8th - "From henceforth, you shall be like any other day."

I resurrect this little-thing-that-could-did to say: it's been eight years. I completely forgot to celebrate my Other Birthday this year.

If memory serves me correct (that is: if the search algorithms serve me correctly), the last time I wrote about it here was four years ago. I still remembered and celebrated it in a fashion in the years between then and now, but it was always just a quick post on Facebook and Twitter, with a link to whichever blog post I felt like sharing. There was one year when I celebrated it by getting a tattoo (it's been more than two years since I last got a tattoo, my goodness!).  And then there was an entry (that was cross-posted to Reddit) that gained some traction. Most recently, there was a conversation I had with the writer, my friend, Isa Garcia. 

But mostly, the homage that I've been making these days has been in my Every Day. I find myself in that glorious sweet spot where the work I do in my professional life, volunteer life, and personal life all sort of converge magnificently where I can advocate for education for the poor, mental health, and social justice. I remember starting this advocacy and people were just beginning to talk about depression and anxiety. Conversations were hushed and people chose to respond to my posts anonymously through private messages and such. Now I see it discussed more often and more openly. (Thanks in large part to the younger people who are taking over the world. I am in awe of them, truly.)

Eight years. It took me eight years to get to this place of contentment (yes, pandemic be damned). Sure, it could be better (I mean, pandemic, damn you), but all around me is Grace. I even go to Church regularly now! Oh, and I'm finally annulled! And I haven't completely ruined my child's life (yet, haha)! I mean, how can I not rejoice in the Lord? How can I not live my life with such gratitude? There is just so much of...*waves wildly* THIS. My heart is full.

I hold all this joy even as I look back to where it all began. The first time I wrote about my Other Birthday was a year after my confinement. Reading my words, I can remember how still-dark, still-sad, still-angry I was. 

Guess what? It's happened. It was a day like any other day. 

And it was the best way to celebrate it.

To Remembering, Un-Remembering, and Remembering Again. And all the nooks and crannies that exist between each phase.

Happy Other Birthday to me. To more extraordinary days, like any other day.

Rahab, Woman of Jericho

I got this tattoo around this time last year. It's in honor of Rahab, a Canaanite prostitute (often referred to as the "Harlot of Jericho", even after the events that happened below), who helped Joshua and his men enter the Promised Land. It is said the her name loosely translates to "God has opened the womb".

Showing kindness and hospitality to the Hebrew spies, Rahab asked that the Lord show mercy to her family. To identify her and thus spare them from the massacre that would ensue when the walls of Jericho fall, the spies told her to hang a red cord outside her window.

More than sparing her life, the Lord also gave her the honor of being one of Jesus' direct ancestors.

Prostitutes often appear in the Bible. They are condemned, yes, but in the Gospel, the narrative changed for them. Prostitutes (and women, in general) were often the recipients of Jesus' grace. Many times, he used them to further propagate his message of love and acceptance. He chose them specifically because they were sinful; he found purpose in their sins.

I cannot tell you how much I love and identify with her story in its entirety: a woman is condemned, regains agency, finds grace, and gains salvation.

There are many like her. Women who provide for their families by offering their bodies (rightly or wrongly, that's for another discussion), women who protect their families despite hardship and fear, women whose faulty wombs are opened to bring forth generations of blessedness.

So today, on International Women's Day, I honor you, Rahab. I honor you with my womb that was opened but once (I just found out that I have a condition that would've made it close to impossible to carry a child to term; Lucia is a true miracle baby). I honor you with my desire to protect my family. I honor you with the red string I have around my wrist (going on a decade now). And I honor you with this image.

Rahab, Woman of Jericho.

Blessed Be

I haven't written anything in ages, I know. I think this is actually the longest writing hiatus I've ever had, actually. 2016 was a tough year. Nothing like 2012, but it was tough, you know? Of course you know. You're reading this, you've survived the year, too.

But I will not talk about how and why it's been difficult. I have a shrink for that. I still see her regularly and she's given me a new diagnosis, a new set of meds, a new sense of identity. Well, we're working on that last bit, but it's progress.

True to this year's form, a series of unfortunate events almost cancelled Christmas for us. Wanting to salvage the situation, I decided to splurge on a hotel booking for the weekend on a whim, for just the two of us. I've never done anything like this before. Heck, she and I hardly even go to the mall during the weekend. But it's been delightful so far.

And so I find myself here, in a dark and chilly room, warmed by the softest pillows and sheets, cozied by her breath, watching her take her afternoon nap. I used to do this all the time.

I lost so much sleep when she was an infant, but not because she kept waking up. Truth be told, she was a really easy baby to take care of. She was never fussy, never colicky, and when she did cry, all I needed to do was give her my boob. I'd sing a little and then she'd calm down immediately. But I couldn't sleep. All I wanted to do was watch her sleep.

2016 and all its fangs has brought me to this moment. She and I, and all her dreams, as they weave little smiles and frowns upon her face. Blessed be.

This is our first Christmas without Nana, without Iligan. All that is gone now, I will never go back there, I'm almost certain.

This is also our first Christmas alone, just me and her. And all my dreams for her.

Can you believe it? I think I'm happy, though. As punch-drunk as I am because of this year, I am actually happy, inchoate as this joy may be. Dei gratia.

How strange to be so sad and to be so happy at the same time.

Blessed be the name of the Lord, forever. Happy Christmas, everyone. May you all love and be loved.

Children of Light

I was asked to write a reflection piece for Holy Week a few weeks back for my aunt's church. I look back at what I wrote back then and see how apt it is for what's happening at the moment.

I tried writing about what is "happening at the moment", but I dare not yet. Not yet. 

In any case, here is what I wrote.
//

As a child, in a strange way, I associated Holy Week with sadness. Understandably, I suppose, since the passion and suffering of Christ are often at the forefront. Even Palm Sunday has a rather sad undercurrent to it: The people had heard about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. Some took this as a sign that he was the real Messiah and rejoiced. Meanwhile, the “chief priests made plans to kill Lazarus as well, for on account of him many of the Jews were going over to Jesus and believing in Him” (John 12: 10-11, NIV). Amidst all that joy, Jesus already knew. He already knew he was going to suffer.

I suppose the "suffering" part of Holy Week is easier for us humans to relate to than the "holy" part, terminology notwithstanding. For one thing, I can easily name numerous moments in my life when I was suffering; when I was holy, not as much. It’s almost as if this capacity to suffer, and the very experience of suffering, makes me human. A human in great need of the Father.

In the television production Shadowlands (1985), writer William Nicholson creates a scene between C.S. Lewis and one of his friends, talking about the suffering brought about by Joy Gresham's (Lewis' wife) battle with cancer:

Harry: … I know how hard you've been praying; and now God is answering your prayers.
C. S. Lewis: That's not why I pray, Harry. I pray because I can't help myself. I pray because I'm helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn't change God, it changes me.

This is what this week will be about: the changes that will happen in us with the ebbing and flowing of joy and suffering; the alternation between celebrating and grieving. And inasmuch as it is easy–almost automatic–to call upon the Lord when we suffer, let’s pray that we also seek to find him in moments of thanksgiving and celebration just as easily.

It is no accident that the sadness of this week is bookended with joy–we begin and end with joy. Palm Sunday, the joy of believing in a promise without really understanding what it is (faith); and Easter Sunday, the joy of living in that promise, understanding that we are truly, truly loved (salvation).

So no matter where you find yourself in this continuum as you vacillate between sadness and joy, remember that Jesus said, “You are going to have the light just a little while longer. Walk while you have the light, before darkness overtakes you. Whoever walks in the dark does not know where they are going. Believe in the light while you have the light, so that you may become children of light” (John 12: 35-36, NIV).

The Day I Decided to Die

I am going to tell you about the day I decided to die.

--

I've been openly bipolar for 3.5 years now and I realize that I've only written about what life has been like since that fateful August day. I've tried to live a fairly honest life as far as this condition goes, but I realized that I've done myself a disservice by not talking about that actual day. People celebrate the life I've lived after, but that day, the day I "celebrate" every year (I call it "Other Birthday"), I usually celebrate in private.

Recently, I've come to question the privacy I impose upon that experience.

It seems as though people don't want to read about the depression, they just want to read about the recovery. But that day is every bit a part of my narrative. Just because I haven't told it to other people doesn't mean it isn't. Nobody really asks me what it was like. And I understand why. It's scary and they don't think I want to talk about it.

Well, I'm seeing a new shrink, and so I've been going through my history again. She asks more questions than my other doctors did. And her questions are different. So now I find myself talking about it.

So. I'm going to tell you about the day I decided to die.

I woke up knowing that that was the day. I had been planning it for months. I knew what I had to do. That day was fraught with difficult consequences brought about by the things I did in a manic stupor. I didn't really understand what was happening anymore. All I knew was chaos. But I did what I had to do very methodically. I set about the day, putting things in order. I was calm as my world was falling apart because I knew it was only a matter of time. I had lost control of everything but this one, dying, I had full control of. The thought of finally dying made me calm. Finally, I had a plan and I knew what to do.

As I was gathering everything, I paused to write my note. Suddenly, completely out-of-the-blue, a friend interrupted me. "You do know I love you, right?" The utterance was so random and unasked for. It was said out of friendship and had nothing to do with what was going on. I laughed. I don't think he even knew what was going on. I said, "I was just writing my suicide note, you know." He might've laughed awkwardly. He might've tried to talk me out of it. He might've told me how I was special and important and loved, but I wasn't listening. I don't think he knew how serious I was. I was so glib.

When I got home, I waited to be alone in the room. I finished writing my note (I proofread it three times for Pete's sake), I reviewed my plan inside my head.

I'm not going to detail what I planned to do. I had researched for weeks, so I had no doubt it was going to work. So, no, I'm not going to tell you how to do it.

But, oh, how I was going to do it.

I stood up, again, resolute. I was just so tired. So, so, so tired.

They say happiness is a choice. Suicide is a choice. That isn't entirely wrong, I suppose. But do believe me when I say that that was the only thing that made sense to me. Happiness was an option that I did not have then. And suicide was the only thing that made sense. If happiness wasn't an option, how could I have chosen it? If suicide was the only thing that made sense, how else could I have chosen otherwise?

I'm just telling you what it was like. I'm just telling you how it was.

I stood up and as I was about to execute my plan, my daughter walked into the room.

She looked up and saw me and smiled. She said, "Mommy!" Her love was so pure and her happiness was so...there.

And I fell on my knees and wept noiselessly. I felt my insides rushing out of me and I clung to nothing as I began to feel as if I was falling and falling and falling. I breathed in. And I made a sound that sounded so strange. Sadness sounds so foreign when it finally escapes.

My then-husband rushed to the room and I said, "Bring me to the hospital. Now."

I don't remember much after that. I was in the ER. I was talking to a doctor and she asked me what happened. I told her what I could. She took down notes with no emotion, no judgment. She said something about the basement and I understood nothing. And then I was asleep.

I woke up for a few seconds inside a room and the father of my child was seated beside me. He didn't know I had woken up. He was talking to someone on the phone and he was weeping. He was weeping in a way I had never seen him weep before. I fell asleep again, the tug of the sedatives was too strong. When I awoke, my arms were strapped to the steel railings of the hospital bed.

I wish I could tell you that there is no more shame in the telling of this story, but there is so much of it. I often wonder if I will ever be rid of this shame. Or maybe I don't ever want to let go of it.

I can tell you, however, that I've stopped making this shame define who I am.

I told you the story of the day I decided to die. But my story, still unfolding as it is, is a story of having lived. Not quite living, not yet. But of having lived.

Do you want me to tell you the story of the day I decided to live again?

It's today. And yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. Truthfully, though, it wasn't the story the day before that. Sometimes there are days when the story is about me wanting to die. Or at least wanting to sleep. Just sleep. Forever. But I have perspective now. Strength, not all the time. But perspective, yes. At least now I know I have more options.

So if you feel like you have no options, I will tell you that you do. But I won't argue with you, because I know. I KNOW.

Just...let me sit this one out with you. Let me be the one to stay with you as you sort this all out.

I will tell you the story of how I managed to hold a knife again to cook. I will tell you how I now have my daughter's name on my wrist for all eternity. I will tell you how my family moved heaven and earth to make sure I would heal. I will tell you how I lost friends, and how I'm glad and thankful that I lost them. I will tell you that the friends who remained will keep you alive and they are like no other. I will tell you how my marriage suffered and ultimately ended to give way to what is now an inchoate partnership between people who just really, really love their daughter. I will tell you how I was able to find work again, make new friends, all while being openly bipolar. I will tell you how there are bad days -- oh, how there are bad days -- and good days. Oh, how there are good days. I will tell you how medication has helped me, how psychotherapy has saved my life. I will tell you how my infantile faith has allowed me to thrive in the mercy I so do not deserve but so humbly accept.

I will tell you of all these and more. But if you like, I will sit with you first. Because you are not alone. And I know. I know.


--

Note: I wrote this post on Reddit thinking that it would reach more people if I did it through there. Posting it here as well because, good gracious, why on earth not? 

--

2019 Update:

My psychiatrist (still the same one — she is the best I've had so far) has since given me a new diagnosis, a diagnosis that makes more sense and is easier (??? — because it makes sense!) to live with. I still battle with anxiety, OCD, and depression, but she has since also lowered my dosages and I am now down to just two daily medications. I used to be on five.

Progress feels incredible; but progress is not linear. If you find yourself or someone in the same situation in any way, shape or form, please remember the following numbers that you can call: 804-HOPE (4673); 0917-558-HOPE (4673); or 2919 (toll-free for Globe and TM subscribers).

You can also reach out to me.
           

Be well.

Sssh.

Maybe if I speak quietly, It will pass me by; It won't see me; It will think I am just another thing occupying space; But it doesn't matter if It sees me or not, because I see It; I know It well enough to just close my eyes and wait till It is done; Till It does what It does; And I will pick up the pieces, like I always have;

But I see you; I see you there; And you're so patient with me; Because you know that eventually, I will come to you; Because like it or not, I know that I am still myself when I am with you;

In a way, I've been waiting for you; I've always wondered when you'd be back; I've been so tired; I didn't realize I've been holding my breath, waiting for you to return;

To be honest, you're the only one I can really rely on; For you, at least, are constant;

Come then; Let's get it over with;

I'm good! You? :)

Cautiously Optimistic

It is really difficult to write a year-ender simply because I can't make sense of the year that has passed. There are some events that happened this year that I could've sworn happened the year before. It's as if my mind has already distanced itself from several things and now I am puzzled by its proximity to my Now.

I think something happened that definitely made me change the course of my current trajectory.

Oh, look at me, calling it "something" when I actually know what it is. But it is what it is, and it shall not be named (at least not publicly) and I got through it, didn't I?

If this year is to be known for anything, then, let it be known for how my family and friends have kept me alive and well. The support has been incredible and extremely grace-filled. I am hardly worthy, and yet the love just keeps coming and coming for me and my Lucia.

Which is why, despite all my complaints about my reality, I don't want to be anywhere else. This is where the Lord wants me. It is one of the few things that 2015 has made abundantly clear to me.

It's been a struggle doing the whole single parent thing. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing it okay enough or if I'm scarring Lucia for life. But she remains smart and kind and healthy and beautiful despite her mother; my cup runneth over.

And so, with a puzzled look to 2015, I enter 2016, cautiously optimistic. There are still so many things I haven't figured out yet, but on with the upswing, I say! Let's go!

Thank You

Here's the thing, though.

I'm actually...not happy. But thank you for wishing me a happy birthday. I'm not sad. Not really. I'm not sure. I'm in some fatigue-induced melancholy. I've been in an intellectual, non-violent (thank God) manic state these past few weeks (months?) and it's been exhilarating. But I feel like I'm at the tail-end of it and now—as with all post-manic episodes—I'm tired. And I feel a crippling sadness settling in. I feel like so many things in my life are up in the air and I just want things to settle.the.eff.down. Just. Stop. Stop spinning. Stop.

//

I spent the day in a seminar that I willed to happen and I was filled with anxiety leading up to it. What if the others didn't find value in it? What if they didn't enjoy? What if I was living in a pipe dream and nobody else wanted to get the pipe from me?

When one of my co-workers texted to thank me for making the seminar happen, I cried. I actually cried. And I realized, it wasn't because the seminar was a success.

It was because somebody thanked me.

//

I can never really think of my birthday now without thinking of how I "celebrated" it five years ago. In labor, scared and worried, but also extremely excited. I received the only thing I've ever really truly wanted with all my heart and soul and mind.

I thank you, Lord, for Lucia. For all my days, I will thank you. Thank you, thank you.

//

Lucia turns five tomorrow. She is everything I've ever wanted, everything I never even knew I wanted. Sometimes I look at her and tremble. How could I have been this fortunate?

I worry all the time. What if I break her? What if she isn't happy? What if she is my hopes and dreams, but she isn't hers?

And then she thanks me for coming home early (I came home late), and I cry.

//

In all things, I give thanks. Lord, you are wonderful to me.

//

So many people died today. Such horrors.

And now my unnamed, inexplicable sadness has gained a foothold on something real and concrete.

And I cry.

3rd

I started the day by finally submitting a story for publication. It was a story about a day that I had inside my head a few weeks after getting out of the basement. And then I did a cursory search of some files I had in my G-Drive and found a letter. It was the note I wrote right before I...did what I did.

I hadn't realized I saved a copy of it, to be honest. When I started reading the first sentence, I instantly remembered what it was. I know, I know. I shouldn't have read it, but I couldn't stop. The only reason I didn't read it till the end was that my eyes had gone all blurry with tears. I rushed to the restroom and locked myself in the stall and promptly wept. I would've stayed cocooned in my melancholy had it not been for a friend who said, just a few minutes after crying, "Happy Other Birthday."

And I remembered that I made a promise to myself to celebrate the fact that I lived. Three years since that horrible, horrible day.

The next day, on August 14, I got my 14th. To celebrate my 3rd Other Birthday.

Why a semicolon? http://www.projectsemicolon.com/

And today, I stay in bed.

My weekends are usually like this now. I try very hard to be functioning during the week, to make sure I am as normal as I possibly can. So weekends, I am rendered wary of humanity and all the rest of the world. Exhausted. Sad. Hopeful. Lonely. But alive.

L'chaim. On with the story. 

A Scar and a Bruise

Sometimes, I close my eyes. And imagine myself away.

I start from the top. I imagine that my eyebrows are fuller, that my eyes are not as dark. I imagine I have longer lashes and eyes that can see without glasses. I imagine having a more elegant nose. I imagine myself without allergies, my face is clear and smooth. Sometimes I imagine that I have dimples, but I actually like the dents of my mouth. I actually like my mouth. I like my teeth.

I imagine I have a long, smooth neck that meets my face with a jawline that could slice mangoes. I imagine having thinner arms and more ladylike fingers. I imagine I have shoulders that were poised for battle. But I like my small breasts. I breastfed for 22 months. I would've breastfed longer if my medicines had not poisoned my milk. I like that they are small and can be ignored. I like that I can get away with not wearing a bra.

I imagine I have a smaller tummy. Not flat, just smaller. I imagine having smaller thighs, but I like my butt (on most days), so I worry about how my thinner thighs would be able to support a butt like mine. And then I tell myself that physics and biology have no place in daydreams, and so I go back to imagining I have smaller thighs.

Some things I can't imagine away either because I actually like them, am at peace with them, or can't identify myself without them.

For example: I cannot imagine myself taller. I can't imagine my helicopter-like birthmark away. I can't imagine my chin away. And my eyes—I actually love my eyes. (If only I could see better with them.)

I can't imagine my scar away. When I feel another panic attack coming (which has been often, of late), I find myself holding my scar to feel calm. I think about how my guts were removed from inside of me, placed on a cold slab of metal, in order to safely take my child out. And I think about how the doctor was able to put every last inch of them back in and made me work again. For some reason, this idea of being disemboweled then put back together again makes me feel rather magical. Superior, at times.

There is a portion of my belly, however, that has not regained sensation. The doctor said it was because my nerves were severed and some of them will never grow the same way again. And so there is a part of my body that feels nothing, and I touch it whenever I feel too much. And I am calm.

I have a bruise—a series of bruises, maybe—that have been growing in size. The doctor said the medicines have made my blood thin, my veins weak. For some reason, the veins on my right thigh have been especially affected. I bruised myself (I've forgotten how) late October, maybe. The veins bled, just underneath my skin, and so now I have patches of bruises along my thigh that stem from that same bruise. The doctor said it will go away, eventually. It will just really take some time. For now, I look like I've been hazed. But just on my right thigh.

I tried imagining those bruises away, but I'm too fascinated by them. I think about the bruise that started it all, how it bled, how the blood coursed its way below my skin, above my veins (not through them). I suppose if I had to count them, I'd say I have about ten little bruises now, maybe 15. Or are they all just one bruise? When will the marks go away? When will my blood flow naturally again?

It will just take time. Eventually, it will go away.

I will feel nothing forever, but I hold it when I feel too much.

//

Sometimes, I wish I were beautiful.

But why?

"Mommy, do you love my Daddy?"

I started my day with vomit. Lucia nudged me awake and said, "Mommy, I'm going to be sick." And then she puked all over my shirt. After, we were lying down on the bed—new sheets, new clothes, both of us smelling of soap—whispering odd nothings and then she fell back asleep.

I looked at her face and remembered a time when I would panic at the slightest sneeze, a weird sounding cough, a rash. Now, when something like this happens, I am suddenly the epitome of expertise and nonchalance:

1. Oh, she puked liquid-y phlegm, not food. The vomit doesn't even smell sour. She's fine. I should teach her how to expectorate.
2. I should teach her the word "expectorate".
3. Oh, I think Gaston (from Beauty and the Beast) already did that.
4. She's sleeping again. I should try to sleep again, too.
5. Do we have enough food in the freezer to last till Saturday?

She woke up a few hours later to puke again. We stayed in bed after, again, but stayed awake. And that's when she asked the question.

I was suddenly the epitome of panic and fear and...righteous anger, I'm gonna say?

Mommy, do you love my Daddy?

... (...)* ((...))** (((...)))*** No.

But why?

...Because I love myself now.

Can I still love Daddy?

Of course.

I love you.

I love you.

*Will I tell her the truth? CAN SHE HANDLE THE TRUTH?!?!?!

**I should probably just use the whole "in a different way" template. All single parents do, right?

***Damnit, I'm just going to tell her the truth.

She let the futility of my answer pass, but I expect more probing questions in the future. 

I'm just doing the best I can, you know? 

For now, my darling, know that there is a wealth of meaning behind that brevity. And a whole lot of love. 

There is nothing but love, actually. For me. For you. Always for you. 

And then I vomit.

Compassion and Empathy

Just a few hours ago, I had lunch with the yaya who took care of me and my siblings for about 6 years or so. This was during most of the 90s, so she had front row seats to the show that was my teenage angst. Wew. While we were talking about this and that, she said, "Parang bumait ka, a."

For some reason, I've been getting that a lot lately. And no, it isn't because I'm fantastically nice now. It's because I was THAT messed up before. Recently, I explained to some fairly new friends that I wasn't always like this. Things were very, very different before.

Another friend asked why and how I've mellowed so much. I told her that I had been through hell and back and that I literally almost died. Basically, I've been living my second life since 2012, and I am much more appreciative of what I have now. There are times when I feel like reverting to states of mind and being that nearly destroyed me, but the tug passes. Not without much effort, but it passes.

I am in that weird space right now, remembering that year (as well as the year that just passed), and I'm in a muddy mix of emotions. Mostly because I saw this video shared on my newsfeed:



My emotions are weird because, I can intellectually remember being sad and alone and ashamed. But I don't emotionally remember them anymore. At least not as much as I can feel how much happier I am right now. Don't get me wrong, I still remember the shame all too vividly. But I don't really feel the shame as intensely now.

Interestingly, when I think about that year, I don't remember the sadness or the fear or any of that. I remember the things that got me through.

So much of what Monica Lewinsky said resonated with me, but of all the things she said, this was my favorite: "Shame cannot survive empathy".

And, like she said, this empathy can come from anywhere.

Aside from love from my family and friends (my goodness, my family and friends, THANK YOU), what buoyed me were the many private messages that near-strangers sent to me. I mean, I received messages of hope and encouragement and prayer and outright love from people I wasn't even close to. From people who didn't even know the whole story. I had people telling me about how other people were praying for me. It was amazing.

Meanwhile, some people whom I thought were really good friends—and I mean, REALLY good friends—kept away. Remained silent. Waited for me to reach out. They wanted to remain neutral, they said. Nailang daw sila. (Sorry that my misfortune made you ilang. Hay.)

They are no longer my friends. I cut all ties with them. And that's okay, I wish them well. I have already been blessed by so many with so much.

I've been pretty okay, actually. In fact, I dare say: I'm pretty happy. (Eek!) Ugh, someone actually had the audacity to ask if I was dating again because I looked so happy. (Like it isn't possible to be happy on my own. Like it isn't possible to actually want to be alone. Oy.) It's scary sometimes, this happiness. Since I'm more in the manic portion of the spectrum, I have to keep checking if I'm being overly hyper again, if this happiness is mania.

(Like, I've been overly productive at work lately and because of what happened in the past, there was a moment where I was scared I was being manic again. I wasn't. I just really love what I do, haha!)

But everything's been steady. I take my meds like clockwork. I get lots of sleep. I laugh—genuinely—a lot. So I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. (I'm okay!)

I just want to say thank to everyone who has been kind to me. Thank you for your compassion. Your kindness and compassion make me want to be kind and compassionate, too. Maybe that's why I'm kinda more mabait now.

La Decapitazione Dei Capi

BEHEADING OF THE HEADS

("La Decapitazione Dei Capi")

Written by Italo Calvino. Translated by Ubaldo Stecconi & Carmina Ma. Veronica Ll. Bautista

I arrived in the capital on what looked like the eve of a festival. Stands were being erected in the squares, flags were being hoisted, ribbons and palm trees were being raised. Hammers were banging everywhere.

“Is it your national day?” I asked the bartender.

“No, it’s for our heads of government,” he said, pointing at a row of portraits behind him. “It’s for them.”

I imagined it was their inauguration after an election. “New leaders?” I asked.

I nearly had to shout my short sentences to cover the din of hammers, loudspeakers that were being tested, squeaking cranes that were erecting gallows. The bartender shook his head; they were not new leaders, they had been around some time.

“Do you commemorate the day they seized power?” I asked.

“In a sense,” a customer beside me explained. “We have this celebration regularly: when the day comes, there they go.”

“Pardon me?”

“They have to climb up to the stands.”

“Which stand? I’ve seen many, at all crossroads.”

“One stand for each; our government has many heads.”

“What will they do there? Do they speak?”

“Not really, no speeches.”

“So, what do they do when they stand there?”

“There is little for them to do. They wait for the preparations, then the ceremony is over in a couple of minutes.”

“And the people?”

“We watch.”

The bar was crowded. The carpenters and handymen who were unloading the stands’ fittings from their trucks (axes, stumps, baskets) would come in to drink a beer and quickly go. I would direct my questions to somebody but somebody else would invariably answer.

“In short, it is a sort of re-election. They get confirmed in their positions, in office.”

“Not at all,” they corrected me. “You didn’t get it. It’s actually the end of their terms in office; their time is over.”

“And so?”

“So when the head no longer rules, it rolls.”

“Hold on, why do they have to stand on the stands?”

“So that we can have a good look at how the head rolls, springs in the air, and ends up in the basket.”

I was beginning to understand, but I wasn’t sure yet. “You mean to say the heads of your heads of government? They roll in the baskets?”

They nodded. They clearly meant beheading; the beheading of the heads.

I had just gotten there, I had not read the papers, I did not know a thing.

“Tomorrow then, all of a sudden…”

“It’s the rule; when the time comes…” they were saying. “This time, it falls in mid-week. Holiday. Nobody works.”

An old man added gravely: “When fruits are ripe, harvest comes; when the time comes for the heads, it’s beheading. Would you let fruits rot on the tree?”

In the meantime, the carpenters were going on with their job: scaffolds were erected, heavy guillotines were being tested. Stumps were firmly fixed onto the stands for ax-beheading. They were placed close to convenient prie-dieux (a man lay his head on a stump to check that it was at the right distance). Something like butcher’s counters were installed on certain stands so that the blood could flow neatly into the drain. Oilcloth was spread on the floor; sponges were ready at hand to wipe it clean from the splatters. The men were working cheerfully: some were laughing and whistling.

“You look happy. Did you hate them? Were they bad leaders?”

“Not at all!” The clients in the bar were looking at each other, surprised. “These ones were good, I mean to say, not worse than many others. You know what they are like: leaders, bosses, chiefs…When you get to the post…”

“I have to say I quite liked these ones, though,” another client said.

“So did I. Yes,” others added. “I have nothing against them.”

“Aren’t you sorry that they will kill them, then?” I said.

“This is not the point. The moment you accept to be a leader, you already know the end of the story. No hope can die of old age!”

The others laughed. “That’s too easy! After your nice spell in power, you shake some hands and go back home, as if nothing happened.”

Another said: “Oh that would be something! In that case, everybody’d want to be a leader! Here I am, take me, I’m ready!”

“So would I. And I!” many said, laughing.

“I wouldn’t,” said a man with glasses. “Not like that, that would be meaningless.”

“True. What sort of leaders would those be?” other voices added. “You can do the job only if you know what lies ahead, otherwise…What nonsense!”

The man with glasses, apparently the best educated among them, began to explain that power over the others is one and the same thing with the latter’s right to put you on the stand eventually, and bring you down. What authority would a leader have if he were not surrounded by this expectation? If you could not read the expectation in his own eyes every single moment of his term in office? Civil institutions rest on this double edge of power; there has never been a civilization that did not adopt this system.

“Hmm, I can give you some examples…” I objected.

“Real civilization, I mean,” the man with glasses insisted. “I’m not referring to those barbaric period which stretched over peoples’ histories.”

The old man who had spoken earlier about fruits proclaimed: “The head rules as long as it stands on the neck.”

“What do you mean?” the others asked. “You mean to say that if a leader doesn’t have his head chopped off at the end of his term, he would rule for the rest of his life?”

“This is how things went,” the old man confirmed, “in those times when it wasn’t clear that the moment you accept to become a leader, you also accept your beheading. Those who had power would cling to it…”

At this point, I could have objected, I could have given examples; but nobody would have listened anyway.

“So what did they do?” others asked the old man.

“They had to behead their leaders against the leaders’ will, using force. Not even at regular times, but when the people really could not stand them any longer! This was before things were given some order. Now, the leaders accept it.”

“Of course they do,” cheered the others. “Can you imagine it if they didn’t?”

“Things are not as you say,” said the man with glasses. “It’s not that leaders are forced to accept their execution. If this is what you think, then you miss the point of our institutional system; you don’t get the real relationship between our heads and the rest of the population. Only leaders can be beheaded; therefore one cannot wish to be a leader without wishing the cut of the ax at the same time. You can become head only if you feel this calling; only if you feel that your head has already been chopped off the moment you get to your position of power.”

The crowd in the bar had gradually dispersed, they had all returned to their jobs. I realized that the man with glasses was talking only to me now.

“This is what power is all about,” he went on, “it is the expectation. All your power is nothing but the herald of the blade that hisses and neatly severs. All applause is nothing but the beginning of that final applause that hails the rolling of your head on the oilcloth on the stand.”

He took off his glasses, he wiped them with his handkerchief. I noticed that his eyes were filled with tears. He paid his beer and went out.

The bartender spoke close to my ear: “He’s one of them, look here.” He pulled a stack of pictures from under the counter. “Tomorrow, I’ll have to replace the pictures on the wall with these.” The portrait of the man with glasses was on top of the stack; it was an ugly blow-up of an ID photo. “He’s been elected to succeed those who are quitting the post. He’ll be in charge starting tomorrow. Now it’s his turn. If you ask me, they shouldn’t be told the day before. You’ve seen for yourself how he’s taking it. Tomorrow, he will watch the executions as if they were his own. They all do the same: at the beginning, they are disturbed, overwhelmed. The ‘calling’, what words he used!”

“And then?”

“Then he will learn to cope, like everybody else. They are so busy, they stop thinking about it until the day of the celebration comes for them, too. But then, who can read in the heart of a leader? They act as if they are not thinking about it.

“Another beer?”


---
Stecconi, Ubaldo, ed. Daydreams & Nightmares: A Fearless Anthology of Italian Short Stories. Manila: Anvil Publishing, 1996. Print.

And finally, death.

She was a Parson Russell Terrier, a tiny little thing when we got her. She was so small, she was actually going in and out of my bracelet. We named her Sushi.

A few months into our relationship, Lucia's dad and I bought a dog together. We both loved dogs, and it seemed like the most natural thing to do. I had a hard time conceiving, and so Sushi was really our baby. When I finally got pregnant, we were worried about how she would take it. But she wasn't jealous like we feared. In fact, she was fantastically protective. She would watch over Lucia, sniff Lucia, sleep beside Lucia. When someone other than me or Lucia's dad would come close, Sushi would growl at him/her.

May 2014, doing yoga poses together.

Because of the separation and all that had happened, I had not actually seen Sushi in a long time. The last time I saw Sushi was May last year. Lucia would see her from time to time, when she would go to her dad's place to visit, but that was it.

A few weeks ago, Sushi died. A few days after Christmas.

I didn't know how to write about it, really. It's silly, but I've been refusing to. Or I couldn't. But not because it was sad. It was more because, well, I didn't know how to process it. I accept it, that's for sure. But I don't know how to feel. Does that make sense?

Perhaps it's because she had already been lost to me before she was finally gone?

Lucia cried for a long time after finding out. In the weeks that have passed, she would say, "Sushi is dead." At the most random times. (It hasn't gotten too creepy naman.)

And now I've discovered why some of her toys haven't been part of the usual rotation. Turns out, they're all "dead." They're laid out in small "beds" with little sheets of tissue on them—they look asleep, actually. (And yes, THAT was freaking creepy.)

Hey. At least she's processing it.

The sadness isn't as shattering as it is quieting, though. There is a calm acceptance and...relief? I didn't realize how tiring it was to wait for death in the midst of dying.

2009, upon coming back to the Philippines from grad school in the US.

And, there.

We're not talking about a dog anymore.

...

Our relationship began and ended with Sushi, it would seem.

And there is just relief. Because it was awful towards the end. More awful than I had initially known, as recent events have warranted. Oh, we had our good moments. But that's that. In the end, it was already dead when death finally arrived.

And now, more than ever, there is relief. Shattering relief.

So, now, to the business of living on.

Sleep well, Sushi-ya, Sushi-yana. Sit like a human. 

2008 vs. 2014; But 2014 > 2012

I've been up since 2:30 this morning. Lucia's dad picked her up. I took Christmas, spent it in Singapore with my family, and so I offered him New Year. Off to Baguio they went.

(I tried my best to make that account of the division of our holidays as sterile as possible. As sterile as a surgical knife. Insert knife metaphors >here<.) 

I've been trying to sleep, to no avail. I did get to nap for about two hours, but sleep was fitful and I yanked myself awake from a nightmare. I don't remember what happened anymore (thank you, Brain, for doing that thing you do when you forget stuff that will likely make me suffer). I just know that it was horrifying enough for me to wake up with a yelp—a forced yelp, actually. You know those nightmares: you wake up panting because it was as if you were drowning, and the only way you could wake up was by trying to scream.

Anyway.

(It gets more positive, don't worry.)

I went to the mall. 

I know, right? I was weirded out by that decision, too. 

I got and did a few stuff (wine, grapes, chips, passed by an Air 21), ran into some really rude people (I mean, seriously, y'all are cramming and I'm just here...passing the time), and debated on whether or not I should buy a whole chocolate cake for myself. (I didn't.)

See, I'm going to be alone tonight, New Year's Eve. 

Oh, but I've had several offers from other friends to go out. And just recently, I spent the entire night (and I do mean the ENTIRE night) with my college friends and had such meaningful conversations with them. And so many people are just so awesome to me and my daughter. I mean, really, just amazing. So, actually, my cup runneth over.

But, what am I doing New Year's Eve, Zooey and Joseph? 

Be alone. Or maybe—hachacha—just, be. 

*fancy bow*

No, but seriously. See, here's the thing:

2014 was a difficult year for me. Not quite, 2012. (Let nothing be like 2012, ever.) But...it was painful. Yeah, more painful than difficult. 2012 was a nightmare (that I still wake up from, panting, yelling). But 2013 was a promise of better things. I mean, I was just so.hopeful.

So when 2014 happened, it felt even more devastating. There was a promise...that was broken...that was re-made...and then broken again. It broke in parts that I didn't even know were already starting heal.

You know? I mean...

Oh, I could go on and on, but I won't. Because I was raised better than that. 

(But. For the record: 
Some day, I hope he realizes—and I mean, FULLY realizes—what he did. 

And what he's doing. 
And I hope he becomes genuinely sorry for what he did. 
And is doing.

But I also hope he finds a way to forgive himself, 
because God knows it is difficult finding the strength to forgive him. 

[I haven't yet. God is working on that with me.
At the very least, I try to be a good person to him. 
Because I was raised better than he was. Hah.]

But my daughter will read this some day, and my intention is to process this with her offline.

Okay. I'll end my aside now.)

And also because, surely it was my fault, too.

But "2008 Me" gave me hope.

A former student of mine has, unbeknownst to me, been hanging on to something I said to him back in 2008. And he tweeted it again, just a few minutes ago. And it's gross to quote myself, but I'll do it anyway: 

"Growing up doesn't mean you lose dreams, it just means your dreams change shape. They change along with you."

O, ha. Hurray, Me.

2008. Newly married. In the middle of grad school. In a different country. Good gracious, just at the cusp of everything.

And now 2014's about to end and...I need to let my dreams change shape. Or, actually, I have to start dreaming again. For myself. All my dreams are for Lucia, and it seems as though I've lost the ability to dream for myself. All I have are nightmares.

But right now, despite earlier pronouncements of dread, I'd actually like to spend tonight alone. With my thoughts. Because I'd like to dream dreams again.

Some day, someone will love me, right?

For now, I'd like to take another shot at that nap. And dream about being back in Singapore with my family. (My goodness, Lucia and I were so happy.) Baby steps.

Schema

Other examples of relations that belong to the DO_TO schema include those that we would express in English using the verbs hit, touch, injure, cure, carry, and bathe, as well as more abstract relations expressed by verbs such as as appoint, insult, and abandon. Note that the agent must be animate (that is, human or animal), or at least construed as animate; otherwise, it can't consciously initiate the action. But the patient can be either animate or inanimate, though some relations, such as appoint require it to be animate or even human.
To make it clearer what DO_TO involves, let's consider some event types that are not instances of this general category. Events designated by verbs such as love, see, know, and understand do not belong to the DO_TO schema both because there is no conscious initiator of the process and because there is not necessarily a participant that is affected by the process. That is, they have no agent and no patient.

The next sentence, I've revised a bit. Just substituted a different example for the one that was used. (See words inside parentheses.)

For example, we normally (love) something without a conscious effort on our part, and the thing that we (love) is not affected by our (loving).

- "Situation schemas and semantic roles" from HOW LANGUAGE WORKS, THE COGNITIVE SCIENCE OF LINGUISTICS by Michael Gasser, as found here.

30, When Rounded Off

Things that people said about me today (in order of diminishing frequency):

1. I am the bravest and strongest person they know.
2. I am Lucia's mother and they love Lucia, too.
3. I am their favorite teacher.
4. I am cute.
5. I have very nice teeth and they like my mouth.

Things I realized about myself because of what people have said about me:

1. I am incredibly afraid, though. And weak and tired from being strong. But thank you for cheering me on. It gives me courage and strength. But I am strong because of my faith, family, friends, and sugar. Lots and lots of sugar. Candy. CANDY.
2. I love that when people think of me, they think of my child. Having her was the single most defining moment of my life. (And it's her birthday tomorrow, so the fun continues! She also has nice teeth!)
3. God bless your little hearts and mercurial superlatives. I love you and I miss you and you will always be my children. (Special shoutout to my H2008 and A2013.)
4. I used to resent the word "cute" because I felt like it was a beautiful-that-could-have-been-but-sorry-no. Now that I'm 34 and old, I'll take it! (I still hope to be beautiful when I grow up, though. So watch out!)
5. I show my teeth when I smile, when I laugh. It's nice to know that I can do both often enough for people to see them. I hope for more things to smile and laugh about—apart from the jokes I make at my expense. (But I am SO funny when I'm angry/sad! Hay.)
5.1 Also, I resolve to wear more lipstick. I'm 34, damnit. I gotta make peace with makeup.

Onwards, then, to my last round-off-able-to-30 year!

Rabbit Hole

Sourcing an instructional video for persuasion led to me Joshua Bell which led me to watching violin conciertos.

That led to memories of many, many evenings in dark concert halls:
my short legs swinging from the seat, falling into the seat from folding and unfolding it a little too enthusiastically;
watching papa's back, his hands swishing back and forth, controlling instruments, voices;
going through mama's bag for candy, finding a pen, drawing on the concert program, breathing in her perfume;
falling asleep to that smell and the music.

That led to listening to Bach, Paganini, Beethoven, then Sibelius.

That led to remembering our dog, whom my dad named Sibelius and we called him Belly. But our yayas were Bisaya, so they called him Billy. And soon he wouldn't respond to Belly, so we all called him Billy.

He was a good dog. He died and we never had a dog again.

Back to work, then.

Sometimes

Sometimes, it's lonely.

And sometimes, I am especially aware of how broken my parts are. And then I don't know anything.

And so I stay away, stay hidden, stay home. Because I don't know how to tell people that I am just so lonely, so I'll stay away from y'all. Because I don't know if that will make sense.

I had plans today. But I stayed home. Because it's too much for me out there. And so I'm here, with my daughter, who has made up her mind to hug me the whole day.

I wish I were thinner, prettier, happier. I will die alone. I will die alone. I will die alone.

The thoughts have been racing and racing and racing for weeks now. I haven't been able to sleep properly. The meds make me sleep, but I wake up around midnight and then think and think and think and think.

Somebody told me very recently how happy my vibe was, how much I lit the room. I make everyone laugh and smile.

I'm worried, because I know I'm being manic again. Or at least I'm leading up to it again. So now I'm going to cry a bit. And be quiet. And write this down.

People like me, people want to be around me. I'm fun. I make people laugh. That's what the people are telling me.

But all I want to do is run away.

But I'll be okay in time for tomorrow, for when I have to be with other people again. It's what I do.

I wish I were beautiful. I wish I were invisible. But I wish someone would find me. Find me beautiful.

Sometimes, I'm lonely.

Night

Somebody asked for a writing sample from me this morning. I was looking for something that makes me sound intelligent. Instead, I found this. :P

I wrote this the day before I broke up with a boyfriend. Because melodrama. Because early 20s. (BECAUSE HE DESERVED IT. HEH.)

Written on April 8, 2004. Edited this morning.

Night

She tries to dig the sand with her toes without actually moving the rest of her body. It is hard as she keeps slipping into the shallow grave her toes made for her, but she doesn’t really mind. She is engaged in a rather sober flirtation with the crashing waves. The moon is rising and the shore along with it. She isn’t actually wet yet, but the shore inches closer and closer, and the waves, seemingly just for the fun of it, kiss her cheeks with soft sprays of sea water from time to time.

She looks into the deepening darkness. The sky taunts her into thinking of an exact color to describe what she sees. Once, as a child, she hit her shin on purpose. She wanted to know how fast a bruise would form and how the colors would develop—for fun and because she had to know. 
The sky now reminds her of that bruise. 

A huge gust of wind blows from the horizon and she smells the day winding down: The heady perfume of sweat on skin that city folk call stink; the smell of fried fish mingling with the smell of dried fish; the clean scent of steam from newly cooked rice; and the sleepy aroma of fires being stoked. From the distance, angry mothers call their children (full names, odd nicknames), anxious to collect all their offspring to scold, to clean, to feed, then to love. She closes her eyes and listens for a mother who will no longer call for her, and there is only silence. She breathes in all the smells and her lips tremble as she smiles, and her eyelids tremble as they fight back tears.

He comes silently behind her. She is unaware of him for a while—six waves crash to the shore and she still doesn’t notice him. He takes the opportunity to look at her. To see her. They sense each other, but decide to keep looking at the lazy sun, looking at each other only through the corners of their eyes. He gives in though, and he looks at her, sees her still digging the sand with her toes. 

Again, that stillness. He sighs loudly, and for a fleeting moment…he hates her...He reaches out, tests a hand on her forearm. She does not move, but he feels her flesh react. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t come closer. All he feels is her skin, crinkling at his touch. And it hurts him, more than anything she had ever done to him. He tries his other hand on the other arm and waits for a reaction. Three waves crash to the shore. And still, that stillness.

He wraps his arms around her from behind and smells her hair. The pungent smell of sun exposure fills his nostrils. He breathes it in again and smells the dying fruity fragrance of her hastily-washed hair. It makes him think of the home he has always wanted, the only kind of home he has ever known. He holds her tighter, so tight that she almost buckles underneath his might. He uses her frail shoulder blades to cup his face, and he braces himself to cry. 

But she is the one who gives in now and she breaks down. Their bodies face the bruised sky and they hold each other this way. It is easier to weep without seeing each other, facing the unknown instead. That is where she has to go, it is useless to look at him. She knows this now, and so must he.

“Please,” he says.

Wave. Crash.

Wave. Crash.

Wave. Crash.

She releases herself from his grasp, then she releases herself from her self-made grave. She realizes that she managed to bury herself till her ankles without her knowing. She looks at the foot-shaped hole. In an instant, another wave crashes to the shore, fills the hole, and it is as if it had never existed. 

Triumphant, she turns around and looks at him straight in the eye. His eyes are sad, angry, questioning. But her proud eyes say no, and her trembling voice says, “No.”

And then the waves finally touch her feet, calling her. It is time. 

She walks away, towards the ferry at the pier, towards the now-gone sun, towards the promise of a new life.

Night has finally arrived.