8th - "From henceforth, you shall be like any other day."

I resurrect this little-thing-that-could-did to say: it's been eight years. I completely forgot to celebrate my Other Birthday this year.

If memory serves me correct (that is: if the search algorithms serve me correctly), the last time I wrote about it here was four years ago. I still remembered and celebrated it in a fashion in the years between then and now, but it was always just a quick post on Facebook and Twitter, with a link to whichever blog post I felt like sharing. There was one year when I celebrated it by getting a tattoo (it's been more than two years since I last got a tattoo, my goodness!).  And then there was an entry (that was cross-posted to Reddit) that gained some traction. Most recently, there was a conversation I had with the writer, my friend, Isa Garcia. 

But mostly, the homage that I've been making these days has been in my Every Day. I find myself in that glorious sweet spot where the work I do in my professional life, volunteer life, and personal life all sort of converge magnificently where I can advocate for education for the poor, mental health, and social justice. I remember starting this advocacy and people were just beginning to talk about depression and anxiety. Conversations were hushed and people chose to respond to my posts anonymously through private messages and such. Now I see it discussed more often and more openly. (Thanks in large part to the younger people who are taking over the world. I am in awe of them, truly.)

Eight years. It took me eight years to get to this place of contentment (yes, pandemic be damned). Sure, it could be better (I mean, pandemic, damn you), but all around me is Grace. I even go to Church regularly now! Oh, and I'm finally annulled! And I haven't completely ruined my child's life (yet, haha)! I mean, how can I not rejoice in the Lord? How can I not live my life with such gratitude? There is just so much of...*waves wildly* THIS. My heart is full.

I hold all this joy even as I look back to where it all began. The first time I wrote about my Other Birthday was a year after my confinement. Reading my words, I can remember how still-dark, still-sad, still-angry I was. 

Guess what? It's happened. It was a day like any other day. 

And it was the best way to celebrate it.

To Remembering, Un-Remembering, and Remembering Again. And all the nooks and crannies that exist between each phase.

Happy Other Birthday to me. To more extraordinary days, like any other day.

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I don't know what to write, really.

There have been so many changes, it's hard to keep up. I don't know what all the astrological whatnots said about what is in store in 2018 for INFJ Scorpios who were born in the year of the Monkey. But take it from me, it's been full of changes.

I've left my job (the one I've had for almost four years), and now I'm eyeing another professional change (what that will be exactly, I'm not quite sure yet). All I know now for sure is: I know what I'm worth. I know what I can do. And I know I can do more. It took some enormous leap of faith to get here (Kierkegaard would be so proud), and while it is an accomplishment I know I fought for, the "here" also seems so uncertain. But it feels so...empowering?...to know that this uncertainty was by choice. If that makes sense.

We're about to leave our home (the one we've stayed in for almost four years — wait, an epiphany; more on that later). So I am surrounded by boxes and various piles of Keeps and Give Aways and Throw Aways (Gives Away and Throws Away?). I'm keeping so little, by design. I'm determined to enter my late thirties (turning 38 this year!) with less stuff and more purpose.

The epiphany: I realized that I started my former job and moved into this (what will be former) place almost at the same time. So moving homes seems like an adequate partner-event in terms of closing this chapter.

I really don't know what's about to happen for sure, and I panic a lot in my dreams, but in my waking moments, I am calm. And I plan. And I wait.

Well, 2018, while I have your attention, maybe I can also leave behind my marriage and get the annulment settled. Yes? Please?

Onwards and upwards, then.

Incredible

Out of the blue, Lucia asked, "Mommy, what's the most incredible thing you've ever done?"

A short pause, and I said, "Breastfeeding you." I often talk about breastfeeding her with her and she made the sound that I told her she used to make. It sounded like a sigh. I told her she would often look at me while I breastfed her, and so we would look at each other while she fed.

"I wish I remember what it was like," she said.

I will always remember it. After giving birth, I had to stay in the hospital three more days to recover. Even so, we were forced to go home without her as she still needed to stay in the NICU. (She was born in distress.) I looked at the empty baby seat beside me in the car and felt immensely broken. I spent that first night at home crying. In the middle of the night, an intense pain overwhelmed me. My milk had come in and my body was writhing in the pain of not being able to mother.

When I went to the NICU the next day, I realized I had no idea how to breastfeed her. The nurse brought her to me and she was crying. I was so afraid. And then I held her. And then she stopped crying. And then she latched. The relief was enormous.

When she was finally satiated, she slept, but my breasts were still leaking. There was simply so much more to give.

I was still breastfeeding when I was confined in the psych ward. The first few days, I had to pump my milk, only to see the nurses pour it down the drain. My milk had turned poisonous for my child because of my meds. Never had I felt more useless, like a complete failure. On the fourth day, the milk simply did not come anymore. The pain I felt when my milk came was nothing compared to the pain when my milk left.

It's been years since my breasts have gone dry, but thankfully, there is still so much to give.

One time, she said, "I can't believe so much milk came from these." (Prepubescent girls have larger breasts than I do, haha.) "But it's still my favorite place to be in," she said, and then she slept.

Weeping and Chopping Vegetables

Even before she died, I had fully intended to write about Nana's life. One of the books that I planned to write — and she and I would talk about these books often during our lazy afternoons in Dalipuga, after our respective afternoon naps — was a cookbook that detailed all the dishes she used to make for us in Nangka Road.

---

One time, I was helping her chop vegetables for dinner. I asked her how she wanted me to chop the vegetables. She said, "Any way you like." I started slicing them into cubes, and then I second guessed myself, "Maybe I should've julienned them instead." And I looked at the half-chopped cucumber in front of me. I could either keep on cubing them, knowing I should have julienned them, or start julienning them, knowing that I wasted half of the cucumber by cubing them. Julienne or cube? Julienne or cube???

I started to shake. My heart started to palpitate. My eyes filled with tears. I couldn't breathe.

"What's wrong?" Nana asked.

"I think I did the vegetables wrong. I'm so, so sorry, Nana," I wept.

She held me close.

Before, when my ex mother-in-law would ask me to help prepare the meal, she would get mad at how badly I chopped vegetables, sliced the meat, stirred the pot, anything. She would get the knife from me and show me how to do it, all the while speaking to me like an idiot. "Bakit hindi mo 'to alam?!" She would seethe. "If you do it the way you do, it ruins the skin/breaks the fat/scratches the pot/consumes too much electricity/etc." This was just one of the many micro-aggressions I had to endure with her.

That afternoon with Nana, when I was telling her about That Woman, was also the first time I held a knife after trying to use one to fatally harm myself.

I wept this whole story to Nana who listened quietly and held me close. She said, "She's far away now. And you are here. You are in our paradise. You are safe. And we will eat the vegetables any way you want."

I wept and ate the vegetables.

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Seeing this article ("A Granddaughter's Powerful Love Story, Told Through An Indian Cookbook" by Kamala Thiagarajan) made my heart weep a bit. I haven't really written anything of substance since she died. I feel like I've lost the ability somewhat. I have this book in mind, one that tells of her adventures before she was married, but that's a little too painful to write about right now — because I know how difficult life was for her soon after that period of her life.

Anyway.

This article was beautiful and I expect the book to be the same.

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From the article:

The five morsels in the book's title refers to these cousins, who bonded over such exquisite meals. They're represented in the recurring motif of the five grains of rice that prance across the soft yellow cloth-bound cover like snowflakes.

Her grandmother's death in 2007, barely nine weeks after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, devastated the family. Pidathala, who had recently moved hundreds of miles away to Bengaluru to begin a career in IT, particularly reeled after the loss.

"I had always promised her we'd work together on an English translation of her cookbook, written in Telugu [a language native to Indian states of Andhra Pradesh and Telangana]," says Pidathala. The simple paperback had seen three print runs since it was published in 1974. It was the kind of book that emigrants sought to carry back with them overseas. By offering an authentic taste of home, it helped them ache less for what they'd left behind.

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Postscript: My Nana died after a short but painful bout of cancer in March 2016.

Little Teapot

I've been seeing a lot of my old pictures lately because of that On This Day feature of Facebook. I look so different.

I've gained weight since a lot of these pictures were taken and I've kept the weight. I don't think I'll be losing it any time soon, not much of it, at least. I started gaining weight when I found a cocktail of medicines that finally worked in treating the bi-polar/depression I have to live with for the rest of my life.

Sometimes I think about the time when I was thin(nish). I basically lived on close to nothing. I was constantly thinking of ways to kill myself. Constantly thinking of ways to punish myself for having survived my attempts.

When I was thin, people used to compliment me all the time. "Payat!" (Like that, in and of itself, was enough of a compliment and not just a fact. Nobody says "Taba!" and means well.) "Hindi ka mukhang nanay!" (Like looking like a mother was a bad thing. Like there was one way to look like a mother.)

I don't get compliments about my looks as often now. That's fine, I suppose. I wouldn't compliment me either. I'd like to work on that, though. But it's hard to feel better about myself if everything and everybody else is so bloody harsh on people who look like teapots like me (short and stout). I can't see properly without my glasses, I have spots and wrinkles on my face. I dress either like a cupcake or the secretaries they make fun of in Mad Men.

But you know what? I'm smart. Like, really smart. Not like genius smart, but, and all apologies to Yogi, I am smarter than the average bear. (And—hurrah!—thinner than most bears.) I've done a lot of great things with this brain, plagued by mental illness though it is.

I'm also kind. At least I try to be kind. Sure, most of the time it's because I'm guilty for being me. But I'm also very empathetic. Ask anyone and they will tell you that I will be here if you need me and I will help you in any way I can. I genuinely like taking care of people. I take care of people all the time, sometimes I think there's something wrong with me. (Joke lang, there's always something wrong with me.)

Oh, and I'm also interesting to look at because I have 18 tattoos. Each one has a story, and I am a great storyteller.

And yaman din lamang na mukha na talaga akong nanay diba, I take my being a mother very seriously. It is the one thing in my life that I CONSTANTLY try to be good at.

And you know what? I'm alive. Each day is a decision to stay alive, and most days it is not an easy decision to make.

So there. I don't know how to end this post. I don't think this is inspiring enough to rouse people into loving themselves with the ferocity of a Nike commercial. (Tutal, wala namang nag-wo-workout sa post na 'to.)

So, instead, here's a picture of a sunset that I got from the Internet. Insert your own inspirational quote na lang.

Empty

I haven't written anything in a long time because I've been having a hard time figuring out how to end this on a positive note. But I can't. So I won't.

I've been very high functioning these past few months, mostly because my meds more or less regulate my life. I have something to calm me down. And I have something that makes sure I don't get too calm so as to lower my moods to dangerous levels.

I'm also on progesterone that made me stop getting my periods. Apparently, my body produces too much estrogen, which explains why I've been bleeding too much whenever I get my periods and I've had debilitating dysmenorrhea for as long as I can remember.

I don't think I have the mood swings that should be expected because of all the meds, but I've had horrible acne, I've been bloated. The bruising has intensified, and my hair falls out in clumps. Some days, I have no appetite at all. Some days I binge to the point of punishing myself.

The thing is, I also haven't been feeling much of anything lately. So much so that I haven't bothered updating my tracker because my moods have basically been the same. Which is supposed to be okay, but I haven't felt alive in a while.

Just empty. Not sad, but empty.

I have pockets of bizarre hyper mental activity that, thankfully, translates to my being a workaholic. (At least it's productive.) But then it's followed by longish episodes of social anxiety. Like now. I haven't left the house in over a week. Stepping outside of the front door to sort of look at the sun again made me feel like I was going to have a heart attack.

If anything, the only thing I feel intensely is hatred. For myself. I hate this malfunctioning body. I hate that I'm ugly. I hate that every little thing that touches my thigh gives me a bruise that stays for months. I have bruises that have been with me for two years.

Sorry. I'm usually a strong powerful feminist who is yadda-yadda-yadda. "You're the strongest person I know." You know how many times I've heard that? You know what this strong feminist would like to hear for a change?

You're beautiful.

You matter.

I'll stick around.

Okay. Maybe this is a mood, who knows. I don't know anymore. The self-loathing has been so consistent, I don't know if it's a mood or a fact of life.

How am I supposed to raise my daughter to love herself the way I love her, if I can't even love my own shadow?

Oh, and thanks to this ill-informed pro-life organization, I might not have access to progesterone anymore.

Oh, and I started bleeding again yesterday. That's not supposed to happen.

Yeah, I'm not ending this post positively. Sorry.

ETA: Sorry. I know other people have it worse than I do. I really do. And I feel bad about them. And I feel bad about feeling bad about the things I'm feeling bad. Basically, I'm feeling bad about everything. Sorry.

Rahab, Woman of Jericho

I got this tattoo around this time last year. It's in honor of Rahab, a Canaanite prostitute (often referred to as the "Harlot of Jericho", even after the events that happened below), who helped Joshua and his men enter the Promised Land. It is said the her name loosely translates to "God has opened the womb".

Showing kindness and hospitality to the Hebrew spies, Rahab asked that the Lord show mercy to her family. To identify her and thus spare them from the massacre that would ensue when the walls of Jericho fall, the spies told her to hang a red cord outside her window.

More than sparing her life, the Lord also gave her the honor of being one of Jesus' direct ancestors.

Prostitutes often appear in the Bible. They are condemned, yes, but in the Gospel, the narrative changed for them. Prostitutes (and women, in general) were often the recipients of Jesus' grace. Many times, he used them to further propagate his message of love and acceptance. He chose them specifically because they were sinful; he found purpose in their sins.

I cannot tell you how much I love and identify with her story in its entirety: a woman is condemned, regains agency, finds grace, and gains salvation.

There are many like her. Women who provide for their families by offering their bodies (rightly or wrongly, that's for another discussion), women who protect their families despite hardship and fear, women whose faulty wombs are opened to bring forth generations of blessedness.

So today, on International Women's Day, I honor you, Rahab. I honor you with my womb that was opened but once (I just found out that I have a condition that would've made it close to impossible to carry a child to term; Lucia is a true miracle baby). I honor you with my desire to protect my family. I honor you with the red string I have around my wrist (going on a decade now). And I honor you with this image.

Rahab, Woman of Jericho.

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.