Write!

A friend I met in kindergarten (yes, kindergarten!) messaged me a few days ago, asking if I could talk to one of his students.

His student is a Creative Writing major, graduating from university soon. He said she was unsure about what to do after school and so he asked me to talk to her.

Jasper (a girl named Jasper!) emailed me this morning, telling me about her passions, her worries, her concerns.

Here's a portion of what I told her:

I understand how you feel about wanting to do stuff. We're all kettles filled with water, percolating. And now here you are boiling, not knowing whether you'll be used for tea, coffee, or...childbirth (in some far off land where people still give birth inside their homes...).

The thing is, expect to keep percolating for a while. Put yourself in a warmer. Pour some of yourself out bit by bit. But also remember to refill from time to time.

Metaphors aside, here is the truth: First order of business, get a job. Any job. Don't be confined to options that just pertain to your degree. Get yourself out there and learn. No, not necessarily learn, just...be. Just Dasein in the most Heidegger sense of the word. You may settle for drudgery, but make sure it is drudgery that will not drain you of your passions. Make it drudgery that will teach you that all things—even drudgery—will enrich you. 

If you want to write, you'll need to experience life first. The drudgery will keep you afloat. Create on the side.

If you do manage to find work that will let you create, know that you may not always be given the freedom to create what you want. It may be a case of creating something that a client wants, that a boss wants. Do that, too. This will give you perspective, make you less self-centric. Be self-introspective (by way of juxtaposing your Self with The Other), but don't ever allow yourself to be self-centric. Conceited creators get boring really fast.

But keep creating. Creating for an audience is one thing (the lure of fame can be intoxicating), but if you lose sight of creating for your Self, you will lose your Self. 

And don't rush things. I'm 33 years old. I've come to terms with my writing. The writing I do for a fee (and by now, I am able to ask people to pay me with good money...I mean really good money, it's ridiculous) feeds me and my family (I'm married with a child, yes, you can have a family even if you "just" write). But the writing I do for free, that's what keeps me human. That's something I've learned in my 14 years of freelance and full time writing. Sometimes there are demarcations (this one I do for "free", this one I do for a "fee"), but then there are moments of blissful Venn diagrams where I get to do both. And that's because I allowed the process to unfold. I waited this long to be "trusted", to build a roster of clients.

Long enough, also, to know when to not care about clients and when to give heed to them. 

At the same time, I did work. Actual, back-breaking work. That's just how it is. But even those struggles fed my writing.

And BE with people. Not just like-minded people. Just, people. Learn from them.

Also, write what you know. Imagination fueled by YOUR reality, that's the stuff of amazement. I'm bi-polar, and for a long time, it debilitated me. Those emo drivels cum suicide notes were realities for me. For a time, I didn't want to medicate because I thought my demons were my muses. Learn to distinguish between the two. 

So now, the writing I do for a fee—script writing, technical/textbook writing, editing, fluff pieces for magazines—I am now comfortable with; enough not to label myself as a sell-out. BUT! I also write about my own struggles with my bi-polarism, my family, my daughter, my memories of pain. I don't do that for a fee (although someone wants to publish my drivel, the stuff I blog about [which still appalls me], so let's talk again in a few years...) and so I don't have to (always) worry about my audience or pleasing anyone, and that is mighty cathartic. 

Keep writing. Have a journal. Blog (if you want to try writing for an "audience"). Just keep writing.

Get a mentor. The mentor doesn't have to be a writer. But let the mentor know you through and through. Let the mentor love you enough to be harsh with you. Let the mentor see you grow. Induce you to grow.

Read. For pleasure, for learning. And everything in between. (As an aside, Stephen King's On Writing is perhaps the best "writing" book I've ever read...and it's a memoir. Get your hands on that, if you can. I don't even necessarily like the fella, but that book has been dog-eared and marginalia-d to death by me.)

I'll stop at this point because I want to give you enough space to add on to this listicle (of sorts). 

---

I was writing to her, but it felt like I was writing to myself when I was young, haha! Writing that email allowed me to look back and be extremely grateful for all that has happened. Goodness, has it really been 14 years???

Best of luck, Jasper! Good times ahead. :)

Rainbow

A little over three years ago, I started to feel pain—the likes of which I had never experienced before. Many have attempted to describe the pain, but nothing really prepared me for it. It was as sharp as it was numb. As concentrated as it was all over the place.

Your Daddy was sleeping soundly beside me so I didn't want to wake him up until it was absolutely necessary. Loolah was in the room next door, she had flown in just in time for this, thankfully. Both of them being nearby calmed me down enough to be able to do my breathing exercises quietly, all through the night.

As I saw the sun rising, I woke your Daddy up. I told him it was time.

The whole day that day, I had different doctors and nurses come in to check on me. They had to look at my chart each time, and whenever someone would realize that it was my birthday, they'd greet me and tell me how sorry they were I was going through labor on my birthday.

A day and a half later, when all was done, I remember your Daddy asking me as soon as I woke up, what I wanted for my birthday. I said your name, out loud, for the first time referring to you in the flesh, no longer as this tiny thing inside of me. God knew the deepest desire of my heart. I had wanted you for so, so, so long. You were the only gift I wanted on my birthday.

It's been that way ever since, you know.

Feeling you get ready to come into the world on my birthday—and then finally holding you the next day—has been the most wondrous birthday gift, ever. You have been nothing but a blessing to me since the day you arrived.

You gave me the gift of strength. I never knew I could do so many things till you arrived.

You gave me the gift of patience. Not because I had to be patient with you, my darling. No, that's the easy part. I learned to be patient with myself, to allow myself to make mistakes and to forgive myself.

You gave me the gift of life. My beautiful angel, had you not walked in when you did, all would've been lost. You made me want to keep living.

You gave me the gift of love. Just when I think I can love you no more than this, you prove me wrong. There is so much more about you to love than I can ever hope to discover.

And now, on your third birthday, you've given me all these all over again, and more. You remind me and your daddy of what is truly important. You remind us why we need to keep on trying, why we need to keep on loving—and how, perhaps, we never really did stop trying and loving. We almost did, but you, the culmination of everything that is important and good and everlasting about us...you. You. You. You.

There is much more to be learned. We need more strength, more patience, in the weeks, months, and years to come. But you are our life, and you are our dearest, dearest, dearest love.

You are my rainbow, God's promise that he will be good to me. And how good he has been to me through your little face, your wrinkled nose, your mischievous eyes, your perfect smile.

Mommy and Daddy love you so much, Lucia. Happy birthday. :)

p.s. So sorry this was late, punkle. We were much to busy having actual fun on your birthday. :)

I Don't Know

“Clocks slay time...time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.” ―William Faulkner, The Sound and the Fury

When people say they need time, I can't help but look at them askance. "Time" is so...imprecise. When I give myself time, I often give myself deadlines, increments of my categorized day. Giving myself time would mean the length of time it would take to get a haircut, my nails done, a cup coffee, finish an article. For bigger goals, I give myself a month, two months, a season.

So when I ask others, "How much time?" I am filled with such unease when answered, "I don't know."

The fear isn't from the droning on and on and on of time ad nauseum. It's just that...the I Don't Know.

I don't know where this constant—and I do mean ever so painfully constant—sense of urgency comes from. I mean, I know, I'm a Type A personality, so I get it. But seriously, where does this constant need to hurry, to finish, to accomplish come from? Because, you know what? I'm tired.

Where does it come from?!? I shout to the ether.

"I don't know," it said.

Well, ain't that just grand.

“The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all. No other loss can occur so quietly; any other loss—an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc.—is sure to be noticed.” ―Søren Kierkegaard, The Sickness Unto Death

All these I Don't Knows makes me feel like I'm losing myself, very quietly. I've lost so much (and gained a lot, and lost some more), but this loss of self in the hurried-ness of finding out is making me feel like I'm slowly disappearing.

But oh, don't mind me. What do I know, right? Nothing. My name is Jon Snow, and I know nothing.

Because, really, the question is, how much time are you asking of me? How much time must I bate my breath?

And you don't know. Of course you don't.

And I don't know.

Happy Halloween!

This was my first time to actually wear a costume for Halloween. All the other occasions that had me in costume was for some geek quiz show, so it was fun to just dress up for laughs.

Didn't have to think it through too much since I'm basically a lot like her anyway, so yeah, jinkies, I came as Velma.

It was nice to have something to smile about that day. Goodness knows I needed something to make me happy, even for just a little while.

What Up, B.

My co-worker and I decided to try out Bikram Yoga for the first time tonight. I've done yoga in the past, often on and off, but it was never in a heated environment. I'd have to say that the hot room really made a difference. There were moments when I thought my head would explode from the heat.

But this isn't about the Yoga. Exactly.

There was a part in the session when our instructor was telling us to think about why we were there. Some wanted to get that summer body, the usual. And then he started talking about people with diseases, how these people thought they weren't strong enough for yoga. And he started telling us to just focus on why we there.

I was there because I needed to find my center. I needed to ground myself on something I could control. Because the past few days have been horrible.

I had to rush Lucia to the hospital because she had a forty degree fever. After a blood test, some harrowing nebulizer sessions, X-rays, and a steroid shot (with all the horrific drama, yes), we later found out that she had the croup. Nothing is quite as terrifying as seeing and hearing your child gasp for air.

And then I realized that I had been lied to—for months—by the person I thought I could trust the most. And that shook me—still shakes me—to the core. I cannot begin to explain how this hurts except to say...

...in between the breathing and the exhaling and the perspiring and the bending and the twisting, I was weeping. It started with just tears in my eyes. And then tears started falling. And then I was heaving, like legit Maalaala Mo Kaya pangit-crying.

And so now, I am drinking my Guinness and eating some leftover adobo, thoroughly, thoroughly, beautifully spent.

And I turn to my silver linings:

1. I did NOT collapse during the session. There were some who tapped out, but my co-worker and I did not. 
2. Lucia is getting much, much, much better. No more fever. And her cough's the gross phlegmy kind now.
3. I found comfort from the most unlikely of persons. Perhaps having been the recipient of the same kind of lies has brought us together. We aren't grieving together (for this sort of grieving must be done in solitude, our levels of pain are different, but pain it is) but at least I know I'm not alone, not crazy. 
4. And I know I'm a much stronger person now. I can do this. 

So I raise my frothy Guinness at you, Powers That Be. I shall overcome. Still I rise. And damnit, I survived my first 1.5 hours of Bikram yoga without quitting.

So, yeah. What up, B?!?

Chunkified for Later

It starts in the chest.

Somewhere. Not the heart—too cliche. Somewhere in the middle. I suppose that's my diaphragm. I imagine it being this mini atomic bomb mushroom and since that whole visualization thing from Lamaze is still in my head, I try to do away with that image. I replace it with a vision of Superman (seriously) carrying the bomb safely out of Earth. Superman throws the bomb miles and miles away into the great nothingness and I watch it (yes, I've become Superman now) as it explodes safely away from everything that matters.

That's what happens when I encounter something that's troubling. Sometimes, I am able to process the massive wave of emotions and ride on it, hanging ten safely back to shore.

Sometimes, though, I need more time to process things, so I take them in chunks. I take the situation apart, appropriate the categories for each chunkified emotion and set them aside for future consumption.

—

A former student of mine died last week. He wasn't just a student, he was my kid, part of my first ever moderating class. He died. He's dead. He's no longer with us. 

Saying these things ought to make it more real to me, but it still feels strange and painful all at the same time.

There are moments when I look to my right, and I see the memory of him. We used to carpool every day and we shared the back seat. He'd always be on the right, I'd be on the left. And so now, whenever I sit on the left side of anything, I shall always think of him.

He was a quiet boy in class, was never an aggravation. He was my beadle, so I managed to speak to him every day. Such an efficient boy, hardly ever absent.

He was more troubled than he led on, but that's how he is—was—he didn't like to be a burden to anyone. 

How I wish he had unburdened himself to someone, to anyone, to me. But.

—

I'm watching some kind of slow yet (definitely) un-quiet implosion take place. I vacillate between wanting to help and getting hit by shrapnel. I suppose I should just stay away.

—

Lucia will be three in a few weeks. She's growing so fast. There are times when Chad and I will just say (to ourselves, to each other), "Ang laki na nya." One of us would say it first, and then the other would say it, even if it was said just moments ago. As if the repetition would somehow slow the process.

But she is growing and blossoming and...I still wonder how I will ever become worthy of being her mother. She says things that blow my mind, does things that make me tear up with pride, and understands way too much. 

We decided to hold off on the play school/daycare since she's looked after by either me, Chad, or the yaya during the day, but next year, she'll be starting school. I am excited and fearful and, goodness...let's chunkify this emotion. Let's deal with this later.

My baby. Ang laki na nya.

—

I am happy where things are and where things are headed. 

I'm not going to Pollyanna this thing though. I am fully aware of the extraneous variables that need to be addressed, need to be removed. But things are where they are due to hard, ongoing work and prayer. And I am grateful. Ever so grateful.

—

And everything else.

—

His anger came from the stomach.

Rest in peace, Billy. Rest in peace, Kurt.

Because, This

No matter what, it will still be about what is important. 

And that means finding out what isn't important and doing away with that.

Objectification

I had another tsunami dream.

I was in some resort with my family. My brothers and I were exploring the place as my parents were sleeping in our room. For some reason, the resort was deserted, but I didn't feel scared. It didn't even feel weird. My brothers and I went down to the pool area but found it boring, so we went to the gate that fronted the sea.

The waves were huge, like buildings—but calm. The water was a deep blue, almost like it had been dyed. The waves were constant and kept coming and coming, but there were no whitecaps. Just a calm onslaught, if such a thing were possible.

And then I woke up. And that was that.

---

Before falling asleep last night, I remember telling myself, "Hmmm. I feel blue." Not sad, not angry; no intense feeling of anything, just...blue. I contemplated on whether or not to take my for-emergency-only medication, but I wasn't anxious, I wasn't panicking. I just felt—yeah—blue.

Sometimes I feel like my sense of calm is being poured on top of me, like water. It cascades from the top of my head and then the water makes a deliberate path down my body and then envelopes every inch of me in this thin, protective layer of moisture. For a while, everything is all right. The water cools me, calms me down. And the moisture stays.

After a while, when I feel the calm escape me bit by bit, the moisture becomes this thin layer, like plastic wrap. I don't know if this happens automatically or I somehow trigger this. It becomes a barrier of sorts. When things become more difficult to handle, the barrier thickens and thickens and thickens until...

...I am now in a glass case that's formed to fit my body exactly. I can still see through it and people can still see me, but it's getting harder to move. Getting harder to see. But I'm not panicking. I still know what's going on.

The next stage is akin to the shedding of old scales by reptiles. I can see that, at some point soon, a tiny crack shall appear in this glass case (either by my doing or some outside force) and that shall signal my eventual exposure.

It's a vicious cycle, but, as with all routines, it also gives me a sense of calm. For as long as that cycle continues to turn, I know I am still alive. Every click that indicates movement is a signal of another breath taken.

I can now somehow objectify myself, something I wasn't able to do when I was in the depths of my depression. I am able to sort of hover above myself and zoom in to the parts of me that are identifiable.

I am a weather station map. I see the storms that have left my area of responsibility, I see the ones that are coming. There are parts of me that are obscured by the claw-like wisps of the outer fringes of a storm.

I am a ticked box in a check list.

I am the hastily written marginalia on a book.

I am the un-highlighted portion of a heavily highlighted law textbook.

And that is that.

"And, where there is objectification, there cannot be participation, and without the availability of participation, there cannot be presence." - Jill Graper Hernandez on Gabriel Marcel

Self-Worth

And so continues therapy. I've been focusing on building life skills. Hay.

1. This would never have happened had we not moved back there. 

My therapist and I were trying to revisit certain events, trying to pinpoint when the sadness began. For me, it had always been clear. That wasn't the difficult part.

I've been apologizing for what I did, for what happened, as unclear as those events are to me right now. (It's amazing how hazy some parts of last year's events are; it's like my brain is consciously prohibiting me from remembering everything.) Part of all this process is my having to come to terms with the things I did to myself and to others and owning up to all of that. Apologizing has been a difficult exercise in humility, but there is a certain calm that descends upon me after the act of apologizing.

That still isn't the difficult part.

I don't think I've been fully forgiven for everything—certainly there is still enough pain and anger to go around—but I've also consigned this to the whole process.

Still, not the difficult part.

What this process has granted me is this realization though: I deserve to be forgiven. I have enough self-worth to desire that now. But yeah, process.

The actual difficult part is expecting that somehow, I would be apologized to. I want an apology. From her. I can only apologize and take responsibility for so much. But this happened as a direct result of other things, and I feel like I ought to be apologized to as well. I mean, I can be allowed to feel this way, right?

And the hardest of all this is the knowledge that that person will never ask for forgiveness. I know that much about her. And so begins another process (and the most difficult part of all): that of forgiving her when she doesn't want to be forgiven, when she doesn't even think she has to be forgiven.

2. "It's a condition, you don't have to keep saying that you're sick. You're being treated now."

I try to be upfront about my...condition; not that I owe anyone a thorough explanation. But I feel like I ought to warn people closest to me (not just by emotional affinity, but also by physical proximity) that there are reasons why I can't do or can't participate in certain things. Or why I have to do some things a certain way. 

Most of the time, I'll poke fun at myself first. Sort of call out the elephant in the room so that people won't get too uncomfortable. I'm always so worried that I might make people uncomfortable to be around me. I don't want to be THAT person, you know? But I'm also slowly learning that finding the funny in the situation is different from making fun of myself—because I think it allows other people to make fun of me, and sometimes it gets really hurtful. 

Not that a lot of people are making fun of me. It's just...

Let's just put it this way: If I had cancer, you wouldn't be telling me to up my radiation therapy just so I'd be less cancer-y, right? 

So, yeah. 

Must make sure I don't let people think it's okay to make flippant comments about my medication or my condition. Must stand up for myself. Must stop being so nice. Must allow myself to defend myself. I've been apologizing and existentially genuflecting to people I've wronged for so long. 

Oi, but Katinka, you did not hurt every single blessed person on earth. (Sorry, yes, I'm talking to myself.) So do Bob Marley proud and get up, stand up, stand up for your rights. (Okay, I'm singing the song in my head now. Sorry, I've just let you all inside my head. This is a confusing place. You may step out now.)

I need to learn to say stop. It's not funny anymore. I don't appreciate being spoken to like that. I don't appreciate having my awful life events become fodder for some mindless banter. (Rinse. Repeat.) Sorry. I mean it.

(Goodness. And to think I was such a you-know-what when I was younger.)

3. I've come so far and I feel like I'm almost in a good place, but this...this is holding me back.

Sigh. But THAT's for next week. Still so much to do. But, process. Process.

Sssh Sundays

Rainy, sleepy, lazy. 

Baby Steps

Step 1, State the Obvious:
I haven’t written anything down in weeks.

Step 2, Establish Context:
I’ve been busy with work and Lucia, but mostly, I’ve been busy making sure that my wits are about me.

Step 3, State Present Conditions:
Tired. Un-hungry. Lonely. Confused. Excited. Afraid. Overwhelmed. Noisy. Sad. Angry. Ambivalent. Doubtful. But most of all, un-hungry.

Step 4, Use a Photograph to Show How You Are:

Photo taken by friend and former co-worker, Adam David.

Step 5, Assure People:
I’m okay.

Step 6, Don’t Lie:
I’m functioning.

Step 7, Explain:
Despite feeling incredibly alone (and lonely) most of the time, I find that I need to that weightlifter thing—the squatting, the sudden inhaling, the grimacing—to be well enough to cater to the needs of a toddler who’s so smart and energetic, I have to wonder if my womb is, indeed, a petri dish; so meticulously and perfectly formed is she.

Step 8, Emphasize the Brighter Side While Cleverly Underscoring the Sadness of It All:
Well, at least I don’t have lupus.

Step 9, Reassure to Segue Into a Close:
But I’ve been through worse. I’m recognizing all my feelings. I’m calling them out. They’re not faceless phantoms. And yes, I’ve been through worse. Onward, Christian soldiers. Much love.

Step 10, State Your Name:
Katz