Union of Kapwa: I am happy if you are happy

My baby brother got married today! Jerome married Leanna on a beautiful day in Michigan. I wasn't able to go because my visa got denied. (Unsurprising but still fantastically disappointing. Anyway.)

Leanna’s grandfather officiated their wedding and they asked me to deliver the message after the scripture reading (1 Cor 13, the “love” passage). I love how Jerome and Leanna were really intentional about including everyone near and far. This is so like them.

Sharing what I wrote to further celebrate their marriage from this side of the world.

——

Hello, everyone! My name is Katrina, my family calls me Katinka. I am Jerome, and now Leanna's, Ate. Ate means older sister.

I'm coming to you from the Philippines and I am so sorry, I am unable to join you. But I am grateful that I was given a chance to speak and celebrate with all of you today.

If this isn't your first wedding, then I'm sure the piece of scripture read today will be familiar. I've heard that piece of scripture used in weddings, mostly, but if we look closely, it is a deliberate, clear, and unshakeable call to love—in all its forms. It does not tell us what love looks like, but what it does. What love compels us to do. What love empowers us to do.

Leanna tells me that perichoresis, rooted in Greek, is the dynamic, intimate union or mutual indwelling of the three persons of the Trinity: God the parent, God the child, and God the holy spirit. There is no better union than this. And there is no greater mystery than this. But, as Leanna puts it, it is "an exquisite dance of divine affection."

Here today, is another union just as blessed. A union between Jerome and Leanna. Also a union of family and friends. (And hopefully also a lot of dancing later.)

I've heard how unions are supposed to be the end of the self for the purpose of being one with the other. There is comfort, I suppose, in the thought of never having to be alone, of having a partner through life, but I invite us to think of union in the same way we view the mystery of the trinity. The divine dance of all three without the diminishing of the three distinct persons that grant us love, grace, and salvation.

In Filipino, the word for "other" is "kapwa". "Ka" is a prefix whose closest translation is "co". Someone you do things with, feel things with, and all that. "Pwa" or "puwang" refers to space.

In English, the word "other" connotes a separate entity, but in Filipino, we view our other as some who is part of our selves. Someone who not only shares the same space, but someone who shares the same hopes, dreams, anguish, delight, victories. That, I think, is what today is. A recognition of kapwa in love.

In Zimbabwe, people greet each other everyday like this:

Mangwanani: ‘Good morning’

Wamuka sei?: ‘How did you wake up?

Ndamuka kana wamukawo: ‘I woke well if you woke up well.’

This is the essence of ubuntu: “I am because we are."

What do these Filipino and Shona iterations of union tell us? That we are nothing without the other? No. The love of others, the unification with others, does not negate the self. The community, the collective, is enhanced by each other person's uplifting of the other. I do not base my happiness on your happiness. I am happy if you are happy, while also believing and trusting that you are happy if I am happy. It is an edifying, symbiotic hope, belief, and trust that the same love that lifts me also lifts you.

You hear this, too, in Jesus' own words: the greatest commandment is to love others—your kapwa—as you love yourself.

This is the ongoing dance, the give and take, the twirls and dips, the taking of turns. This is love. This is the dance that God invites us to.

The world is a scary place now, but today, we have found love. We celebrate a union between two people that also shines a light on the union they've created with their community of friends and family. We celebrate the Others, we celebrate with the Othered. We celebrate the trinity that shows us what it's like to love without having to fully understand the mystery.

And whatever God invites into union in love, community of others, let no one put asunder.

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.

Incredible

Out of the blue, Lucia asked, "Mommy, what's the most incredible thing you've ever done?"

A short pause, and I said, "Breastfeeding you." I often talk about breastfeeding her with her and she made the sound that I told her she used to make. It sounded like a sigh. I told her she would often look at me while I breastfed her, and so we would look at each other while she fed.

"I wish I remember what it was like," she said.

I will always remember it. After giving birth, I had to stay in the hospital three more days to recover. Even so, we were forced to go home without her as she still needed to stay in the NICU. (She was born in distress.) I looked at the empty baby seat beside me in the car and felt immensely broken. I spent that first night at home crying. In the middle of the night, an intense pain overwhelmed me. My milk had come in and my body was writhing in the pain of not being able to mother.

When I went to the NICU the next day, I realized I had no idea how to breastfeed her. The nurse brought her to me and she was crying. I was so afraid. And then I held her. And then she stopped crying. And then she latched. The relief was enormous.

When she was finally satiated, she slept, but my breasts were still leaking. There was simply so much more to give.

I was still breastfeeding when I was confined in the psych ward. The first few days, I had to pump my milk, only to see the nurses pour it down the drain. My milk had turned poisonous for my child because of my meds. Never had I felt more useless, like a complete failure. On the fourth day, the milk simply did not come anymore. The pain I felt when my milk came was nothing compared to the pain when my milk left.

It's been years since my breasts have gone dry, but thankfully, there is still so much to give.

One time, she said, "I can't believe so much milk came from these." (Prepubescent girls have larger breasts than I do, haha.) "But it's still my favorite place to be in," she said, and then she slept.

Weeping and Chopping Vegetables

Even before she died, I had fully intended to write about Nana's life. One of the books that I planned to write — and she and I would talk about these books often during our lazy afternoons in Dalipuga, after our respective afternoon naps — was a cookbook that detailed all the dishes she used to make for us in Nangka Road.

---

One time, I was helping her chop vegetables for dinner. I asked her how she wanted me to chop the vegetables. She said, "Any way you like." I started slicing them into cubes, and then I second guessed myself, "Maybe I should've julienned them instead." And I looked at the half-chopped cucumber in front of me. I could either keep on cubing them, knowing I should have julienned them, or start julienning them, knowing that I wasted half of the cucumber by cubing them. Julienne or cube? Julienne or cube???

I started to shake. My heart started to palpitate. My eyes filled with tears. I couldn't breathe.

"What's wrong?" Nana asked.

"I think I did the vegetables wrong. I'm so, so sorry, Nana," I wept.

She held me close.

Before, when my ex mother-in-law would ask me to help prepare the meal, she would get mad at how badly I chopped vegetables, sliced the meat, stirred the pot, anything. She would get the knife from me and show me how to do it, all the while speaking to me like an idiot. "Bakit hindi mo 'to alam?!" She would seethe. "If you do it the way you do, it ruins the skin/breaks the fat/scratches the pot/consumes too much electricity/etc." This was just one of the many micro-aggressions I had to endure with her.

That afternoon with Nana, when I was telling her about That Woman, was also the first time I held a knife after trying to use one to fatally harm myself.

I wept this whole story to Nana who listened quietly and held me close. She said, "She's far away now. And you are here. You are in our paradise. You are safe. And we will eat the vegetables any way you want."

I wept and ate the vegetables.

---

Seeing this article ("A Granddaughter's Powerful Love Story, Told Through An Indian Cookbook" by Kamala Thiagarajan) made my heart weep a bit. I haven't really written anything of substance since she died. I feel like I've lost the ability somewhat. I have this book in mind, one that tells of her adventures before she was married, but that's a little too painful to write about right now — because I know how difficult life was for her soon after that period of her life.

Anyway.

This article was beautiful and I expect the book to be the same.

---

From the article:

The five morsels in the book's title refers to these cousins, who bonded over such exquisite meals. They're represented in the recurring motif of the five grains of rice that prance across the soft yellow cloth-bound cover like snowflakes.

Her grandmother's death in 2007, barely nine weeks after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, devastated the family. Pidathala, who had recently moved hundreds of miles away to Bengaluru to begin a career in IT, particularly reeled after the loss.

"I had always promised her we'd work together on an English translation of her cookbook, written in Telugu [a language native to Indian states of Andhra Pradesh and Telangana]," says Pidathala. The simple paperback had seen three print runs since it was published in 1974. It was the kind of book that emigrants sought to carry back with them overseas. By offering an authentic taste of home, it helped them ache less for what they'd left behind.

---

Postscript: My Nana died after a short but painful bout of cancer in March 2016.

Little Teapot

I've been seeing a lot of my old pictures lately because of that On This Day feature of Facebook. I look so different.

I've gained weight since a lot of these pictures were taken and I've kept the weight. I don't think I'll be losing it any time soon, not much of it, at least. I started gaining weight when I found a cocktail of medicines that finally worked in treating the bi-polar/depression I have to live with for the rest of my life.

Sometimes I think about the time when I was thin(nish). I basically lived on close to nothing. I was constantly thinking of ways to kill myself. Constantly thinking of ways to punish myself for having survived my attempts.

When I was thin, people used to compliment me all the time. "Payat!" (Like that, in and of itself, was enough of a compliment and not just a fact. Nobody says "Taba!" and means well.) "Hindi ka mukhang nanay!" (Like looking like a mother was a bad thing. Like there was one way to look like a mother.)

I don't get compliments about my looks as often now. That's fine, I suppose. I wouldn't compliment me either. I'd like to work on that, though. But it's hard to feel better about myself if everything and everybody else is so bloody harsh on people who look like teapots like me (short and stout). I can't see properly without my glasses, I have spots and wrinkles on my face. I dress either like a cupcake or the secretaries they make fun of in Mad Men.

But you know what? I'm smart. Like, really smart. Not like genius smart, but, and all apologies to Yogi, I am smarter than the average bear. (And—hurrah!—thinner than most bears.) I've done a lot of great things with this brain, plagued by mental illness though it is.

I'm also kind. At least I try to be kind. Sure, most of the time it's because I'm guilty for being me. But I'm also very empathetic. Ask anyone and they will tell you that I will be here if you need me and I will help you in any way I can. I genuinely like taking care of people. I take care of people all the time, sometimes I think there's something wrong with me. (Joke lang, there's always something wrong with me.)

Oh, and I'm also interesting to look at because I have 18 tattoos. Each one has a story, and I am a great storyteller.

And yaman din lamang na mukha na talaga akong nanay diba, I take my being a mother very seriously. It is the one thing in my life that I CONSTANTLY try to be good at.

And you know what? I'm alive. Each day is a decision to stay alive, and most days it is not an easy decision to make.

So there. I don't know how to end this post. I don't think this is inspiring enough to rouse people into loving themselves with the ferocity of a Nike commercial. (Tutal, wala namang nag-wo-workout sa post na 'to.)

So, instead, here's a picture of a sunset that I got from the Internet. Insert your own inspirational quote na lang.

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.

I See You

I had my first nervous breakdown and saw my first shrink at age 8. I had monstrous panic attacks. It took 3 full grown adults to get me out of bed & into the shower just so that I could go to school. But the attacks got so bad, I ended up not going to school for several months. Eventually, I was able to transfer to a new school. It was a long & slow process before I could actually go to school without a yaya because the attacks would come without warning. The attacks lessened, but they continued until high school. They only stopped when I finally met my friends. (The truest friends I could ever have; they're still my friends now.)

College was when I was most "normal".

I was able to make a lot of friends in college. That means that a lot of the people I still know now met me when I was "normal". Most people didn't even know I had mental health issues.

Anyway, what I'm saying is, don't let anyone tell you how you should manifest your mental illness. Don't let them tell you that what you're going through is invalid because you don't neatly fit the categories set by BuzzFeed or Thought Catalog. Don't let them make you feel bad for doing what you could to live through your anxiety.

Or maybe, let them. Because sometimes you simply don't have it in you to fight them. But please, don't believe them.

You didn't "pretend", you were trying to survive. If they can't see that, know that *I* see that. I see you. You are important. You are valid. You are worthy. No matter how your story unfolded. No matter how your story is unfolding.

Good night. xo

They Did Not Tell Me

If you want to hear from a lot of experts, all you have to do is get pregnant and have a child. (So easy!) Suddenly, these experts will tell you everything you need (or not need) to know about having a child, becoming a parent, becoming responsible for another human life.

What they didn't quite tell me, though, is this: I will give life to my daughter, but I will cling to her for the rest of my life; she gives me life. She is my life.

They did not tell me that I will search for her face in a sea of strangers and find her in a blue butterfly costume and my heart will not know what to do with the joy and pride that will fill every nook and cranny of my heart with such a force that it will make me cry.

They did not tell me that her absentminded way of pushing hair away from her face would make me think of the impossibility and possibility of perfection existing in such a distraction.

They did not tell me how incredibly difficult it would be to leave her behind, asleep, unaware that I have left. That I would count all the millions of things we could have done together had I stayed home. 

They did not tell me how her face when I return would bring such utter relief; that I would spend the whole day with only that face to keep me going.

They didn't tell me that when I cuddle her, it is as if I am holding, in my inadequate arms, all my yesterdays and tomorrows. That while there is a constant undercurrent threat of mortality, there is forever in intertwined fingers. That she will look for the perfect spot between my shoulder and breast and nestle, and I will let her settle and I will contort my body and any permutation of our unified form will feel most natural. 

They did not tell me. And so what am I to do now?

Fourth

I haven't written anything in ages. Mostly because I haven't been able to write properly since Nana died. Writing means I need to listen to the voices inside, and I didn't really want to listen to all the crying I wasn't doing out loud.

I've been away from my daughter for two weeks for work. But tonight I travel back (by bus).

And so I'm a whole mess of emotions.

Also. Tomorrow will be my 4th Second Birthday.

All these feelings, my goodness.

But you know what? I've been good. I've actually been really good. I haven't been depressed since switching meds. (Oh, wait, I haven't told you all about that yet. For some other time, then.) Just busy. Functioning. Going on and on.

I miss Nana. So, so, so much. I miss her random messages. Our political discussions. Her stories. Her laughter. I miss Lucia. Her nose. Her nape. Her smile. I miss everything. I feel so far away at this moment.

But I want to take a moment to celebrate my Second Birthday right now. Because I owe it to myself to celebrate it every year. And so I will.

Four years. My goodness. I don't even remember whole chunks of events anymore. Four years.

And because tomorrow, when I arrive home, I won't have time to write about it. Because I will be happy, happy, happy to be back with my Lucia. And I still won't know how to write. Because feelings. So much of it.

Okay.

Moment over. Back to whatever it was I was doing.

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).

Me Being Me

Last night, when the lights were out, Lucia started crying. I asked her what was wrong, she said nothing, she just kept crying. In the dark, we drew closer to each other and she nestled into my arms. (What is gratitude but the profound truth that no matter how big she gets, she will always fit inside me? In my womb, my arms, my heart.)

I asked again, "What's wrong, Ci?"

"I don't like me being me," she said.

Can I tell you how painful this was to hear? Can I tell you how this shattered my heart? Can I tell you how the weight of that crushed my soul? Can I tell you how the light that pierced the darkness when I turned on the lamp illuminated nothing?

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She cried for a few more minutes.

In those minutes I thought: What if she absorbed all of my self-doubt? What if she senses how much I hate myself and she thinks this is okay? What if she learns that it is impossible to love yourself because of me? What if she grows up thinking this way? What if she never understands how beautiful she is in every way? What if she never gets to know who she really is—the only true and beautiful thing in my world? What if—?

"Mommy, I want to be you. I don't want to be me anymore, I want to be you..."

Can I tell you how painful this was to hear? Can I tell you how this shattered my heart? Can I tell you how the weight of that crushed my soul? Can I tell you how the light that pierced the darkness when I turned on the lamp illuminated...everything?

She continued to cry.

"I love everything about you, Ci. You being you is the best thing that ever happened to me. I love every bit of you."

She continued to cry.

"Did something happen for you to feel this way?" I asked.

She shook her head. She hugged me tighter. She said, "I want to be you, Mommy."

And in all helplessness and wonder and humility and gratitude and fear, I held her till she fell asleep.

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? :)

Maybe Later

This morning, a conversation:

Lucia walks up to me, holding a stuffed dog (an ugly little thing with pretty bows), a gift her "other lola" gave her.

"Mommy, I want you to love my other Lola."

"I can't force myself to love someone I hate, babe. I'm sorry."

"But I love her."

"And that's okay. You can love her all you want. I really can't."

"Can you love her later. Like in...December?"

"I can't say. I can be nice to her, but I really can't love her."

"Okay. Hey, mom. You know what else I was thinking?"

(BRACING MYSELF.)

"No, what?"

"What's Ariel's (the Little Mermaid) mom's name?"

--

Woman, if by any chance you read this, know that at some point, before knowing who you are and what you did, your granddaughter loved you. I will keep her from the painful truth for as long as I can, but when she asks (and if she is old enough), I will tell her.

And you know what? She will probably still love you. Because she is beautiful that way.

As for me...

--

Someday, I will stop hating you. Maybe. And long after that, maybe then, I will forgive you.

--

(And I continue to pray for forgiveness for being unable to forgive.)

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.

You Are Enough

Oh, the immeasurable joy of having your child reach out for you in mid-sleep, in mid-nightmare; having her hold you and smell you and seeing her calm down. In that eternity of a moment, all self-doubt washes away. In that eternity, you are enough.

(But she, she is more than enough. She is everything.)

And in the infinity between then and the not-yet-now, you believe that it is true, and that it is the only truth that matters.

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.

When the World Was Pink

I have been told countless times that my daughter is almost exactly like me. We have the same expressions, the same interests, the same speech patterns. We have the same hair, the same laugh, the same chin, the same nose. We have the same love language (touch), the same temper (intense). She has my OCD and the same obsession with pink. We can both talk nonstop.

I see parts of her that aren't me, though. She is fearless. She is sure on her feet. She takes to swimming and running and all other physical activities like a natural.

My whole life is about her.

--

It is almost impossible to think of myself apart from being a mother; and yet it is this aspect—this non-mother-ness—that weighs heavily on me. As the annulment process reaches the next stage, reading all sorts of summaries of reports and testimonies, I realize that before that, I couldn't think of myself apart from being a wife.

For what am I—now—if you strip away my being a mother, a wife?

I am lonely. I am afraid. I am tired. I am confused.

I would like to have someone take care of me, ask me about my day, massage my head, my shoulders. I would like someone to tell me that my laughter lifts his/her spirits. That my laughter matters.

I would like someone to notice how my laughter has been hollow of late. How my eyes are sad. How he/she listens to me weep at night and stays up late to tell the ghosts to go away. To leave me alone.

I want to hear, "I love that you take care of me. But here, let me take care of you."

Just don't tell me you love me. I disbelieve it now if it doesn't come from my family and best friends.

--

I'm just tired. And in a few days, it will have been a year since.

And in that year, I will have been alone by choice. Too afraid and disgusted and walled-in.

--

Sometimes, my condition makes me doubt my own memories of happiness. I doubt if those happiness-es were real or just a by-product of my mania.

I do remember one moment when I was neither wife nor mother.

I was driving home from one of my classes in the dead of winter. The roads were miraculously clear and the snow was still. It was moments after dusk and the world around me was pink. The sky, the snow, the air—everything was pink. And the world was quiet and still. I opened my windows and drove home in silence. I didn't notice my tears and how they had all but frozen on my cheeks. I don't even remember why I cried. All I knew was that, at that moment, I was happy.

--

I go back to bed and nurse the abdominal pain that—contrary to what everyone said—didn't go away after I gave birth. (This PMS, unlike most of my relationships, though, is constant, reliable.) I close my eyes as this inchoate migraine has turned me photosensitive again. And my child love languages me calm. For now, I am only mother, for it is the one thing that makes sense to me. She whispers, "I love you," and for a moment, I forget how long it has been since I last heard that as a form of a lie.