Cautiously Optimistic

It is really difficult to write a year-ender simply because I can't make sense of the year that has passed. There are some events that happened this year that I could've sworn happened the year before. It's as if my mind has already distanced itself from several things and now I am puzzled by its proximity to my Now.

I think something happened that definitely made me change the course of my current trajectory.

Oh, look at me, calling it "something" when I actually know what it is. But it is what it is, and it shall not be named (at least not publicly) and I got through it, didn't I?

If this year is to be known for anything, then, let it be known for how my family and friends have kept me alive and well. The support has been incredible and extremely grace-filled. I am hardly worthy, and yet the love just keeps coming and coming for me and my Lucia.

Which is why, despite all my complaints about my reality, I don't want to be anywhere else. This is where the Lord wants me. It is one of the few things that 2015 has made abundantly clear to me.

It's been a struggle doing the whole single parent thing. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing it okay enough or if I'm scarring Lucia for life. But she remains smart and kind and healthy and beautiful despite her mother; my cup runneth over.

And so, with a puzzled look to 2015, I enter 2016, cautiously optimistic. There are still so many things I haven't figured out yet, but on with the upswing, I say! Let's go!

Thank You

Here's the thing, though.

I'm actually...not happy. But thank you for wishing me a happy birthday. I'm not sad. Not really. I'm not sure. I'm in some fatigue-induced melancholy. I've been in an intellectual, non-violent (thank God) manic state these past few weeks (months?) and it's been exhilarating. But I feel like I'm at the tail-end of it and now—as with all post-manic episodes—I'm tired. And I feel a crippling sadness settling in. I feel like so many things in my life are up in the air and I just want things to settle.the.eff.down. Just. Stop. Stop spinning. Stop.

//

I spent the day in a seminar that I willed to happen and I was filled with anxiety leading up to it. What if the others didn't find value in it? What if they didn't enjoy? What if I was living in a pipe dream and nobody else wanted to get the pipe from me?

When one of my co-workers texted to thank me for making the seminar happen, I cried. I actually cried. And I realized, it wasn't because the seminar was a success.

It was because somebody thanked me.

//

I can never really think of my birthday now without thinking of how I "celebrated" it five years ago. In labor, scared and worried, but also extremely excited. I received the only thing I've ever really truly wanted with all my heart and soul and mind.

I thank you, Lord, for Lucia. For all my days, I will thank you. Thank you, thank you.

//

Lucia turns five tomorrow. She is everything I've ever wanted, everything I never even knew I wanted. Sometimes I look at her and tremble. How could I have been this fortunate?

I worry all the time. What if I break her? What if she isn't happy? What if she is my hopes and dreams, but she isn't hers?

And then she thanks me for coming home early (I came home late), and I cry.

//

In all things, I give thanks. Lord, you are wonderful to me.

//

So many people died today. Such horrors.

And now my unnamed, inexplicable sadness has gained a foothold on something real and concrete.

And I cry.

Checking In

I haven't written in so long because so much and nothing at all has been happening. Does that make sesnse? Probably not.

In any case, I'm okay. Mostly.

Just a little over a month till our birthdays and just a few more weeks till the year's over. I sorta feel like I want to end this year already. It's not necessarily a good nor a bad thing, I just want to get into more solid ground, and I think that's not going to happen this year.

Tralala, ladida.

You Are Enough

Oh, the immeasurable joy of having your child reach out for you in mid-sleep, in mid-nightmare; having her hold you and smell you and seeing her calm down. In that eternity of a moment, all self-doubt washes away. In that eternity, you are enough.

(But she, she is more than enough. She is everything.)

And in the infinity between then and the not-yet-now, you believe that it is true, and that it is the only truth that matters.

3rd

I started the day by finally submitting a story for publication. It was a story about a day that I had inside my head a few weeks after getting out of the basement. And then I did a cursory search of some files I had in my G-Drive and found a letter. It was the note I wrote right before I...did what I did.

I hadn't realized I saved a copy of it, to be honest. When I started reading the first sentence, I instantly remembered what it was. I know, I know. I shouldn't have read it, but I couldn't stop. The only reason I didn't read it till the end was that my eyes had gone all blurry with tears. I rushed to the restroom and locked myself in the stall and promptly wept. I would've stayed cocooned in my melancholy had it not been for a friend who said, just a few minutes after crying, "Happy Other Birthday."

And I remembered that I made a promise to myself to celebrate the fact that I lived. Three years since that horrible, horrible day.

The next day, on August 14, I got my 14th. To celebrate my 3rd Other Birthday.

Why a semicolon? http://www.projectsemicolon.com/

And today, I stay in bed.

My weekends are usually like this now. I try very hard to be functioning during the week, to make sure I am as normal as I possibly can. So weekends, I am rendered wary of humanity and all the rest of the world. Exhausted. Sad. Hopeful. Lonely. But alive.

L'chaim. On with the story. 

A Scar and a Bruise

Sometimes, I close my eyes. And imagine myself away.

I start from the top. I imagine that my eyebrows are fuller, that my eyes are not as dark. I imagine I have longer lashes and eyes that can see without glasses. I imagine having a more elegant nose. I imagine myself without allergies, my face is clear and smooth. Sometimes I imagine that I have dimples, but I actually like the dents of my mouth. I actually like my mouth. I like my teeth.

I imagine I have a long, smooth neck that meets my face with a jawline that could slice mangoes. I imagine having thinner arms and more ladylike fingers. I imagine I have shoulders that were poised for battle. But I like my small breasts. I breastfed for 22 months. I would've breastfed longer if my medicines had not poisoned my milk. I like that they are small and can be ignored. I like that I can get away with not wearing a bra.

I imagine I have a smaller tummy. Not flat, just smaller. I imagine having smaller thighs, but I like my butt (on most days), so I worry about how my thinner thighs would be able to support a butt like mine. And then I tell myself that physics and biology have no place in daydreams, and so I go back to imagining I have smaller thighs.

Some things I can't imagine away either because I actually like them, am at peace with them, or can't identify myself without them.

For example: I cannot imagine myself taller. I can't imagine my helicopter-like birthmark away. I can't imagine my chin away. And my eyes—I actually love my eyes. (If only I could see better with them.)

I can't imagine my scar away. When I feel another panic attack coming (which has been often, of late), I find myself holding my scar to feel calm. I think about how my guts were removed from inside of me, placed on a cold slab of metal, in order to safely take my child out. And I think about how the doctor was able to put every last inch of them back in and made me work again. For some reason, this idea of being disemboweled then put back together again makes me feel rather magical. Superior, at times.

There is a portion of my belly, however, that has not regained sensation. The doctor said it was because my nerves were severed and some of them will never grow the same way again. And so there is a part of my body that feels nothing, and I touch it whenever I feel too much. And I am calm.

I have a bruise—a series of bruises, maybe—that have been growing in size. The doctor said the medicines have made my blood thin, my veins weak. For some reason, the veins on my right thigh have been especially affected. I bruised myself (I've forgotten how) late October, maybe. The veins bled, just underneath my skin, and so now I have patches of bruises along my thigh that stem from that same bruise. The doctor said it will go away, eventually. It will just really take some time. For now, I look like I've been hazed. But just on my right thigh.

I tried imagining those bruises away, but I'm too fascinated by them. I think about the bruise that started it all, how it bled, how the blood coursed its way below my skin, above my veins (not through them). I suppose if I had to count them, I'd say I have about ten little bruises now, maybe 15. Or are they all just one bruise? When will the marks go away? When will my blood flow naturally again?

It will just take time. Eventually, it will go away.

I will feel nothing forever, but I hold it when I feel too much.

//

Sometimes, I wish I were beautiful.

When the World Was Pink

I have been told countless times that my daughter is almost exactly like me. We have the same expressions, the same interests, the same speech patterns. We have the same hair, the same laugh, the same chin, the same nose. We have the same love language (touch), the same temper (intense). She has my OCD and the same obsession with pink. We can both talk nonstop.

I see parts of her that aren't me, though. She is fearless. She is sure on her feet. She takes to swimming and running and all other physical activities like a natural.

My whole life is about her.

--

It is almost impossible to think of myself apart from being a mother; and yet it is this aspect—this non-mother-ness—that weighs heavily on me. As the annulment process reaches the next stage, reading all sorts of summaries of reports and testimonies, I realize that before that, I couldn't think of myself apart from being a wife.

For what am I—now—if you strip away my being a mother, a wife?

I am lonely. I am afraid. I am tired. I am confused.

I would like to have someone take care of me, ask me about my day, massage my head, my shoulders. I would like someone to tell me that my laughter lifts his/her spirits. That my laughter matters.

I would like someone to notice how my laughter has been hollow of late. How my eyes are sad. How he/she listens to me weep at night and stays up late to tell the ghosts to go away. To leave me alone.

I want to hear, "I love that you take care of me. But here, let me take care of you."

Just don't tell me you love me. I disbelieve it now if it doesn't come from my family and best friends.

--

I'm just tired. And in a few days, it will have been a year since.

And in that year, I will have been alone by choice. Too afraid and disgusted and walled-in.

--

Sometimes, my condition makes me doubt my own memories of happiness. I doubt if those happiness-es were real or just a by-product of my mania.

I do remember one moment when I was neither wife nor mother.

I was driving home from one of my classes in the dead of winter. The roads were miraculously clear and the snow was still. It was moments after dusk and the world around me was pink. The sky, the snow, the air—everything was pink. And the world was quiet and still. I opened my windows and drove home in silence. I didn't notice my tears and how they had all but frozen on my cheeks. I don't even remember why I cried. All I knew was that, at that moment, I was happy.

--

I go back to bed and nurse the abdominal pain that—contrary to what everyone said—didn't go away after I gave birth. (This PMS, unlike most of my relationships, though, is constant, reliable.) I close my eyes as this inchoate migraine has turned me photosensitive again. And my child love languages me calm. For now, I am only mother, for it is the one thing that makes sense to me. She whispers, "I love you," and for a moment, I forget how long it has been since I last heard that as a form of a lie.

Punch-Drunk Gratitude

You know what?

The past few weeks have been exhausting. And soul-crushing. (I will never marry again. I will never marry again. I will never marry again. Well, maybe I will. If I find a Unicorn.) I try not to make this blog a platform of bitterness (I'm looking at you, Katinka of 2009, for shame), so I won't tell you why exactly.

But, my goodness. My goodness.

But I'm not here to talk about that. (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 7, 8, 9, 10...woosah.) I'm here to talk about incredible grace.

If you ask me about single motherhood I will tell you about:

• How parents always come charging when asked. How they come silently, gently, when not. How they always come. They always, always come.
• How brothers grow up to be the sort of men that you are in awe of. Such talent, such intelligence, such humility, such magnificent sense of Others.
• How family prays for you. And roots for you. And reminds you that you are made of sterner stuff. That dignity runs in the family. That miracles happen.
• How friends just give. And give. And give. And tell you, to stop being mothering them, to let them mother you.
• (But also, thank you for letting me mother you all.)

And.

• How your child reminds you that you have to stop and listen. Kiss like the Maoris do. Smell armpits. Make laway bubbles. Reminds you that your biggest mistake will cause you a lot of things (good riddance), but the ones that are important, will remain the same (thank God).

If you ask me about single motherhood, I will tell you that it is the biggest grace I've ever received.

And in all things—even if that "all" isn't much—I give thanks.

But why?

"Mommy, do you love my Daddy?"

I started my day with vomit. Lucia nudged me awake and said, "Mommy, I'm going to be sick." And then she puked all over my shirt. After, we were lying down on the bed—new sheets, new clothes, both of us smelling of soap—whispering odd nothings and then she fell back asleep.

I looked at her face and remembered a time when I would panic at the slightest sneeze, a weird sounding cough, a rash. Now, when something like this happens, I am suddenly the epitome of expertise and nonchalance:

1. Oh, she puked liquid-y phlegm, not food. The vomit doesn't even smell sour. She's fine. I should teach her how to expectorate.
2. I should teach her the word "expectorate".
3. Oh, I think Gaston (from Beauty and the Beast) already did that.
4. She's sleeping again. I should try to sleep again, too.
5. Do we have enough food in the freezer to last till Saturday?

She woke up a few hours later to puke again. We stayed in bed after, again, but stayed awake. And that's when she asked the question.

I was suddenly the epitome of panic and fear and...righteous anger, I'm gonna say?

Mommy, do you love my Daddy?

... (...)* ((...))** (((...)))*** No.

But why?

...Because I love myself now.

Can I still love Daddy?

Of course.

I love you.

I love you.

*Will I tell her the truth? CAN SHE HANDLE THE TRUTH?!?!?!

**I should probably just use the whole "in a different way" template. All single parents do, right?

***Damnit, I'm just going to tell her the truth.

She let the futility of my answer pass, but I expect more probing questions in the future. 

I'm just doing the best I can, you know? 

For now, my darling, know that there is a wealth of meaning behind that brevity. And a whole lot of love. 

There is nothing but love, actually. For me. For you. Always for you. 

And then I vomit.

Children

She wanted me to sit by the stairs as she played with the other kids all by herself. I could hear her talk to the other kids and most of them ignored her. They were mostly 7 and 8 and 9, and they spoke Tagalog fluently. ("Ba't may baby dito?" "Ayoko dyan, English!")

I stayed away, dear reader. I stayed away.

There were three who knew Lucia, though, and I could hear them talking to her (in English). She would peek from around the corner, to make sure I was still there. Still far away. But still there. She waved and smiled. "I'm okay, Mama!"

One of the meaner kids said, "May mumu dyan!" (I STAYED AWAY!) One of the boys (Arvi—the one who knows Darth Vader, remember him?) pulled Lucia aside and said, "There's no such thing. Don't believe him."

Another boy, Axl (also a regular playmate) said, "Come on, Lucia, Arvi and will play with you in your house."

Lucia said, "Okay. How about the other children? Do they want to play, too?" (She called them "children"—the same way an adult would.)

And I—the adult—said, "I don't like them. They can all go away." (And they did.)

God bless my darling's kind heart, but this mother will only take so much. Besides, I was good, I stayed away (for as long as I could).

The boys have left, leaving behind a mess. "Sorry for the mess," she said. And kissed me on the nose.

Compassion and Empathy

Just a few hours ago, I had lunch with the yaya who took care of me and my siblings for about 6 years or so. This was during most of the 90s, so she had front row seats to the show that was my teenage angst. Wew. While we were talking about this and that, she said, "Parang bumait ka, a."

For some reason, I've been getting that a lot lately. And no, it isn't because I'm fantastically nice now. It's because I was THAT messed up before. Recently, I explained to some fairly new friends that I wasn't always like this. Things were very, very different before.

Another friend asked why and how I've mellowed so much. I told her that I had been through hell and back and that I literally almost died. Basically, I've been living my second life since 2012, and I am much more appreciative of what I have now. There are times when I feel like reverting to states of mind and being that nearly destroyed me, but the tug passes. Not without much effort, but it passes.

I am in that weird space right now, remembering that year (as well as the year that just passed), and I'm in a muddy mix of emotions. Mostly because I saw this video shared on my newsfeed:



My emotions are weird because, I can intellectually remember being sad and alone and ashamed. But I don't emotionally remember them anymore. At least not as much as I can feel how much happier I am right now. Don't get me wrong, I still remember the shame all too vividly. But I don't really feel the shame as intensely now.

Interestingly, when I think about that year, I don't remember the sadness or the fear or any of that. I remember the things that got me through.

So much of what Monica Lewinsky said resonated with me, but of all the things she said, this was my favorite: "Shame cannot survive empathy".

And, like she said, this empathy can come from anywhere.

Aside from love from my family and friends (my goodness, my family and friends, THANK YOU), what buoyed me were the many private messages that near-strangers sent to me. I mean, I received messages of hope and encouragement and prayer and outright love from people I wasn't even close to. From people who didn't even know the whole story. I had people telling me about how other people were praying for me. It was amazing.

Meanwhile, some people whom I thought were really good friends—and I mean, REALLY good friends—kept away. Remained silent. Waited for me to reach out. They wanted to remain neutral, they said. Nailang daw sila. (Sorry that my misfortune made you ilang. Hay.)

They are no longer my friends. I cut all ties with them. And that's okay, I wish them well. I have already been blessed by so many with so much.

I've been pretty okay, actually. In fact, I dare say: I'm pretty happy. (Eek!) Ugh, someone actually had the audacity to ask if I was dating again because I looked so happy. (Like it isn't possible to be happy on my own. Like it isn't possible to actually want to be alone. Oy.) It's scary sometimes, this happiness. Since I'm more in the manic portion of the spectrum, I have to keep checking if I'm being overly hyper again, if this happiness is mania.

(Like, I've been overly productive at work lately and because of what happened in the past, there was a moment where I was scared I was being manic again. I wasn't. I just really love what I do, haha!)

But everything's been steady. I take my meds like clockwork. I get lots of sleep. I laugh—genuinely—a lot. So I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay. (I'm okay!)

I just want to say thank to everyone who has been kind to me. Thank you for your compassion. Your kindness and compassion make me want to be kind and compassionate, too. Maybe that's why I'm kinda more mabait now.

For The Woman You Will Become

First, a statement:

I just had to let that off my chest.

Still I Rise

Maya Angelou, 1928 - 2014

 You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

//

All because of her.

For the woman she will become.

Happy International Women's Day.

Beautiful

When I was young, I used to watch my mom, my Nana, and my Lola (great grandmother, in this case) put on cold creams and moisturizers. I soaked in their smells and watched their rituals with great wonder. Something about the whole process—the smells, the movements, the soft sounds—has always made me feel sleepy and warm and safe. 

I am now old enough to (legitimately) worry about wrinkles. (And white hair. And an aching back. And wearing sensible shoes. And...) I've recently just established some sort of pattern that can now be called an actual skin regimen. Late to the party, but hurrah-hurrah.

Lucia watches me now, as I moisturize the heck out of my body in the hopes of getting rid of all the bad choices I've made. (Heh.) She now knows what bottle I reach for, how much moisturizer I put in my hand, even how long I massage my face. "Let me, Mommy!" as she hands over the toner. "I'll shake it, Mommy!" as she gives me the moisturizer. "I like this blue!" as she gives me my tub of Nivea cream. (Aside: This one is straight out of my childhood—all three aforementioned ladies used this, too).

I was running my fingers through my wet hair and she helped me with the tangles. Suddenly, she rested her face on my belly and said, "Your tummy is soft and your face is soft. Like me! You're so beautiful, Mommy. Am I beautiful, too?"

"Yes, my love. More beautiful than anything I've seen."

"I love you, Mommy. Do you love me, too?"

"More than anything now, then, or ever will be."

"I love our bellies, Mommy. We're so soft and beautiful."

Oh, my darling. I suppose I love my belly now, too. (Your soft belly, however, I love most absolutely.)

Some day, the world will tell you that you have to look a certain way to be pretty, my love. And it won't look anything like Mommy. But always remember this moment. You and I, we are beautiful. We are loved. Our love makes us beautiful. 

Here We Go

Tomorrow, I will take the first big step towards getting my freedom (identity, voice, name, courage, sanity) back. I'm pragmatic enough to know that annulment is an arduous and long process. But I remain ever-hopeful.

I want my freedom back. My identity. Voice. Name. Courage. Sanity.

But mostly, I want to focus all my energies on that which makes me sane. And brave (sometimes, because I have to be). That which gives me the name I love the most. The reason I still have a voice and choose to utter it. The Me I love out of all the Me-s I have ever been or ever will be.

Mommy. That is who I am first and foremost, forever and ever.

I pray for strength, everybody. It's going to be a bumpy ride, but I can't wait to get there.

La Decapitazione Dei Capi

BEHEADING OF THE HEADS

("La Decapitazione Dei Capi")

Written by Italo Calvino. Translated by Ubaldo Stecconi & Carmina Ma. Veronica Ll. Bautista

I arrived in the capital on what looked like the eve of a festival. Stands were being erected in the squares, flags were being hoisted, ribbons and palm trees were being raised. Hammers were banging everywhere.

“Is it your national day?” I asked the bartender.

“No, it’s for our heads of government,” he said, pointing at a row of portraits behind him. “It’s for them.”

I imagined it was their inauguration after an election. “New leaders?” I asked.

I nearly had to shout my short sentences to cover the din of hammers, loudspeakers that were being tested, squeaking cranes that were erecting gallows. The bartender shook his head; they were not new leaders, they had been around some time.

“Do you commemorate the day they seized power?” I asked.

“In a sense,” a customer beside me explained. “We have this celebration regularly: when the day comes, there they go.”

“Pardon me?”

“They have to climb up to the stands.”

“Which stand? I’ve seen many, at all crossroads.”

“One stand for each; our government has many heads.”

“What will they do there? Do they speak?”

“Not really, no speeches.”

“So, what do they do when they stand there?”

“There is little for them to do. They wait for the preparations, then the ceremony is over in a couple of minutes.”

“And the people?”

“We watch.”

The bar was crowded. The carpenters and handymen who were unloading the stands’ fittings from their trucks (axes, stumps, baskets) would come in to drink a beer and quickly go. I would direct my questions to somebody but somebody else would invariably answer.

“In short, it is a sort of re-election. They get confirmed in their positions, in office.”

“Not at all,” they corrected me. “You didn’t get it. It’s actually the end of their terms in office; their time is over.”

“And so?”

“So when the head no longer rules, it rolls.”

“Hold on, why do they have to stand on the stands?”

“So that we can have a good look at how the head rolls, springs in the air, and ends up in the basket.”

I was beginning to understand, but I wasn’t sure yet. “You mean to say the heads of your heads of government? They roll in the baskets?”

They nodded. They clearly meant beheading; the beheading of the heads.

I had just gotten there, I had not read the papers, I did not know a thing.

“Tomorrow then, all of a sudden…”

“It’s the rule; when the time comes…” they were saying. “This time, it falls in mid-week. Holiday. Nobody works.”

An old man added gravely: “When fruits are ripe, harvest comes; when the time comes for the heads, it’s beheading. Would you let fruits rot on the tree?”

In the meantime, the carpenters were going on with their job: scaffolds were erected, heavy guillotines were being tested. Stumps were firmly fixed onto the stands for ax-beheading. They were placed close to convenient prie-dieux (a man lay his head on a stump to check that it was at the right distance). Something like butcher’s counters were installed on certain stands so that the blood could flow neatly into the drain. Oilcloth was spread on the floor; sponges were ready at hand to wipe it clean from the splatters. The men were working cheerfully: some were laughing and whistling.

“You look happy. Did you hate them? Were they bad leaders?”

“Not at all!” The clients in the bar were looking at each other, surprised. “These ones were good, I mean to say, not worse than many others. You know what they are like: leaders, bosses, chiefs…When you get to the post…”

“I have to say I quite liked these ones, though,” another client said.

“So did I. Yes,” others added. “I have nothing against them.”

“Aren’t you sorry that they will kill them, then?” I said.

“This is not the point. The moment you accept to be a leader, you already know the end of the story. No hope can die of old age!”

The others laughed. “That’s too easy! After your nice spell in power, you shake some hands and go back home, as if nothing happened.”

Another said: “Oh that would be something! In that case, everybody’d want to be a leader! Here I am, take me, I’m ready!”

“So would I. And I!” many said, laughing.

“I wouldn’t,” said a man with glasses. “Not like that, that would be meaningless.”

“True. What sort of leaders would those be?” other voices added. “You can do the job only if you know what lies ahead, otherwise…What nonsense!”

The man with glasses, apparently the best educated among them, began to explain that power over the others is one and the same thing with the latter’s right to put you on the stand eventually, and bring you down. What authority would a leader have if he were not surrounded by this expectation? If you could not read the expectation in his own eyes every single moment of his term in office? Civil institutions rest on this double edge of power; there has never been a civilization that did not adopt this system.

“Hmm, I can give you some examples…” I objected.

“Real civilization, I mean,” the man with glasses insisted. “I’m not referring to those barbaric period which stretched over peoples’ histories.”

The old man who had spoken earlier about fruits proclaimed: “The head rules as long as it stands on the neck.”

“What do you mean?” the others asked. “You mean to say that if a leader doesn’t have his head chopped off at the end of his term, he would rule for the rest of his life?”

“This is how things went,” the old man confirmed, “in those times when it wasn’t clear that the moment you accept to become a leader, you also accept your beheading. Those who had power would cling to it…”

At this point, I could have objected, I could have given examples; but nobody would have listened anyway.

“So what did they do?” others asked the old man.

“They had to behead their leaders against the leaders’ will, using force. Not even at regular times, but when the people really could not stand them any longer! This was before things were given some order. Now, the leaders accept it.”

“Of course they do,” cheered the others. “Can you imagine it if they didn’t?”

“Things are not as you say,” said the man with glasses. “It’s not that leaders are forced to accept their execution. If this is what you think, then you miss the point of our institutional system; you don’t get the real relationship between our heads and the rest of the population. Only leaders can be beheaded; therefore one cannot wish to be a leader without wishing the cut of the ax at the same time. You can become head only if you feel this calling; only if you feel that your head has already been chopped off the moment you get to your position of power.”

The crowd in the bar had gradually dispersed, they had all returned to their jobs. I realized that the man with glasses was talking only to me now.

“This is what power is all about,” he went on, “it is the expectation. All your power is nothing but the herald of the blade that hisses and neatly severs. All applause is nothing but the beginning of that final applause that hails the rolling of your head on the oilcloth on the stand.”

He took off his glasses, he wiped them with his handkerchief. I noticed that his eyes were filled with tears. He paid his beer and went out.

The bartender spoke close to my ear: “He’s one of them, look here.” He pulled a stack of pictures from under the counter. “Tomorrow, I’ll have to replace the pictures on the wall with these.” The portrait of the man with glasses was on top of the stack; it was an ugly blow-up of an ID photo. “He’s been elected to succeed those who are quitting the post. He’ll be in charge starting tomorrow. Now it’s his turn. If you ask me, they shouldn’t be told the day before. You’ve seen for yourself how he’s taking it. Tomorrow, he will watch the executions as if they were his own. They all do the same: at the beginning, they are disturbed, overwhelmed. The ‘calling’, what words he used!”

“And then?”

“Then he will learn to cope, like everybody else. They are so busy, they stop thinking about it until the day of the celebration comes for them, too. But then, who can read in the heart of a leader? They act as if they are not thinking about it.

“Another beer?”


---
Stecconi, Ubaldo, ed. Daydreams & Nightmares: A Fearless Anthology of Italian Short Stories. Manila: Anvil Publishing, 1996. Print.

And finally, death.

She was a Parson Russell Terrier, a tiny little thing when we got her. She was so small, she was actually going in and out of my bracelet. We named her Sushi.

A few months into our relationship, Lucia's dad and I bought a dog together. We both loved dogs, and it seemed like the most natural thing to do. I had a hard time conceiving, and so Sushi was really our baby. When I finally got pregnant, we were worried about how she would take it. But she wasn't jealous like we feared. In fact, she was fantastically protective. She would watch over Lucia, sniff Lucia, sleep beside Lucia. When someone other than me or Lucia's dad would come close, Sushi would growl at him/her.

May 2014, doing yoga poses together.

Because of the separation and all that had happened, I had not actually seen Sushi in a long time. The last time I saw Sushi was May last year. Lucia would see her from time to time, when she would go to her dad's place to visit, but that was it.

A few weeks ago, Sushi died. A few days after Christmas.

I didn't know how to write about it, really. It's silly, but I've been refusing to. Or I couldn't. But not because it was sad. It was more because, well, I didn't know how to process it. I accept it, that's for sure. But I don't know how to feel. Does that make sense?

Perhaps it's because she had already been lost to me before she was finally gone?

Lucia cried for a long time after finding out. In the weeks that have passed, she would say, "Sushi is dead." At the most random times. (It hasn't gotten too creepy naman.)

And now I've discovered why some of her toys haven't been part of the usual rotation. Turns out, they're all "dead." They're laid out in small "beds" with little sheets of tissue on them—they look asleep, actually. (And yes, THAT was freaking creepy.)

Hey. At least she's processing it.

The sadness isn't as shattering as it is quieting, though. There is a calm acceptance and...relief? I didn't realize how tiring it was to wait for death in the midst of dying.

2009, upon coming back to the Philippines from grad school in the US.

And, there.

We're not talking about a dog anymore.

...

Our relationship began and ended with Sushi, it would seem.

And there is just relief. Because it was awful towards the end. More awful than I had initially known, as recent events have warranted. Oh, we had our good moments. But that's that. In the end, it was already dead when death finally arrived.

And now, more than ever, there is relief. Shattering relief.

So, now, to the business of living on.

Sleep well, Sushi-ya, Sushi-yana. Sit like a human.