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

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.

One Night, Two Conversations

I had to go to the grocery store after work to buy a bag of rice since we were all out. After that, I walked to the drug store right on the fringes of my neighborhood (the smaller drug stores within the neighborhood don't carry my meds). I didn't have enough money to buy the full prescription, so I was grumbling the whole time I had to walk to the drug store. All this effort just to buy two measly pills. 

By "effort", I don't mean the walk. In fact, I don't mind walking and I actually missed walking that far (my daily walk to work lasts all of 4 minutes). What I didn't like was being in the midst of all those people. Ugh. People. 

People bumping into each other, rushing to or from work, paying no heed to proper sidewalk etiquette (I MEAN SERIOUSLY, WHY WALK SIDE BY SIDE WHEN THE SIDEWALK IS CLEARLY WIDE ENOUGH FOR ONLY TWO PEOPLE?!?!), I hated all that. And then, just as I was about to bump into to the umpteenth person, I heard an almost too-familiar semi-scream.

"Ma'am Katz?!?"

There was a time when I would automatically think that this would be a student. Now that I'm older, I've come to expect the exclamation to come from all sorts of people (as I have become old enough to be "Ma'am-ed" and "Miss-ed" more frequently now...loud sigh). 

Anyway.

The guy in front of me was only vaguely familiar. So my brain did the usual process.

1. Is it a guy? Then it could be a student. (Yes.)
2. Is he well-dressed (specifically, is he dressed more office-y than you)? Then it could be a student from my earlier days as a teacher. (Yes.)
3. Does he look familiar? (Yes.)
4. Do you remember his name? (No.)
5. Eep. Do you remember his section? (No.)
6. Gah. Is he still smiling, not noticing that you haven't recognized him yet? (Yes, and I don't know. He could just be the most polite person in the world.)
7. Pant. Still don't remember his name? (No!)
8. Panic. 
9. No, wait. Smile.
10. Say something, stupid. 

"Hi!" I said.

"How are you?" he asked.

"I'm okay, thanks! How are you?" I asked.

"I'm okay po. I work in this building," he said.

Ugh, I'm so old. "Wow, that's great!" I say.

"Grabe, ma'am! Ang bata ng ichura mo! I thought you were a kid," he said. "Parang nawawalang bata, hahahaha!"

"Oh, haha," I said. I have to make a canned response to that. And practice delivering it with as much spontaneity as possible.

Since people were still walking about us (ugh, I had become 1/2 of the very thing I just ranted about), I said I had to go.

"Sige po, ma'am. Nice to see you po!" he said. 

"Bye! Take care!" I said. 

And then I caught a glimpse of myself in one of the shiny glass walls of the building in front of me and I saw what he saw. I was wearing a schoolmarm-ish dress, purple tights, my floral DMs, and a floral backpack. My hair had just about given up being straight and had started to curl (as it is wont to do in the most asymmetrical way which vexes me to no end). I looked like a lost, exhausted child.

I walked towards home and I finally reached the part of my neighborhood that didn't have as many people walking about. I looked up and actually saw a star. Like a freaking, shining star. And I looked up at the star and smiled. And it smiled back (swear). 

"You look so small from here," I said.

"You look so small from here, too," it said.

"Oh, but I know you're bigger than you look," I said.

"You are, too, you know," it said.

Ugh. Metaphors. "But I feel so lost," I said.

"Silly thing. Have you forgotten what stars are known for?" it said.

"Oh, right. And look, I'm almost home!" I said.

"See?" it said.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome," it said.

---

The kid's name is Mikey. 

Damnit.

Wanted: Taco Shell

Lucia’s learning how to distinguish emotions: happy, sad, mad, etc. When she watches cartoons, she turns to me and tells me what the she thinks the characters are feeling and asks me to confirm her interpretation. Sometimes, I have to explain why they’re feeling that way.

Last night, in the middle of slumber, she woke me up, apparently from a bad dream. She said in a tiny voice, “Momma? I’m afraid.” She’s heard that phrase countless times from Marie, one of the kittens from The Aristocats, and so she said it in exactly the same way Marie said it. She nestled into my arms (which is what Marie also did to her Momma) and I taco shelled her the rest of the night.

I woke up this morning rather abruptly from a text message and I hate it when that happens. But when I woke up, I saw that she was still nestled in my arms, her face pressed against my chest. She stirred a bit and rubbed her nose in the space between my collarbones. 

But I wanted to tell her myself, “Lucia? I’m afraid.”

It’s been a rather bad week for personal reasons, and now as July ends and August begins, I am filled with even more dread. August last year was when things started to unravel and spin out of control, the month when I finally went to the hospital. And no matter how far I think I’ve come, I am now reminded that what I hurdled over was but a mere boulder; the rest of the mountain still beckons.

God? I’m afraid. Very afraid. And now it is becoming more apparent that despite best efforts, I am still going to go about this alone (on some level, on a very important level).

Abandoned. That is the predominant feeling this week, an emotion that I hope Lucia won’t be feeling for a very long time yet.

God? I need to be taco shelled. Because I feel very afraid and very alone. 

Barriers

Sssh.

Bring Out the Vorpal Sword!

Drew this while waiting for the doctor to arrive. I wasn't really planning on drawing anything specific, I was just doodling. As it turns out, the picture's a bit of a foreshadowing. And so, since I'm so used to being analyzed anyway: People of the Interwebs, have at it! ;)

"...but has anyone helped you address what actually happened?"

My new doctor asked this after I gave my usual history—and I knew I had a winner. He wasn't just diagnosing me (like Doctor #1). He wasn't just focused on my meds (because Doctor #2 had already given me the medicines and dosages that worked). He was actually focused on the root cause of all these...things.

I am knee-knocking scared because, well, I haven't really talked about what happened. Who knows what else lies inside that Pit of Forced-Forgottens? There has been so much attention on what happened afterwards (because that was a more pressing concern) and what was to happen to me in the future. I suppose it's time to go back to...that. I'm so afraid, I could barf.

But at the same time, hell, yeah! Let's deal with this Jabberwocky once and for all. Bring out the vorpal sword!

(((Oh, how I'm terrified though! But this is a good thing. This is a good thing. This is a good thing.)))

With all that said, I'm glad I'm stable enough to begin this new phase. Sometimes, I delude myself into thinking that I'm healed or that I'm all right now because I've had (infinitely) more good days than bad. Ah, but of course, I know that isn't so.

And so begins phase two. Frabjous Day—callooh, callay!—I can almost see you.

Weekend!

So glad it's the weekend! Hoping you're as happy about it as we are. xoxo

Pinkity Pink Pink

Goodness, what a tiring day. And then I get home and open the door to this:

With this playing in my head:

So, yeah. Tiring week, but all is good. And tomorrow's Friday so yay!

Oi

“We all carry within us places of exile, our crimes, our ravages. Our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to transform them in ourselves and others.”

―Albert Camus

Today, I shall meet my new shrink.

I’m always filled with dread whenever this happens. I brace myself to tell my story all over again. Should I go chronological? Should I narrate it the same way I let my stories unfold (suffice it to say, that DOESN’T mean it’ll be chronological)? Should I try to remain calm and clinical or should I awkward-giggle my way through the whole recounting (as I am wont to do)?

Also, that story’s pretty darn difficult to live through all over again.

And then after that, I’ll have to go through the scrutiny again—another round of tests, perhaps?—to diagnose me all over again. I’ll wonder if I’ll still be on the same meds or if I’ll have to be on new ones. And then I’ll do the mental math (such a noble term for the frantic ewan-ewan math that goes on inside my mind) to see if I can incorporate those expenses into our daily budget.

And then, there’s the fear of having yet another massive panic attack while waiting, waiting, waiting for the doctor who will be late, panigurado. My obsessive compulsion for being on time (or massively early so that I shan’t be late) will add to the anxiety of being diagnosed all over again and…well, let’s just say the first time I met my last shrink, she wanted to confine me right then and there.

But, oh, don’t mind me. I’m just crashing from the mania that was last night. Went to Geek Fight with some friends, made new friends, (got new clients!), saw a lot of old friends from college, and was able to catch up with dear, old friends. All that hap-hap-happiness last night and then…this rainy, gloomy Saturday morning, anxious and fidgety and ever-so-slightly regretting those yummy gummy bears from last night.

Anyhoo, I’m going to take a nap. Ish. I leave in a few hours to wait for, hmmm, I’m going to say…two hours. Here’s hoping I don’t turn into a violent mess again. I’m a little tired from carrying my place of exile, my crimes, and my ravages. Mostly tired from keeping it all in, stopping myself from unleashing it on to the world.

Perhaps this is a good day to meet my new shrink.

---

Update:
4:27 pm

Perhaps not. I napped too long and missed my appointment. Next week it is!

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

In between feeling sick and being grossly ill, I was able to spend time with the people I love the most. Ever so happy.

She wasn't feeling well either, so as soon as she started being makulit again,
I brought her Pancake House. Pancakes for dinner, yay!

 

Spent time with longtime friends to celebrate one of my girls' birthday.
Photo is courtesy of Joepi Paloma, the beautiful lady with me in the
middle picture at the bottom.

Fully accessorized little girl.

Swish art work by Lucia.

Absurd and Pink (Which Doesn't Exist)

So, clearly, my not-of-this-world-ness has reached new heights. Not only am I absurd, I am obsessed with a color that doesn't exist.

Let's file this under "Of Course, Of Course."

Here We Go

Starting the period of One Year Marks this week; today, actually. The realization hit me when I read a tweet heralding the start of an annual activity where I used to work. I remember that period last year very well. I remember one very distinct afternoon, in fact. While all those activities were underway, I was in the bathroom, shaking and crying. And then, a few minutes after that, I was jumping up and down, cheering and screaming (for the said activity, not out of the blue).

It's very difficult to relive those moments, even with the distance of time (and space as I have not been even remotely near that place in so long). But snippets of that period waft in and out of my mind from time to time (a lot more these days) and I always feel, I dunno, tired—I suppose?—after a recollection. The effort to keep all those strange, confusing, and crushing memories at bay knocks the wind out of me.

From this vantage point, I can't help but be grateful for being alive, for surviving all of that. But I long for a time when I can stop identifying myself as a person who is living with Bipolar Disorder. (But I know I can never really be rid of this.)

Or, to be at peace with the fact that I am a person living with Bipolar Disorder. (Because I know I can never really be rid of this.)

Or, to just—ugh—be. (Because. Ugh, ugh.)

Ugh.

But here come the drums. It's time. Happy anniversaries. Here we go.

Saturdate

It was a busy week for both me and Papa, and we didn't have Lucia during the latter half of the week, so it was nice to be together this way.

Before we left for lunch, Lucia was playing around with the closet. She was named after Lucy from the Narnia Chronicles, so it was fun watching her play. Perhaps she went to Narnia?

During lunch, Lucia was up to her usual antics, but since she had her noodles and soup, she was a happy camper.

Papa will fly to Singapore tomorrow to give more seminars and workshops, and I shall be ulila again till next year's visits. Hay.

Outtakes

Today, at work:

Click on the picture to get a better look-see.

My co-workers and I did a mini photo shoot to participate in Library For All's (LFA) campaign to make books easily accessible in third world countries. (We were supposed to explain why we supported LFA, hence, the sign says, "Because we know what it's like NOT to have access to books.") These didn't make the cut, but I thought they were still pretty kickass.

It was a fun little break from the usual stuff I do (although the stuff I usually do is also fun). Best of all, it was for a cause that was dear to all of us. Do check out LFA's site to know how you can help (and participate!).

Pictures are by Adam David and that shy fellow beside me is Charles Tan.

How to Apply Make Up Like a Feminist (Insert Wink Here)

I just need to repost this here because it's the funniest thing I've seen since ever.


Incidentally, sans a good handful of the products used here (I only use 4 every day: powder, blush, eyeliner, and an eyebrow kathingy; 6 if I want to be fancy via mascara and, yes, red lipstick), this is the only kind of made up face I am capable of achieving.

 I guess that makes me a feminist. Whew. :P

Unica Hijas

I'm addicted to taking pictures of my daughter and the things around us. But I often forget to take a picture of myself as proof that I'm also there, so I'm usually reduced to awkward-looking selfies.

This picture, then, is such a treat.

At the courtyard across where we live. Taken on June 23, 2013.

Papa took this picture. A picture of his unica hija holding her unica hija.

Sometimes, I'm so busy thinking of myself as a mother, I often forget that I am a daughter, too. Thank you, Papa.