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.