2008 vs. 2014; But 2014 > 2012

I've been up since 2:30 this morning. Lucia's dad picked her up. I took Christmas, spent it in Singapore with my family, and so I offered him New Year. Off to Baguio they went.

(I tried my best to make that account of the division of our holidays as sterile as possible. As sterile as a surgical knife. Insert knife metaphors >here<.) 

I've been trying to sleep, to no avail. I did get to nap for about two hours, but sleep was fitful and I yanked myself awake from a nightmare. I don't remember what happened anymore (thank you, Brain, for doing that thing you do when you forget stuff that will likely make me suffer). I just know that it was horrifying enough for me to wake up with a yelp—a forced yelp, actually. You know those nightmares: you wake up panting because it was as if you were drowning, and the only way you could wake up was by trying to scream.

Anyway.

(It gets more positive, don't worry.)

I went to the mall. 

I know, right? I was weirded out by that decision, too. 

I got and did a few stuff (wine, grapes, chips, passed by an Air 21), ran into some really rude people (I mean, seriously, y'all are cramming and I'm just here...passing the time), and debated on whether or not I should buy a whole chocolate cake for myself. (I didn't.)

See, I'm going to be alone tonight, New Year's Eve. 

Oh, but I've had several offers from other friends to go out. And just recently, I spent the entire night (and I do mean the ENTIRE night) with my college friends and had such meaningful conversations with them. And so many people are just so awesome to me and my daughter. I mean, really, just amazing. So, actually, my cup runneth over.

But, what am I doing New Year's Eve, Zooey and Joseph? 

Be alone. Or maybe—hachacha—just, be. 

*fancy bow*

No, but seriously. See, here's the thing:

2014 was a difficult year for me. Not quite, 2012. (Let nothing be like 2012, ever.) But...it was painful. Yeah, more painful than difficult. 2012 was a nightmare (that I still wake up from, panting, yelling). But 2013 was a promise of better things. I mean, I was just so.hopeful.

So when 2014 happened, it felt even more devastating. There was a promise...that was broken...that was re-made...and then broken again. It broke in parts that I didn't even know were already starting heal.

You know? I mean...

Oh, I could go on and on, but I won't. Because I was raised better than that. 

(But. For the record: 
Some day, I hope he realizes—and I mean, FULLY realizes—what he did. 

And what he's doing. 
And I hope he becomes genuinely sorry for what he did. 
And is doing.

But I also hope he finds a way to forgive himself, 
because God knows it is difficult finding the strength to forgive him. 

[I haven't yet. God is working on that with me.
At the very least, I try to be a good person to him. 
Because I was raised better than he was. Hah.]

But my daughter will read this some day, and my intention is to process this with her offline.

Okay. I'll end my aside now.)

And also because, surely it was my fault, too.

But "2008 Me" gave me hope.

A former student of mine has, unbeknownst to me, been hanging on to something I said to him back in 2008. And he tweeted it again, just a few minutes ago. And it's gross to quote myself, but I'll do it anyway: 

"Growing up doesn't mean you lose dreams, it just means your dreams change shape. They change along with you."

O, ha. Hurray, Me.

2008. Newly married. In the middle of grad school. In a different country. Good gracious, just at the cusp of everything.

And now 2014's about to end and...I need to let my dreams change shape. Or, actually, I have to start dreaming again. For myself. All my dreams are for Lucia, and it seems as though I've lost the ability to dream for myself. All I have are nightmares.

But right now, despite earlier pronouncements of dread, I'd actually like to spend tonight alone. With my thoughts. Because I'd like to dream dreams again.

Some day, someone will love me, right?

For now, I'd like to take another shot at that nap. And dream about being back in Singapore with my family. (My goodness, Lucia and I were so happy.) Baby steps.

Still

Still.

Hindi gumagalaw.

Pa rin.

Hindi pa rin gumagalaw.

STILL HURTING  (From the Broadway Musical The Last 5 Years written by Jason Robert Brown)
Jamie is over and Jamie is gone. Jamie's decided it's time to move on. Jamie has new dreams he's building upon, And I'm still hurting.
Jamie arrived at the end of the line. Jamie's convinced that the problems are mine. Jamie is probably feeling just fine, And I'm still hurting.
What about lies, Jamie? What about things that you swore to be true? What about you, Jamie? What about you?
Jamie is sure something wonderful died. Jamie decides it's his right to decide. Jamie has secrets he doesn't confide, And I'm still hurting.
Go and hide and run away! Run away, Run and find something better! Go and ride the sun away! Run away, like it's simple, Like it's right...
Give me a day, Jamie! Bring back the lies, Hang them back on the wall! Maybe I'd see How you could be So certain that we Had no chance at all.
Jamie is over and where can I turn? Covered with scars I did nothing to earn? Maybe there's somewhere a lesson to learn, But that wouldn't change the fact, That wouldn't speed the time, Once the foundation's cracked And I'm Still Hurting.

This

Lucia was just about to turn five months old. I had the entire month off from work—the first time I deliberately shied away from extra work since I started teaching—and we spent every single blessed day together. We had no yaya and so I did everything while "wearing" her on a sling.

Afternoons were my favorite. The world slowed down a bit. She'd be napping and I'd be watching her little face, gently marked with the footprints of her dreams: dimples and crinkles and fleeting half-giggles. I specifically told myself to remember that moment, that time, that period. My chest swelled with happiness.

("I shall remember these days, the halcyon days of my prime and your infancy, when protecting you against the noisy neighbor was my highest mandate. Soon, it shall be much more complicated. It shall be much more daunting." - April, 2011. Remember that wretched boy, Andre?)

And now, Lucia is napping, one leg languidly and obnoxiously draped over my thighs, as if to say, "Yes, I am napping, but I'll know if you stand up and leave, so stay there."

I feel my chest swell again. And in this moment, I am happy.

Schema

Other examples of relations that belong to the DO_TO schema include those that we would express in English using the verbs hit, touch, injure, cure, carry, and bathe, as well as more abstract relations expressed by verbs such as as appoint, insult, and abandon. Note that the agent must be animate (that is, human or animal), or at least construed as animate; otherwise, it can't consciously initiate the action. But the patient can be either animate or inanimate, though some relations, such as appoint require it to be animate or even human.
To make it clearer what DO_TO involves, let's consider some event types that are not instances of this general category. Events designated by verbs such as love, see, know, and understand do not belong to the DO_TO schema both because there is no conscious initiator of the process and because there is not necessarily a participant that is affected by the process. That is, they have no agent and no patient.

The next sentence, I've revised a bit. Just substituted a different example for the one that was used. (See words inside parentheses.)

For example, we normally (love) something without a conscious effort on our part, and the thing that we (love) is not affected by our (loving).

- "Situation schemas and semantic roles" from HOW LANGUAGE WORKS, THE COGNITIVE SCIENCE OF LINGUISTICS by Michael Gasser, as found here.

Lullaby

We were playing the whole day, in and out of our solitary moments. She was building/making stuff. I was reading. We hugged while watching TV. We ate noodles. I made lemonade. She gathered her dolls' hair into clips.

In between cuddles, I panicked about the future. Swallowed unbidden tears. School. Annulment. Deadlines. Money. Future,

(I read an article with a list of things that I should accomplish by age 40. I am so screwed.)

My sweet-smelling girl (she had two raspberry yogurts, she smells like a summer day in a farmer's market back home in Grand Rapids) is asleep now. I played the song that I used to play over and over again while she was still inside me. I played it many, many times when she was a baby to soothe her into sleep. The last time we listened to the song to usher in sleep was back in Dalipuga. When I played it this evening, she hugged me closer and said, "This is my lullaby." She pressed her face against my breast (for a moment I thought force of habit would make her suckle again) and fell asleep in five minutes.

And in this moment, before I succumb to the familiar tugs of this lullaby (for I, too, am answerable to its call), may I say how suddenly, quietly, and utterly ...

...sad I am?

I nuzzle my daughter's temples and wait for sleep.

30, When Rounded Off

Things that people said about me today (in order of diminishing frequency):

1. I am the bravest and strongest person they know.
2. I am Lucia's mother and they love Lucia, too.
3. I am their favorite teacher.
4. I am cute.
5. I have very nice teeth and they like my mouth.

Things I realized about myself because of what people have said about me:

1. I am incredibly afraid, though. And weak and tired from being strong. But thank you for cheering me on. It gives me courage and strength. But I am strong because of my faith, family, friends, and sugar. Lots and lots of sugar. Candy. CANDY.
2. I love that when people think of me, they think of my child. Having her was the single most defining moment of my life. (And it's her birthday tomorrow, so the fun continues! She also has nice teeth!)
3. God bless your little hearts and mercurial superlatives. I love you and I miss you and you will always be my children. (Special shoutout to my H2008 and A2013.)
4. I used to resent the word "cute" because I felt like it was a beautiful-that-could-have-been-but-sorry-no. Now that I'm 34 and old, I'll take it! (I still hope to be beautiful when I grow up, though. So watch out!)
5. I show my teeth when I smile, when I laugh. It's nice to know that I can do both often enough for people to see them. I hope for more things to smile and laugh about—apart from the jokes I make at my expense. (But I am SO funny when I'm angry/sad! Hay.)
5.1 Also, I resolve to wear more lipstick. I'm 34, damnit. I gotta make peace with makeup.

Onwards, then, to my last round-off-able-to-30 year!

And

So many thing in my head. But I can't bring myself to be coherent. Just letting you all know that I'm still here. And. 

Being angry is so tiring. But, oh, how I despise you and your ilk.

Rabbit Hole

Sourcing an instructional video for persuasion led to me Joshua Bell which led me to watching violin conciertos.

That led to memories of many, many evenings in dark concert halls:
my short legs swinging from the seat, falling into the seat from folding and unfolding it a little too enthusiastically;
watching papa's back, his hands swishing back and forth, controlling instruments, voices;
going through mama's bag for candy, finding a pen, drawing on the concert program, breathing in her perfume;
falling asleep to that smell and the music.

That led to listening to Bach, Paganini, Beethoven, then Sibelius.

That led to remembering our dog, whom my dad named Sibelius and we called him Belly. But our yayas were Bisaya, so they called him Billy. And soon he wouldn't respond to Belly, so we all called him Billy.

He was a good dog. He died and we never had a dog again.

Back to work, then.

Sometimes

Sometimes, it's lonely.

And sometimes, I am especially aware of how broken my parts are. And then I don't know anything.

And so I stay away, stay hidden, stay home. Because I don't know how to tell people that I am just so lonely, so I'll stay away from y'all. Because I don't know if that will make sense.

I had plans today. But I stayed home. Because it's too much for me out there. And so I'm here, with my daughter, who has made up her mind to hug me the whole day.

I wish I were thinner, prettier, happier. I will die alone. I will die alone. I will die alone.

The thoughts have been racing and racing and racing for weeks now. I haven't been able to sleep properly. The meds make me sleep, but I wake up around midnight and then think and think and think and think.

Somebody told me very recently how happy my vibe was, how much I lit the room. I make everyone laugh and smile.

I'm worried, because I know I'm being manic again. Or at least I'm leading up to it again. So now I'm going to cry a bit. And be quiet. And write this down.

People like me, people want to be around me. I'm fun. I make people laugh. That's what the people are telling me.

But all I want to do is run away.

But I'll be okay in time for tomorrow, for when I have to be with other people again. It's what I do.

I wish I were beautiful. I wish I were invisible. But I wish someone would find me. Find me beautiful.

Sometimes, I'm lonely.

Doodle Couch

I was a bit stern with Lucia this morning. I was dressing her little, half-awake, punkle self and I was telling her she couldn't wear her dress. I was in a rush because I had to dress up for work and there was a storm and we didn't have electricity and the world was about to end and I'm melodramatic and extra batty in the morning.

"You have to wear pants, Lucia. The mosquitoes might bite you."

"But I don't want to wear pants, Mommy!"

"But you have to! I said so!"

And then tearfully, she looked at me and said, "Are you mad at me, Mommy? What did I do? I'm sorry..."

Guilt, shame, humility, and love, love, love, love, love came rushing from the very pit of me with such force that I thought I was going to vomit or cry or whatever—anything to release that overwhelming sensation of just being so imperfect and human. I scooped her up in an embrace that forms lifetimes and epiphanies and then all was well.

She's taking her afternoon nap now, and as I stare at her and drink her in, I still can't believe she's mine despite every single blessed mistake I've ever made.

---

The past few weeks have been a little difficult. Our beloved yaya finally left for Malaysia and so for about two weeks (cumulatively), we had no yaya. Lucia had to be shuttled back and forth—mornings at her dad's place then evenings back at ours. It was pretty exhausting, to say the least. But there were moments when I would just sit still outside on the steps, and thank God for another day that we were able to complete together.

She's taken to drawing on our—what I now call—Doodle Couch. She started drawing here and there to my utter horror. When I posted a picture online, one of my former students suggested that I just let her continue drawing on the entire couch. The idea was genius and now Lucia is all over this thing. Well, her drawings are.

In the early stages. There are more drawings now.

I got the one at the upper right corner tattooed on my arm. :)

One of her many mommy-and-me drawings.

A friend came over to visit and she noticed that the drawings have a singular theme: they're of me and Lucia (okay, and occasionally, her Dora doll) in different situations and settings. I guess this is Lucia's way of dealing with her new reality, and a way for me to see that she's okay. (Or so I hope.) So far, all her drawings are happy, albeit lacking in sexual diversity. She still has a good relationship with her dad, but I think she's starting to understand how daddy has his own house and she and I have our own house—and that's okay.

This single parenting is hard stuff, I tell you.

I'm sorry, Lucia. Mommy's not mad, mommy is just an asshole sometimes. (Don't say that word...just yet. But it's the only word I can think of to describe myself right now.)

"It's just you and me. Me and you!" she likes to keep saying now. To which I always reply, "Forever."

Night

Somebody asked for a writing sample from me this morning. I was looking for something that makes me sound intelligent. Instead, I found this. :P

I wrote this the day before I broke up with a boyfriend. Because melodrama. Because early 20s. (BECAUSE HE DESERVED IT. HEH.)

Written on April 8, 2004. Edited this morning.

Night

She tries to dig the sand with her toes without actually moving the rest of her body. It is hard as she keeps slipping into the shallow grave her toes made for her, but she doesn’t really mind. She is engaged in a rather sober flirtation with the crashing waves. The moon is rising and the shore along with it. She isn’t actually wet yet, but the shore inches closer and closer, and the waves, seemingly just for the fun of it, kiss her cheeks with soft sprays of sea water from time to time.

She looks into the deepening darkness. The sky taunts her into thinking of an exact color to describe what she sees. Once, as a child, she hit her shin on purpose. She wanted to know how fast a bruise would form and how the colors would develop—for fun and because she had to know. 
The sky now reminds her of that bruise. 

A huge gust of wind blows from the horizon and she smells the day winding down: The heady perfume of sweat on skin that city folk call stink; the smell of fried fish mingling with the smell of dried fish; the clean scent of steam from newly cooked rice; and the sleepy aroma of fires being stoked. From the distance, angry mothers call their children (full names, odd nicknames), anxious to collect all their offspring to scold, to clean, to feed, then to love. She closes her eyes and listens for a mother who will no longer call for her, and there is only silence. She breathes in all the smells and her lips tremble as she smiles, and her eyelids tremble as they fight back tears.

He comes silently behind her. She is unaware of him for a while—six waves crash to the shore and she still doesn’t notice him. He takes the opportunity to look at her. To see her. They sense each other, but decide to keep looking at the lazy sun, looking at each other only through the corners of their eyes. He gives in though, and he looks at her, sees her still digging the sand with her toes. 

Again, that stillness. He sighs loudly, and for a fleeting moment…he hates her...He reaches out, tests a hand on her forearm. She does not move, but he feels her flesh react. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t come closer. All he feels is her skin, crinkling at his touch. And it hurts him, more than anything she had ever done to him. He tries his other hand on the other arm and waits for a reaction. Three waves crash to the shore. And still, that stillness.

He wraps his arms around her from behind and smells her hair. The pungent smell of sun exposure fills his nostrils. He breathes it in again and smells the dying fruity fragrance of her hastily-washed hair. It makes him think of the home he has always wanted, the only kind of home he has ever known. He holds her tighter, so tight that she almost buckles underneath his might. He uses her frail shoulder blades to cup his face, and he braces himself to cry. 

But she is the one who gives in now and she breaks down. Their bodies face the bruised sky and they hold each other this way. It is easier to weep without seeing each other, facing the unknown instead. That is where she has to go, it is useless to look at him. She knows this now, and so must he.

“Please,” he says.

Wave. Crash.

Wave. Crash.

Wave. Crash.

She releases herself from his grasp, then she releases herself from her self-made grave. She realizes that she managed to bury herself till her ankles without her knowing. She looks at the foot-shaped hole. In an instant, another wave crashes to the shore, fills the hole, and it is as if it had never existed. 

Triumphant, she turns around and looks at him straight in the eye. His eyes are sad, angry, questioning. But her proud eyes say no, and her trembling voice says, “No.”

And then the waves finally touch her feet, calling her. It is time. 

She walks away, towards the ferry at the pier, towards the now-gone sun, towards the promise of a new life.

Night has finally arrived.

Second. Seconds. Always.

"The day after Neil killed himself, you went to his desk, opened the official DPS book, and wept.

That's how it'll be for me today.

But I get it. I really do. And that's why today will be tough

-August 12, 2014. 7:37 am"

Yesterday, first thing in the morning, I found out that Robin Williams died of an apparent suicide.

For the rest of the day, I saw posts remembering and celebrating his work, his person. I spent most of the day either crying or stopping myself from crying. I couldn't believe that my beloved Mr. Keating had died the way Neil did. It might sound trite, but the first time I watched Dead Poets Society was the first time I fell in love with teaching. (And with Ethan Hawke. But that's a story for another time.) And then for quite a while, I used that same movie to teach poetry to my students. Every year. So, yeah. That movie meant something to me. He meant something to me.

I also saw numerous posts about depression, addiction, and suicide. I read an interview years ago where he mentioned that he had been battling with depression, too. So I have known about his struggles for a while now, but his suicide was no less shocking.

And everything just got too real. Everything hit a little too close to home. The past month...epic. Too close to home.

I struggled to get through the day. I managed to pretend long enough so that the kids wouldn't notice, but it was such a difficult, difficult day.

And then on my way home from work, I got mugged at knifepoint. Because, sure, why not?

I got off the LRT and started walking my usual route along EDSA (a walk that takes me from Taft to Roxas Boulevard where it's easier to get a jeep—yes, I do this every single damn day). Since there were so many people walking around me, I thought it would be safe to transfer my backpack behind me as my back was starting to ache. I suppose I wasn't walking as quickly as usual or whatever, but I suddenly felt a presence behind me. Just as I was about to turn around, I felt something sharp on my right hip. "Wag ka na lang lumingon para di ka na masaktan." ("Don't turn around so that you won't get hurt.")

I froze and in seconds, he was gone. Or rather, the knife was gone. He was just a knife to me, dreadful synecdoche. A cab passed by in front of me and I hailed it and got in. I checked my bag and realized my phone was gone. Perhaps my phone was the only thing he managed to grab in the few seconds he had me paralyzed. I think that's the only thing he took. I haven't really assessed the damage. I can't even look at my bag right now.

So, let's look at the last few weeks, shall we?

• My spouse has left, marriage is over. (Again, and for now, I'd like to keep it that way. There, there. It is what it is.)
• I got charcoal pumped into me. (Because, yes, again...I know.)
• Robin Williams has died. (I still can't quite explain why I feel this a little too keenly...or maybe I can and I just won't.)
• I was mugged yesterday. (Still surreal.)

But.

It's my 2nd Other Birthday today. And today I celebrate the fact that I did not die. Not two years ago, not a month ago, not yesterday.

I did not die. I lived.

I think, I need to change several things in my life right now (y'think?) and I will.

Tomorrow. I'll start tomorrow.

Today, I am afraid and wary of humanity. Too many. Too noisy. Too dirty. Too...there.

Today, I shall lie in bed. And read yet another article on Robin Williams. On depression. On suicide.

Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll continue making airplanes out of old photographs with my daughter. (Hey, that's one way of getting rid of those damn pictures. And it was her idea. Burning photographs, so high school.)

Whatever. Sorry, I'm not making sense. I made it this far into this blog post, right?

Some guy had me at knifepoint for a few seconds. Big deal. (Actually, yes, big deal.) Now to get to these demons with their whispers. They never leave.

Today, I say to them, "I lived. I'm alive."

Happy 2nd Other Birthday to me.

Soon

So I had to take a step back and willfully prevent myself from writing anything these past few weeks because I was just really, really, really angry.

I've forgotten the order in which these stages come, but I can't really say that I'm done with the rage part just yet. Thankfully, my sense of humor has kicked in and now I'm acerbically laughing and at this whole mess. Because, sure, let's just make fun of everything.

I'm quite good at it, too. People who have heard my story laugh (with the prerequisite shaking of head, natch), and it helps me deal with it. But at the end of the day...well, no. At the end of the day, my meds kick in and I sleep.

Apparently, drugstores have phased out the formulation of this one medicine I take. The pharmacist assured me that I'd still be taking the same dose, but it wasn't the "slow-release" kind anymore. Whatever, I didn't really listen. I just bought the meds and left. I tend not to linger in drugstores because people always look at me funnily when they see how much I buy. (Aside: True to Filipino tactlessness, one old lady asked me once, "Ba't ang dami mong gamot? Mamamatay ka na ba? Nakakahawa ba yan?" I said, "Opo," and then I coughed at her. Okay, no, I didn't. I REALLY, REALLY, REALLY WANTED TO, THOUGH.)

Anyway, because of this new formulation (actually, I was on this formulation before), I now get sleepy just.like.THAT. Like, I'd be talking to my daughter one moment and then I'd feel this overwhelming surge of drowsiness and then, bam!, I'm asleep.

I guess all this sleeping is helping. Ish. Between commuting and teaching and being with Lucia and commuting and commuting and, oh have I mentioned?, commuting, I hardly have time for anything else. Because commuting.

Which is a lie, of course, because in pockets of mental aimlessness, I feel the Anger. And it is dark and heavy and moist and patient. And every time I make a joke or laugh, it chuckles along (nefariously, natch) because it knows we will have to deal with each other sooner or later.

But not now, Anger. You wait. I don't have time for you yet. Soon. (Also, how on earth do I start? Where?)

Oh, but when I do. It shall be glorious. I assure you.

3.89

How are you?

How are you?

How are you?

How do I explain the nuances that hold together the varying degrees of sadness and anger and hatred and happiness (there are pockets of it, yes, for there is Lucia) and...and...ennui? Will I rate myself again? How do I explain that a 2.97 is vastly different from a 2.96?

This morning, I got an email from my best friend. She didn't ask me how I was. She just described how she was feeling, showing me how she was feeling exactly the way I was. Her empathy allowed me to feel less numerical. More human.

But now I feel a little less human. So.

2.34, 5, 5.489, 4.39, 6.9, 2.09, 4.87, 4.88, 3.89.

Snippets, Volume 3.824

She doesn't remember much.

Just that damn tube up her nose going to goodness-knows-what part of her body. Dispensing charcoal directly into her stomach. It was painful and uncomfortable enough to rouse her from her stupor, long enough to beg that they remove it.

She couldn't see anything. Or, she doesn't remember seeing anything. She just knew that it was so bright.

"Please, get it off! Get it off!"

Someone—a woman, the nurse, most probably—kept cooing, "Sandali na lang, sandali na lang..."

At one point, someone's thumb rubbed her brow. One of her last charitable acts would be her assumption (hope?) as to who that was.

But perhaps it was the nurse who kept saying, "Sandali na lang, sandali na lang..."

Sandali na lang.

Pero ang tagal na.

Of Sleeplessness, Of Dreams, Of Nothing, Of...

The First Dream
(Billy Collins)

The wind is ghosting around the house tonight,
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning

as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.

He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,

how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.

Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,

except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,

you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.

From The Art of Drowning, University of Pittsburgh Press, 1995


---


The winds are unwelcome visitors tonight and I find myself sleepless in their presence. I've been mostly asleep since Monday morning, sleeping away the last remnants of that which I had hoped would take away some of the pain. Maybe that's why I'm so awake right now. (But so very tired.)

They did not.

Perhaps when I am much older, at the brink of (natural) death, I will look upon this evening with a sigh. Now, all that sigh are the winds that tell me terrible things are being wrought all around me. And inside of me.

I wish I have the exactitude to define, delineate, and analyze this mess. Timelines are meaningless. It is what it is.

It is
death
brokenness
incomplete thoughts.

If you were to see me, you might fall in love with my sadness.

But beware,
nothing good has ever come of that.

*gsssssshhhhk*

Why, yes. There is a reason for the radio silence.

Suddenly, Finally, Motherhood

March 2008
The snow is slushy outside. I go to Rite Aid because I need moisturizer. But really, I go to buy a pregnancy test. I end up buying three. The cashier smiles at me. They are always friendly here.

April 2008
I buy lip gloss and three pregnancy tests. The cashier smiles. I buy gum.

May, June 2008
I just buy one test, each time. The cashier says, "It'll happen, honey. It'll happen."

September 2009
Who the hell am I kidding?

January 2010
Ah, well.

March 2010
The nurse tells me I'm pregnant. I cuss at her, thinking it is a bad, bad, bad joke. I projectile-ugly-cry. She asks if someone will be with me during the pregnancy. I explain I'm married and that I'm actually crying tears of joy.

March 2010
I hear my daughter's heartbeat for the first time.

July 2010
I bleed. We worry. I go on bed rest. But all is well.

November 2010
- Birthday nyo ngayon, ma'am?
- Ang cute naman! Sabay kayo ni baby!
Until...
- Ay, birthday nyo pala kahapon? Sayang 'di pa umabot.
Until...
- I can see her head!
Until...
- She needs a C-section. The baby's head won't go down.
Until...
- Congratulations!
Until...
- Ma'am, you're in the recovery room. You're okay. The baby's okay.

November 2010
My own mother is explaining why my breasts are hurting like they have never hurt before. "Your milk is coming in." The pain is excruciating.

I breastfeed for 22 months.

November 2010
I see my own mother, asleep on the rocking chair, my daughter in her arms.

January 2011
I go back to work. Another co-teacher who had also just given birth walks into my cubicle. Together, we cry.

February 2011
I am typing a script with my right hand, my left hand is cradling my daughter, making sure she can still comfortably suckle my breast.

April 2011
One whole month with just my daughter.

December 2011
I am exhausted.

2012
My daughter gives me reason to live. My mother makes sure I remain alive.

January 2013
My daughter is growing too fast.

May 2013
My mother flies in to help me and my daughter settle into our new home. My daughter gives me reason to live. My mother makes sure I remain alive.

December 2013
My daughter is growing too fast.

January 2014
My daughter kisses me and says, "I love you." She is old enough to know what it means now. And she says it. And means it.

May 2014
My daughter is growing too fast. She gives me reason to live. My daughter is Tarzan-clasping my left leg. She giggles. Perhaps in her dreams we are swinging on trees, catching moonbeams. She said she wanted to climb a tree to get the "crescent moon", right before she drifted off to sleep.

May 2015
It's just me and my daughter now. There is motherhood, and there is single motherhood. It defines me and refines me. There is so little but she gives me so much. She tells me about her day and says, "We have a good life, Mama."

Changes and Constants

It's been a while because I didn't know how to write about the last few weeks.

They've been tough. No worries, not another episode. I've just been exhausted and I feel like I've lost some kind of rhythm.

Decisions were made, though, and that gives me immense comfort. But: The future is uncertain again, changes are afoot again. That part, not so comforting.

But if there's anything that the past two years have taught me, it's that I shouldn't dwell in states of ennui and discomfort anymore. That there is something I can do. And I should do it. Well, I've done it. And now we're waiting for the chips to fall where they may.

And so as things start to change around me again, I take comfort in these:

1. Things may be changing, but some (not all though) of those changes are happening because of our decision—for what would be best for me, for us as individuals, and for our family.

2. While I don't know what the end result of those changes will be, there are still constants in my life. I cling to those.

So, onward ho!

Trust the darkness. Trust that my God and his promises are greater than the darkness. Take feeble, fearful steps into the darkness. Know that the more I trust that Voice in the darkness, the further in I allow myself to go into that darkness (and thus, the bigger my New Narnia will be). 

To new things, then.

Thank You for Tantrums

Lucia just had a massive tantrum.

See, she wasn't able to take her afternoon nap. So she was crying and flailing and snotting and...it was pretty bad.

So, against her wishes, I gave her a bath, dressed her up, brushed her hair, and carried her. She was kicking and screaming and snotting (sorry, can we make that a real verb now?) the whole time. But I cooed and insisted and I'm still bigger than she is (although I think I only have a few more years of that). I rocked her back and forth and in 10 minutes, she was asleep.

The last time I rocked my child to sleep was almost a year ago, under the trees, in our beloved Dalipuga.

I had a helluva week. And you'd think the last thing I'd want is a tantrum but...that was just what I needed. Thank you. :)

It's nice to know that my little headstrong, bullish, persnickety punkle still needs me from time to time. Because God knows I need her all the time.

Awake

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

I just took a shower.

It's a cold night.

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

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

—

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

—

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

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

—

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

—

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

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

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

—

Still.

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

—

Mostly.

—

Sometimes, I wish I were back in the basement.

—

If only for those showers.

—

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

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

—

And then there's this:

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

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

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