m never too far away, just within myself.) And when they say they love me, they really love me. They really, really love me. I don’t know why, I doubt if they know either, but they do. Because they know me better than my pronouncements about wanting to be left alone. (But they keep a respectable distance. Thanks, everybody.)
5. “You’re not your usual bubbly self. What’s wrong?” And to that I said I was just having a bad day. But hang on – so my de facto is bubbly? Yay! I’ve been so afraid that my de facto was, well, Eeyore. You have no idea how relieved I was to realize this. I've been so afraid that I bring people down.
6. My best friend is still my best friend. Our relationship has had many incarnations in the 10 years we’ve known each other: friend, boyfriend, husband, ex-husband, co-parent…but he’s still my best friend. And he still looks out for me and our daughter. And to him who has every right to say “I told you so”, who has been nothing but gracious and supportive, to him I say: thank you.
7. And finally, my truest love is my truest joy. Lucia is growing and growing and growing. And she’s so smart. And curious. And loving. And happy. And dimply. And giggly. And she is my world. And as of this moment, I'm still her favorite person in the world (because Pocoyo isn't a real person).

So this week was tough. But that's okay. I'm okay. I'm actually really, really okay.