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

Too Fast...

...If only I could slow time down, just for a bit.

Today...

...was a good day.

We celebrated with doughnuts, enjoyed the most by Lucia.

Today was a good day. Thank you, Lord.

Other Birthday

Dear August 13, 2012:

Hi. It’s been a while. When I wake up tomorrow, there shall you be.

So. You’re finally here. Sort of. I’ve been waiting for you, anticipating you. Steeling myself for you. So, now you’re here. Almost.

(But you're so here, I can taste you. I've been tasting you the whole day. You taste like bile.)

And I’m stalling by hyper-objectifying the fact that you’re almost here instead of actually confronting how I feel about you coming around again.

(There's a storm now, did you know? How about that.)

Right. Feelings.

Well, I’m glad that you’re finally here. I think I can allow myself to breathe a little more freely once you pass through. As you do, allow me to use this inchoate bravado of mine to stick my tongue out at you.

I’m still here, see. I’m still alive. I didn’t die. For better or for worse, I didn’t die.

(I lived, damn you. I lived.)

I thought I would be more conciliatory, as in: "Let’s bury the hatchet. From henceforth, you shall be like any other day." 

But not yet. Almost. (So almost, I can taste it. It tastes like the air after the rain and unwashed cherries.)

Right now, along with my tongue, I shall show you my wrists. The only marks on them are tattoos that celebrate the fact that I lived. The reasons I do my best to keep doing this whole living thing. (Thanks to you, my body now holds a forever-tapestry of victories.)

And you stand there, silently. Neither friendly nor menacing. You’re just standing there, waiting to be defined by whatever state of healing I may be in. And I hate that you're so cavalier about this whole thing. I've been struggling not to be defined by you and you're just there. So...undefined.

Tell you what, let’s just nod, acknowledge each other’s presence, and let’s try to get on with tomorrow's today, shall we?

What’s that? Yes, thank you. Happy Other Birthday, indeed. Thank you. Coming from you, that means a lot. I appreciate it. (Sincerely.)

Till next year. Perhaps, by then, I shall have been able to define you.

Kindest (kind now, not belligerent) regards,

K

Velcro-Hug

Sometimes, it's painful. Like, physically.

I get numb headaches. I dunno if that makes sense to you, but that's the only way I can describe it. And then things go dark, and I can only focus on one thing at a time. And then for a few minutes, everything will go back to normal—noise, color, everything. And then I get overwhelmed, so I will take in huge gulps of air to still myself. And then when I finally get a grip, the world darkens again.

While things are dark, I check my pulse, just to make sure it isn't another panic attack. Because I'm calm. So what is this?

And then Lucia's squeal pierces through the reverie and I feel myself making the effort to look at her and smile.

And then the tunnel reappears and I feel the darkness Velcro-hug me again.