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.