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.

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.

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?

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).

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.

Closing

A few weeks ago, my new shrink stopped in the middle of history taking and asked me to answer a questionnaire of sorts. As the session closed, she prescribed some anti-anxiety meds to take when I "feel like I needed it". I said I was fine, that I didn't really need it, but she insisted; the score I got in the questionnaire made her reiterate her recommendation. (I don't know what score I got, but she looked concerned.)

As I took it tonight, Lucia asked, "Mommy, are you taking your medicine again?"

"Yes," I said.

"Okay. I'll tell Manang I'll take a shower now so we can be on the bed before your eyes go closing again." (She can tell when my meds finally kick in because I turn really groggy and I am literally unable to keep my eyes open.)

Am I making her grow up too fast? Does she feel like she has no choice but to take care of me?

Emotional self-flagellation is exhausting.

And so I wait for my wee one and hope that she falls asleep before I do, so she won't hear me cry again.

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.

Punch-Drunk Gratitude

You know what?

The past few weeks have been exhausting. And soul-crushing. (I will never marry again. I will never marry again. I will never marry again. Well, maybe I will. If I find a Unicorn.) I try not to make this blog a platform of bitterness (I'm looking at you, Katinka of 2009, for shame), so I won't tell you why exactly.

But, my goodness. My goodness.

But I'm not here to talk about that. (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 7, 8, 9, 10...woosah.) I'm here to talk about incredible grace.

If you ask me about single motherhood I will tell you about:

• How parents always come charging when asked. How they come silently, gently, when not. How they always come. They always, always come.
• How brothers grow up to be the sort of men that you are in awe of. Such talent, such intelligence, such humility, such magnificent sense of Others.
• How family prays for you. And roots for you. And reminds you that you are made of sterner stuff. That dignity runs in the family. That miracles happen.
• How friends just give. And give. And give. And tell you, to stop being mothering them, to let them mother you.
• (But also, thank you for letting me mother you all.)

And.

• How your child reminds you that you have to stop and listen. Kiss like the Maoris do. Smell armpits. Make laway bubbles. Reminds you that your biggest mistake will cause you a lot of things (good riddance), but the ones that are important, will remain the same (thank God).

If you ask me about single motherhood, I will tell you that it is the biggest grace I've ever received.

And in all things—even if that "all" isn't much—I give thanks.

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.

Children

She wanted me to sit by the stairs as she played with the other kids all by herself. I could hear her talk to the other kids and most of them ignored her. They were mostly 7 and 8 and 9, and they spoke Tagalog fluently. ("Ba't may baby dito?" "Ayoko dyan, English!")

I stayed away, dear reader. I stayed away.

There were three who knew Lucia, though, and I could hear them talking to her (in English). She would peek from around the corner, to make sure I was still there. Still far away. But still there. She waved and smiled. "I'm okay, Mama!"

One of the meaner kids said, "May mumu dyan!" (I STAYED AWAY!) One of the boys (Arvi—the one who knows Darth Vader, remember him?) pulled Lucia aside and said, "There's no such thing. Don't believe him."

Another boy, Axl (also a regular playmate) said, "Come on, Lucia, Arvi and will play with you in your house."

Lucia said, "Okay. How about the other children? Do they want to play, too?" (She called them "children"—the same way an adult would.)

And I—the adult—said, "I don't like them. They can all go away." (And they did.)

God bless my darling's kind heart, but this mother will only take so much. Besides, I was good, I stayed away (for as long as I could).

The boys have left, leaving behind a mess. "Sorry for the mess," she said. And kissed me on the nose.

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.

For The Woman You Will Become

First, a statement:

I just had to let that off my chest.

Still I Rise

Maya Angelou, 1928 - 2014

 You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

//

All because of her.

For the woman she will become.

Happy International Women's Day.

Beautiful

When I was young, I used to watch my mom, my Nana, and my Lola (great grandmother, in this case) put on cold creams and moisturizers. I soaked in their smells and watched their rituals with great wonder. Something about the whole process—the smells, the movements, the soft sounds—has always made me feel sleepy and warm and safe. 

I am now old enough to (legitimately) worry about wrinkles. (And white hair. And an aching back. And wearing sensible shoes. And...) I've recently just established some sort of pattern that can now be called an actual skin regimen. Late to the party, but hurrah-hurrah.

Lucia watches me now, as I moisturize the heck out of my body in the hopes of getting rid of all the bad choices I've made. (Heh.) She now knows what bottle I reach for, how much moisturizer I put in my hand, even how long I massage my face. "Let me, Mommy!" as she hands over the toner. "I'll shake it, Mommy!" as she gives me the moisturizer. "I like this blue!" as she gives me my tub of Nivea cream. (Aside: This one is straight out of my childhood—all three aforementioned ladies used this, too).

I was running my fingers through my wet hair and she helped me with the tangles. Suddenly, she rested her face on my belly and said, "Your tummy is soft and your face is soft. Like me! You're so beautiful, Mommy. Am I beautiful, too?"

"Yes, my love. More beautiful than anything I've seen."

"I love you, Mommy. Do you love me, too?"

"More than anything now, then, or ever will be."

"I love our bellies, Mommy. We're so soft and beautiful."

Oh, my darling. I suppose I love my belly now, too. (Your soft belly, however, I love most absolutely.)

Some day, the world will tell you that you have to look a certain way to be pretty, my love. And it won't look anything like Mommy. But always remember this moment. You and I, we are beautiful. We are loved. Our love makes us beautiful. 

Here We Go

Tomorrow, I will take the first big step towards getting my freedom (identity, voice, name, courage, sanity) back. I'm pragmatic enough to know that annulment is an arduous and long process. But I remain ever-hopeful.

I want my freedom back. My identity. Voice. Name. Courage. Sanity.

But mostly, I want to focus all my energies on that which makes me sane. And brave (sometimes, because I have to be). That which gives me the name I love the most. The reason I still have a voice and choose to utter it. The Me I love out of all the Me-s I have ever been or ever will be.

Mommy. That is who I am first and foremost, forever and ever.

I pray for strength, everybody. It's going to be a bumpy ride, but I can't wait to get there.

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.

This

Lucia was just about to turn five months old. I had the entire month off from work—the first time I deliberately shied away from extra work since I started teaching—and we spent every single blessed day together. We had no yaya and so I did everything while "wearing" her on a sling.

Afternoons were my favorite. The world slowed down a bit. She'd be napping and I'd be watching her little face, gently marked with the footprints of her dreams: dimples and crinkles and fleeting half-giggles. I specifically told myself to remember that moment, that time, that period. My chest swelled with happiness.

("I shall remember these days, the halcyon days of my prime and your infancy, when protecting you against the noisy neighbor was my highest mandate. Soon, it shall be much more complicated. It shall be much more daunting." - April, 2011. Remember that wretched boy, Andre?)

And now, Lucia is napping, one leg languidly and obnoxiously draped over my thighs, as if to say, "Yes, I am napping, but I'll know if you stand up and leave, so stay there."

I feel my chest swell again. And in this moment, I am happy.

Lullaby

We were playing the whole day, in and out of our solitary moments. She was building/making stuff. I was reading. We hugged while watching TV. We ate noodles. I made lemonade. She gathered her dolls' hair into clips.

In between cuddles, I panicked about the future. Swallowed unbidden tears. School. Annulment. Deadlines. Money. Future,

(I read an article with a list of things that I should accomplish by age 40. I am so screwed.)

My sweet-smelling girl (she had two raspberry yogurts, she smells like a summer day in a farmer's market back home in Grand Rapids) is asleep now. I played the song that I used to play over and over again while she was still inside me. I played it many, many times when she was a baby to soothe her into sleep. The last time we listened to the song to usher in sleep was back in Dalipuga. When I played it this evening, she hugged me closer and said, "This is my lullaby." She pressed her face against my breast (for a moment I thought force of habit would make her suckle again) and fell asleep in five minutes.

And in this moment, before I succumb to the familiar tugs of this lullaby (for I, too, am answerable to its call), may I say how suddenly, quietly, and utterly ...

...sad I am?

I nuzzle my daughter's temples and wait for sleep.