I See You

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

College was when I was most "normal".

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

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

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

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

Good night. xo

They Did Not Tell Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Fourth

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

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

And so I'm a whole mess of emotions.

Also. Tomorrow will be my 4th Second Birthday.

All these feelings, my goodness.

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

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

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

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

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

Okay.

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

Children of Light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me Being Me

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?" I asked.

She cried for a few more minutes.

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

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

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

She continued to cry.

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

She continued to cry.

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

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

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

Endless Beginnings

Someone called me "beautiful" a few days ago. Apropos of nothing. And instantly I remembered:

Something horrible happened. 

Moments after, someone answered my unasked question 

("Why?") 

by saying, 

"Maganda ka kasi e." 

It is a horrible thing to remember whenever someone calls me beautiful, but there you have it.

To say that I am uncomfortable about the way I look is a massive understatement. To ward off the discomfort of having to think of myself as a whole, I think of myself as many different parts. I am my lips. I am my birthing scar. I am my two shoulder moles, on opposite sides of my body, as if I had been pierced by a thin arrow in a past life.

I say all these because I got another tattoo. It covers an old one: the horizon where the Little Prince disappeared. It's on my back, at the base of my neck, between my two shoulder blades. It's a rendition of the Wood Between the Worlds (from the Narnia Chronicles, naturally). "The Wood itself is not a 'world' in the sense of Charn, Earth, or Narnia. It is more like a nexus, a dimension that exists outside of all worlds, like a corridor from where anyone can access any of the portals" (from here). Literally, a world of endless of possibilities.

Now, before you think this is a good thing, it actually isn't. I am a socially anxious, obsessive-compulsive, Type A bi-polar. All these possibilities mean too many unknowns, fear, and lack of control. But it is there and it will always be there. And despite my profound fear of it, it still exists to defiantly offer hope.

Last week.

I got the old one on a whim, to commemorate the end of one story. I found myself in my metaphorical horizon and I wanted to pay heed to the loss of the metaphorical little prince.

And then life happened, and I felt like I needed to go back to that old horizon. It was the marker of an end. Now I wanted endless beginnings and possibilities. (Because isn't that what endings are about?)

Since I don't see that part of my body often, I had no real visual attachment to the old tattoo. I was surprised when people kept asking about the old one. I didn't realize that they had grown to identify me with that small tattoo. And to me it was one that I had already forgotten.

Funny how life allowed that happen. (I am grateful.)

Someone asked me if ever there was going to come a time when I would stop getting tattoos. I have no clue, man. Until I run out of stories to live in? So...never?

Or maybe until I feel comfortable with my own body? Until I can look at myself naked and not feel repulsed or sad? Until I have enough tiny little parts of me that they become so many, so indistinguishable, that I start thinking of myself as a whole?

Until my body becomes a testament to my stories and not to what others have done to me.

Today.

Yeah. Maybe then.

The Day I Decided to Die

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


--

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

--

2019 Update:

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

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

You can also reach out to me.
           

Be well.

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.

Sssh.

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

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

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

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

Come then; Let's get it over with;

I'm good! You? :)

Maybe Later

This morning, a conversation:

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

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

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

"But I love her."

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

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

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

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

(BRACING MYSELF.)

"No, what?"

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

--

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

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

As for me...

--

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

--

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