Awake

Most co-sleeping parents know this: In an effort to make your little punkle fall asleep, you have to feign sleep yourself...but sometimes you pretend so well, you—well—fall asleep.

This usually happens with me and Lucia, except that a few minutes after she falls asleep, I usually wake up. Something about naps in the middle of the day makes me uncomfortable. I'm afraid of midday naps. Because (deep breath):

If I nap, I think I won't be able to fall asleep at night. I have insomnia (without my meds, I can go about two days on two hours' worth of sleep) and so if I'm un-sleepy at night because I had a nap, it makes me panic. And when I panic about not being able to fall asleep, I won't fall asleep, and when I don't fall asleep, then I'll be grumpy. And when I'm grumpy, I become hyper-aware that I am so I'll be friendlier/more hyper than usual at work to overcompensate. Which will exhaust me. Which will make me want to take a nap. But I know I can't, so I won't. But it'll frustrate me, so I'll be grumpy. And then <insert loop>.

Lucia's a fidgety little thing and she likes to mindlessly prop her leg up on my leg or snake her hand into my shirt's armhole (I know, it's strange) or put our noses together until she falls asleep. I coo and hold her tight and stroke her head or back and all this quiets her until she falls asleep. But her fidgeting actually soothes me, too, and so I end up falling asleep.

Then I wake up minutes after, in a panic, checking if I'm too un-sleepy for tonight's bed time.

That's where I am at this point. I still feel tired and I would like to take that nap, except...there's work tomorrow and I know I have to sleep properly tonight so that I can do the ten million things I need to do tomorrow, for the coming week.

And so now I'm thinking of my lists and sub-lists and tangential lists and oh-by-the-way lists, and I'm already exhausted. I'm thinking of the people I need to contact, the people I can't avoid (but want to, desperately), the people I want/need to speak to but can't and how I'll need to handle that, and I'm already exhausted. But I can't sleep now because if I sleep now, I won't be able to sleep later and if I don't sleep later it'll be SO HARD to do what I need to do this week. Because there are people and things that I want to be rid of (but can't) and...I'm already exhausted.

—

Pardon me. It's the long weekend, I think. Coming out of a long weekend is always tough.

Meanwhile, Lucia needs to wake up in about 35 minutes or else she'll be too un-sleepy to sleep by tonight's bed time which will mean I will have to stay up along with her and when I'm up past a certain time I get grumpy in the morning and <insert loop>.

Cold Nights. Hot Showers. (And God Bless the Maoris.)

I just took a shower.

It's a cold night.

But I always take a shower before bed, even when it was the dead of winter back home in Grand Rapids.

Lately, when it's cold and my OCD tells me that I must, must, must take a shower no matter what, I've been thinking of the basement.

—

Whenever I take a shower, I chant—either in my head or out loud (especially when it's cold)—"I need to be clean, I need to be clean, I need to be clean..."

—

In the basement, the water was always piping hot. The basement, true to its stereotype, was always cold. The cold seeped into our bones.

All of us patients were sorta just floating through the place (always wishing that tomorrow would be the day we would get out), so we were usually just hugging ourselves. We were doing it for warmth, but the cold made a good excuse to bolster our efforts to shield ourselves from each other (protect each other from our selves).

—

When I stepped out of the shower, shivering and dripping, I remembered the basement.

—

My showers were always luxurious. The water was always scalding, which I loved. I'd stand under the shower and wait for the warmth to get into my bones.

Never mind that there was a nurse, watching me. Making sure I wouldn't hurt myself.

(Well, it was only during the first week anyway.)

—

Still.

Those showers were pockets of time when I didn't hate where I was.

—

Mostly.

—

Sometimes, I wish I were back in the basement.

—

If only for those showers.

—

I'm all right. I'm just a little tired. And I miss those showers.

And sometimes—sometimes—I miss the basement. If only for how safe and predictable it was.

—

And then there's this:

Years ago, Chad and I learned that Maoris say hi by touching noses and foreheads. Since then, we've called nose rubs "Maori Hi." We've passed on this term to Lucia, who asks for it now and then. 

We were supposed to take our usual end-of-the-day picture, but before I could set it up, Lucia asked for a Maori Hi. I didn't know that I pressed the video button.

She must've known today was tiring. Good night, everyone! :)

Goodbye and Thank You, 2013

Lucia and I have been back here at Dalipuga since the 23rd. Chaddy couldn't take time off from work, so he had to stay behind in Manila, which is sad, but at least we are spending quality time with Nana and Daddy. It feels good to be back again. I like that the only agenda is to enjoy each other's company and the world around us. (And eat lots and lots of fresh fruits and fish!) I didn't realize things had been that frantic and fast-paced in Manila, so I'm grateful to be here.

This time last year, I was also in this room, typing a year-end post. 2012 was so awful for me and so I was looking forward to 2013. I wanted so much to leave that year behind.

In hindsight, 2013 was still a difficult year for me. It started with plans that had to be made, set aside, and then re-made. But it was a transition year for me—for us. And so while it was difficult, at least it felt like I was moving. Like I was progressing into something. So many things happened this year (I mean, behold the photos below), so I'm a little tired this time around. But it's a happy kind of tired.

We started the year with us here in our beloved Dalipuga. I was still in the process of recovering from my episode, so I was still raw, still reeling from all that had happened. I didn't really know what was going to happen—I didn't know if I was going to stay here, if I was going to get a job. All I knew was that I was still alive, and so something had to come of it.

Scenes from our beloved Dalipuga-by-the-sea.

Late January, we had to make a quick trip to Manila. It was a difficult trip to make because of how things were between me and Chad at that time. We were still transitioning into our separation, and so we were looking for ways to co-parent and co-exist. But towards the end, we were able to find solace in the fact that we were still friends. That friendship was what helped us through the challenging months ahead. I felt like giving up many times, especially with the stuff that we had to confront this year—some of which were quite serious and...persistent—but our friendship always pulled us back together. It may have been on different levels this year, but we never really stopped loving each other.

With all that had to be done, though, I managed to catch one of my favorite bands ever, Stars! (I still can't believe they came here!) In the first few weeks after I left the hospital last year, I would listen to them constantly. No, seriously. All. The. Time. They gave me such great comfort. Songs I had already loved before suddenly became more relevant to me, so I clung to every lyric like my life depended on it. Seriously. Being able to see them live was huge for me. Watching them felt like being hugged by an old friend.

Staaaaaars!!!

When we got back to Dalipuga, things started to unfold really quickly. Amazingly, I got a job again, but it meant having to go back to Manila. After months of healing, it was time to get back to the real world. I was looking forward to it, but I was so sad to leave Nana and Daddy behind. They had done so much for me and Lucia during our stay. If it weren't for them, I wouldn't have gotten better, that much is for sure. They nursed me back to health in ways I never even knew I needed. We left the day after Nana's birthday, so I'm glad we were able to say goodbye to all our dear relatives and friends here, and also to spend this special day with our Nana.

Home.

After about half a year of quiet, solitude, and rest, it was quite an adjustment to get back into the routine of working regularly and, well, just being in Manila again. But, as always, my parents came to help me get my bearings back. I wouldn't have survived the abrupt change had they not come to the rescue. They made sure I had everything I needed. But more than anything, just having them around was already more than I could have asked for.

It was painful to be so far from them when everything in 2012 happened, so finally having them with me felt like a long overdue embrace. Actually, it was like being gathered. Like all my broken pieces were gathered in their arms and they made me whole again.

Looloo and Loola with Lucia.

And I know this might not seem much, but around this time, I got myself a new pair of Chucks. Those of you who have known me a long time would understand why this is such a big deal for me. I had a hard time letting go of my old ones (obviously), but it felt like it was time I got new ones. Well, it was time to get new ones a long time ago, but this year, I finally did it. Those Chucks had long ceased to be just about shoes, and so the metaphor proved itself to be true as I definitely got rid of old things and welcomed new things.

Finally.

One of those "new things" was my job. After being in the throes of teaching and studying English for almost 10 years, being in the publishing industry felt strange and, well, natural. (Strangely enough.) I'm still amazed at how lucky I am to have gotten this job. I get to do what I love and I get to work with pretty awesome people. There are a lot of things about it that are foreign to me, but I love that I'm learning new things again.

A lot of hard work, but also a lot of fun.

Hosting the company Christmas party, and golly gee, I won best in costume! Hahaha!

Another metaphor that went full throttle this year was through getting myself new tattoos. Um, a whole bunch of them, actually. I wanted to highlight important people and events in my life, and so as the changes were unfolding this year, I wanted to keep track of the things that remained permanent. There are stories on me now, and each time someone asks, I tell it to them and share my gratitude for things that have happened to me, for people who have remained with me.

Too many stories for a caption. If we see each other, I'll tell you about each one.

Some things didn't change, though, and I'm glad for it. My friends—family, really—were still (and always) there. They kept me sane (literally and figuratively). Ever-loyal and amazingly loving, they made sure I felt loved at all times. They listened to me. They understood me. They protected me. They accepted me. And, well, they fed me. Hahaha!

From my adventures with Steph (Escolta, rallies, and museums, oh my!) to my pig-out and laugh-out sessions with my girls (my darling, darling, darling girls), to play dates with old friends and their families, I surrounded myself with all of their positive energies, and it helped me get better.

With my person, Steph.

With my Diyosas and our men. And our food. Always.

Met in college, friends for life. Us and our families. And look, I'm holding two cartoon sperm cells (which I made myself) and a huge drawing of the female reproductive system (which I asked someone else to draw)!

I also had a lot of online support this year. Friends and strangers (amazingly!) would send me private messages, telling me that they were praying for me, rooting for me, wishing happiness for me. I was overwhelmed with all the unsolicited love. I actually have one reader who messages me whenever I fail to update this blog for more than a week; just to check if I'm okay, if I'm still alive. Really, you're all amazing and I feel so blessed and humbled by all your thoughts and prayers.

Another incredible addition to my life is yoga. I mean, seriously, why didn't I do this sooner?! People say I've lost so much weight. In fact, I can probably do those Before And After pictures now with my old clothes, but I won't post any pictures of those. It isn't that I'm not happy with this sorta-achievement ha. It's just that...(don't laugh)...I didn't do yoga to lose weight but to gain (naks) inner peace (double naks, but—and because—it's true). So hurray for losing weight, but I'm glad I finally found something that is good for all aspects of my health. I've attributed so many positive changes in my life to yoga and I'm sooo glad I've finally gotten around to actually doing it.

(Oh, okay, okay, hurray din for getting rid of all that weight. Haha!)

But mostly, what helped me keep it together—aside from continued medication and therapy—was Lucia. Every major decision I've made this year was because of and for her, and I have absolutely no regrets. I mean, each decision has brought me to where I am now, and I am very happy.

One of those decisions was to live within walking distance from where I work. (It's a rather pricey neighborhood, so it was quite an investment to rent a place there. Thank God for raket and my parents.) Thanks to living and working barely a five-minute walk from home, I get to have lunch with her every day and go home to her immediately. I'm not too tired to hug and play when I get home and my weekends are actual weekends now. Dear God, I cannot stress how thankful I am for that fact. I could actually spend weekends with my family.

Lucia went to the corner for the first time this year. (She's been to the corner many times since.)

But she more than makes up for it, all the time.

This year, Lucia and I celebrated our birthdays quietly and simply with Chaddy. Yolanda had hit the Philippines just a few days prior, and so we wanted something simple and quiet. I've never really been a fan of superduper huge parties, so I was more than happy with Chad's homemade dinner. (He cooked me breakfast and dinner for my birthday. *hee*)

Birthday surprise from my adorable co-workers.

Assembling the punkle's birthday gift.

SISsy gave me a Dalek dress for my birthday. It came with Doctor Who post-its!

We also celebrated Chad's birthday simply and decided to spend a more meaningful time together. It was also a great occasion for me to show my cheesy skills, haha! Thankfully, Chad isn't a fan of superduper huge parties either, so he loved my silly little video kathingy.

At this point, we shared our progress with all our family and friends. We let them know that we were no longer pursuing our separation and, instead, decided to begin the process of fixing our marriage. It was so humbling to know that everyone was happy for us and had been praying (and will continue to pray) for the two of us. It was such a blessing to hear that even though we went through a rough year, they were still there for us, cheering us on. Chad and I have been going to therapy for a few months now, and we are both very blessed beyond measure.

Our baby, our everything.

My baby.

In the midst of all those changes, August 13 came along. I went through some great anxiety as the day drew near, but on the day itself, I decided that we celebrate it. After all, it was also my "other birthday." Instead of being the day I almost died, it became the day I lived, in spite of it all.

I guess that day was pretty much what my year was (in the same way that August 13, 2012 was pretty much what 2012 was). This year was the re-appropriation of a lot of things: my marriage, my career, my sneakers (:P), my life.

I am grateful that I am ending this year with my family intact. This time last year, I was resolute and resigned. I thought my marriage had ended after a catastrophic depressive episode. But now, a year later, I have Chad and Lucia with me. God allowed us to find each other again.

The year ahead will be challenging. Lots of changes are going to take place at work, Lucia's going to start going to school (gulp), and therapy will continue for me and Chad. But I'm looking forward to a fresh start and a continuation of all the progress we've made this year.

Happy new year, everybody. Here's to 2014!

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