100 Days

Someone asked me this question out of the blue: Between the one who has to leave and the one who's left behind, who suffers more?

She asked me this as if it's a contest and there should be a winner. I did not answer. In my silence she concluded that maybe both parties hurt just the same.

If I had replied, I knew my answer would be one-sided. The latter would hurt more.

It is the one who's left behind who has to deal with every scent that lingers on the sheets days after the other took off. It is she who has to live with the emptiness that hangs in the air, when all the noise had died down. There's no escaping it.

Nostalgic sadness is like having bags and bags of blood sucked out of you. It makes you so weak, you can't even cry. You can choose to be happy, of course. But there's always something about winter nights that just make you not want to.

It's been a day since my husband left. You see, this is why I'm partial to the latter. Until now, I still haven't broken into tears. What I do is stare at the ceiling and feel this hollow pain making waves of all sizes on my chest. And then I sleep, sandwiched between pillows and with the comforter over my face. I sleep before it hits me real hard that I'm alone again, I know that it will start to make me cry and I just extremely hate the part when snot starts to come out and interfere with my breathing.

My husband's presence is a baffling thing. His nearness is enough to make me happy, even when he does nothing special. Actually, my favorite moment with him was when he was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and I was sitting on the bed, staring at the TV, but not really watching because I was half-listening to the sound he was making. And I just suddenly felt happy. It was spreading all throughout my being, the way the sun soaks you in its warmth in the morning and you close your eyes and let your soul respond. Yes, that's right. I found the right words, thank God. That was exactly how I felt when I realized that he was finally near me.

But now, he's left again. As if those ten days were a short trip to the toilet to shit and then that's it. Time moves too fast when you're loving every minute of it. I guess you just have to fight for the good days. You do this by not letting the bad days defeat you, because good days keep on coming. You just have to wait again for that ultimate return that makes his presence in your life more meaningful. Otherwise, watching him brush his teeth would simply be fucking annoying.

My husband and I have started a countdown. "100 days," he told me, "I'll be seeing you in 100 days."
He's always like that. Positive. Good-natured. So unlike me. He even reminds me to pray every night. "You lead the prayer," he'd say.

When he does that, it's as if the Lord also reminds me, "He's always worth the wait."

True. Always has been.

America is Not Everything

I would like to think of a good introduction for this, but the title says it all. Well, at least for me.

I know a lot of people who dream of coming here to start their lives anew. There's nothing wrong with that. Just some words of caution: If you can't find happiness where you are, you won't find it elsewhere. If  you see happiness as a treasure chest buried somehere, then you're in for a never-ending chase. Good luck with the adventure.

My fascination for this place lasted until my husband left for work barely a week after we got married. By then I came to realize that places can only mean as much as the people you share it with, the way we like to differentiate a house from a home.

America is a far cry from the third-world country I was born and raised in. But not more beautiful.

Sure, I could buy the biggest bottle of Cetaphil here, drown myself in gallons and gallons of fresh milk, Starbucks and Coke, and maybe even be able to own a car in the near future, but something tells me that even after I've acquired all of these, I'd still be sitting on my carpeted living room floor asking myself, "Now what?"

In this country, it's so easy to believe that you need the things that they offer. Hand creams, ass wipes, apple-flavored M&Ms and Chewy Chips Ahoy. Things that you've lived without all your life. They're being sold here for a few dollars or just a swipe. And you feel good, you fall into the illusion that your life is getting better, just because you can afford the things that you wouldn't dare put in your cart back then.

You slide into what I call the American bullshit. My mind suddenly gave birth to this term in one of my many encounters with fellow Filipinos who I would mentally laugh at (and not guiltily so) for being so Donya Victorina. If you're Pinoy and you don't know her, I pity you.

I find it really funny--how some Filipino immigrants can be so unaware of how stupid they look when they try to be so high and mighty in front of others and act as if their lungs never knew the smog in Manila.

They would immediately strut with their Michael Kors bags and daunt me with their slang upon learning that I'm a newcomer. I, in turn, would happily play along, hoping to death that they can now tell the difference between you're and your.

I remember when I was a teenager and my parents would talk about relatives or family friends who were already abroad and say, "Maganda na buhay nila ngayon, asa Australia (or America or Canada) na sila."

It's not a lie, but it may not also be the truth. The same way America can give you a good life, but not necessarily a happy one.

Money comes easily around here, but goes just the same. People work their asses off to pay all the bills that come from both necessities and vanities. And with all there is to have, sometimes, it's not even enough. My father-in-law would always tell me whenever he comes home from work, "Eto Chang ang buhay sa Amerika, mas masarap pa buhay ko sa Pilipinas."

I couldn't agree more.

I would trade all that I have now for a Sunday morning at home. Anytime. Life was so simple then, but so happy. I miss waking up to the sound of my mother coming home from the market with the best breakfast in the world: tuyo, mais, kalamay, taho and hot pandesal. All three of us would rush to be the first to get Mama's basket because that way you get to choose the biggest portion.

Always as I eat breakfast and we play whatever song we like on the computer, I'd tell myself, "I have my parents, Nanay, my sisters, and we even have a dog. This is enough. Everything I need to live is inside this home."

Sometimes I wish I could bottle up those moments, so I could immerse myself in them whenever I feel the need. All I'm saying is that you don't need more in life. And you'd eventually figure it out.

So why am I here? I went here to be with my husband. Although I do not regret getting married, I do know that I can't live here. It just sounds so sosyal, where I'm at. Best background for instagram pics. But like I said, it's not everything.

And that thing you learned from Wizard of Oz? It's true.

There's no place like home.

There is a thing or two to be said when you've hit rock bottom. First is that when you've reached your lowest of lows, you always have two options: vanish completely or fight your way back up.

Another is that rock bottom, I've learned, is like a deep well in the midst of a desert. Some people, in their desperation for water, just dive straight in and then worry about how to climb back up later. The same goes for people who let themselves drown in sadness and then reach a point wherein they no longer know how to find their way out, so they choose to either die or save themselves at the last minute.

And then there are some who are gifted enough to endure their thirst for a few minutes more, just to give themselves enough time to look for a bucket, tie it up and let it go down the well to fetch water. I guess these are the people who, at their loneliest, part the curtains and let the sun in, knowing that a little warmth is what a cold day really needs.

You can choose to be any of these, and no one can blame you for it. Because to those who have come across rock bottom, and have really known how devastating it can be, strength will always be a matter of choice. You choose how to deal with your pain. There's no means better than the other.

It's just that whatever your choice is defines who you are.

In this case, my weapon of choice is solitude. You know, there's something very frightening about having everything you want. It is the fact once you've learned to hold on to it, like your body parts, it becomes essential to your way of life. And once they're gone, you will find yourself unable to do anything. Worthless. Useless. Not even Dumbledore's quotable quotes can save you. Especially when, come to think of it, he killed himself in the story.

You lose hope, but then you learn one thing and that's all you ever need to know. No matter how bad it is, you live. You shrink so small but you live. And in your tiny self, you realize the small things are enough to make you want to be alive.

That is what solitude does. It tells you it's ok to be your fucked-up self because that is part of who you are.  It makes you notice how the carpet is really soft on your feet, or how the ticking of the clock sounds like the beating of your heart when you're calm and at peace. It makes you appreciate the smell of freshly-brewed coffee until it dawns on you that it's the aroma and not the taste that makes it so addictive. Heck, it makes you even thankful for a rainy day because it's the perfect time for a cup of hot chocolate.

It's funny, how when you allow yourself to be small, you see things in a bigger perspective. How being in a dark place makes you see the silver lining.

The Ring

No, this isn't about the Ring of Middle Earth, nor is this about an Asian horror flick. It's about my engagement ring. 

Whenever a woman gets engaged, she, without fail, would have to be ready to do two important things: tell people how the guy proposed to her and show them her ring. You can cue in the collective gasp, giggles and 'congratulations' after these are done. Well, this is for women with boring lives. Mine was different.

Did I go through the two-step post-engagement evaluation process? Yes. Did I get the same response? No. My fiancee was supposed to propose to me in a restaurant, that he told me days later. But it was a stormy September evening and we couldn't get a ride to the resto. The water was starting to rise and we both knew that we'd be stuck if we pushed through. We decided to go home. Nobody else was there but the two of us. We were so hungry that we heartily ate what was on the table,which was ginisang ampalaya. How's that for fine dining?

Halfway through dinner, he asked me to read a "blog" that he said he made. He's not really the kind of guy who would write you poems or love letters. I read it, anyway. It must have been five paragraphs long. Not bad for an amateur blogger, huh? And at the end of it was the "question". Of course, I said yes. I gave him a tight hug and a kiss. And then that was it. No crying. No music. No flash mob. No crowd. Nobody was even there to capture the moment. It was just us. 

When I told this to my friends, I saw their excitements shoot from the moon and the stars down to the dusty ground. They still put up a happy face though. They said, "ay, sweet pa din." With a retarted smile. I wanted to laugh out loud. I think I actually did. Maybe people just have a lot of expectations when it comes to wedding proposals. Well, it's a life-changing event. It has to be done with grandeur.

The funny thing is that, I think mine was perfect. No shit about that. For one, I was on my right mind. There was no sunset, no starry sky or city lights that could have stirred up intense romantic emotions in me. When I said yes, it was a decision made both by my clear head and calm heart. It was a yes that came from every ounce of me. 

This is why I am proud of the way my man proposed to me. Nobody could have ever thought of that! So simple yet so meaningful.

And then there's the second task. Show them your ring. 

Rewind to a few days before the proposal. We were strolling at this mall. He was about to go back to where they were stationed. Out of the blue, I told him, "Buy me a ring. I don't care how it looks like. It could be just a simple ring. But you have to buy me a ring." 

He was thinking deeply and then he looked at me like maybe I was nuts. 

That moment I was thinking of the many times this guy and my exes have tried to put a ring on my finger as a gift. I managed to lose those rings. Maybe because I never actually took them as my own. I never really cared for them as much as I cared about my books.

Weeks later, he gave me this ring with a tiny diamond. I did task number two and proudly showed it to the world. I got mixed reactions. Some took a second look and woke up to the reality that it's really small. Others asked me to ask my fiancee if he was serious about the engagement. His relatives even laughed at it and told me, "Naku, tinipid ka! Ilocano talaga!" 

My only allies were his mother and my mother. The latter told me, "Mabuti nga binigyan ka ng singsing, si Papa mo nga walang binigay!"

So what makes my ring different from the sea of brick-sized, 18-c diamond rings? 

It was my choice. 

And the things you choose? You cherish them, protect them, love them with all your heart. No matter how small. 

Sometimes, when I feel very tired, stressed or downright wrecked, I look at the tiny diamond on my ring. It sparkles and I marvel at how beautiful it is. It was like a child I chose to conceive. And my heart swells with pride.

Before we parted ways the day I kind of proposed to him, I erased the confusion on his face. I said the ring was a reminder of my decision. And remember, what you choose, you cherish. 

This ring is my promise. 

Bingo

There is too much to be said about hitting someone right where it hurts. For one, it has something to do with the wound that never heals. A sore spot is always something that one just couldn't let go no matter how many years have gotten by. It might be a totally humiliating experience or an unforgettably painful one. It has to be, because how else will it leave a mark?

Other times you don't actually need to hit the bull's eye to conjure whatever is left of that sore spot, you only need to bump it slightly, gently, then surprise! It immediately begins to bleed. All the while you thought it has rested in peace, like an inactive volcano.

Today, someone hit my sorest spot. If there is such a word as sorest, but what the hell.

My sore spot lurks at the heart of my ego. I used to say that my ego has a life of its own. Hurt me and I'll forgive you. Hurt my ego and I lose every strand of logic. That's when forgiveness gets taken out of my vocabulary. You go straight to my ego's inbox and that is synonymous to going straight to hell.

I broke up with my second boyfriend because he devastated my ego. I have forgiven him but my ego never did. I was, am and always have been a proud person. To send my self-esteem spiraling to the the ground is equivalent to you attempting to kill me. Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway, I just totally went cold. End of story.

I may be accused of being unreasonable, but the truth is that I just always wear my heart on my sleeve. If it hurts me, I show it. I will not even try to hide it. Then I remove whatever is that shit that's causing me pain.

Life, for me, is simple. I just dump the unnecessary.

Good Night

Loneliness. It's silent and deep. It aches like solitude, but with a rustic aftertaste.

If you were here now, we would have been in bed already. You'd be busy with your chaos fighters as I try to sleep through the light and sound of it. I could, because I'd be resting on your chest, where it's soft and I can smell a tinge of what's left of your deo when your armpits are newly-bathed. Only you have that smell, even then.

You texted to say that you couldn't sleep so you went out for a smoke. And I swear I could see you on that deck, with the stick in between your fingers, looking out at the dark nothingness that's the sea. I feel somewhat comforted that miles and miles away from here, someone out there feels just as lonely.

I read recently that our souls could sense the absence of another, that's why when someone dear to us goes away, it leaves us feeling hollow, empty. That is why we feel this certain longing. Our souls cry to be near the other, to feel its presence.

I don't exactly know if there's any truth to this, but somehow, in my longing for you, my heart tells me some things might just be true, even only for me.

After I sent you off, I came across two butterflies on my way home. They have the same patterns on their wings. They kept on circling and chasing one another that they almost slammed on my chest in the process. But they looked so happy. Probably because they were actually trying to mate. I thanked God for the sign. It was a good omen.

If that was not enough, our African lovebirds just welcomed their first hatchling. The Lord, perhaps, has given us the blessing to have our own family.

I still miss you though.

But unlike before, I am not going to try to remove this sadness the way I get rid of pain. I let it stay. You are worth missing. You are worth longing for.

By this time, you are already sleeping soundly. And like those many nights in which you sleep so deeply beside me, too immersed in your dreams for you to notice, I kiss you gently.

Of Marriage and Other Insanities

For some people, getting married is a dream come true. Fairy tales did a good job drilling in that it's the only path to living happily ever after. With this, I swear to read only Roald Dahl's Revolting Rhymes to my would-be daughter to give her a more realistic glimpse of how love stories really end in real life.

With Cinderella opting to marry a jam-maker because her Prince was actually trying to behead her.

Seriously, I got quite worried when, two months before my own wedding, I still couldn't think of a metaphor for it. Weird as it may seem, when I am struck by something beautiful---an experience or feeling, I can always liken it to something else. There will always be something tangible that can represent its depth. But whenever I think of my wedding, of my coming marriage, of my supposed happy ever after, there was only this void. A blank that you kind of know what to fill with, but at the moment, the answer chooses to chill somewhere at the vortex of your brain.

And then one weekend, I finally got to experience the Tree Drop Adventure that my adrenaline-crazy self couldn't wait to try. I was draped in what feels like 5 kilos of safety gears and then they asked me to stand on a tiny platform that could send me to my death with one major misstep. The excitement was mounting and I felt like my insides were being stir-fried. I removed my feet from the platform and I was floating 70 feet from the ground with my hands clutching the metal pole. I was OK until I opened my eyes and realized that I was going to fall to this muddy ground full of moss. That was when fear started to choke my throat. I was telling this man that I can't do it anymore and I was already climbing back to the platform. My father was already laughing and telling me, "Nakakahiya ka Chang, 25 ka na! Kaya mo na yan!" And I very much wanted to send him spiraling into a tree drop, too, so he would know just how scary it feels.

Right then and there, as the staff was trying to remove my fingers one by one so that they could drop me off that height, I was reminded of my wedding. I remember thinking, "Oh so this is how it's like. You think it's everything you ever wanted in life, but when life gives you a glimpse of where you'd actually land, you would realize how scary it really is--to plunge somewhere so uncertain, there would be no such thing as comfort zone."

I was dropped, anyway. And I screamed so loud, several birds flapped away from the nearby trees.
Back on the ground, I was so shaken that I remained suspended for a good thirty seconds with my eyes closed until someone respectfully told me to stand already. And like everything else that didn't kill me, it did make me feel stronger in the end--in a rockstar kind of way. I would've done it the second time that day if only I had the money.

Even after the high of that experience left me, I still kept thinking about how insane I had likened it to being married, which, by the way, is an insanity in itself. People, young and adult (but still stupid) alike, often think it's a playhouse. A fulfillment of a childhood dream of being with your prince or princess. For perverts, it's a chance to have sex with a person whenever or wherever you want sans the fear of getting or getting her pregnant. For the insecure, it's a good cage to trap your loved one so he/she wouldn't get away anymore. Well, at least not easily.

Every single one of these is true about marriage and a lot more.

My fiance and I have been sort of living in for almost two months now. This is with my parents' consent, of course. In the words of my mother, "It's not that I trust him so much that's why I let you. I do, but most importantly, it's because I trust you." She even stayed with me for a while just so she can give me some advice about being a wife, a homemaker, a mother. I'm lucky to have learned all these from my own mother. She does know best.

It's true that you can't claim to know your partner so much until you've lived together under one roof. I've known him since high school, but I didn't realize how often he could fart in a day until now. It's disgusting, really, but tolerable.

I guess getting married is very much like being born again. You may not realize it yet, but regardless of your age, singlehood is still a protective placenta that shields you from the realities of commitment. It's an invisible comfort zone that you would only be aware of once the water has been broken and you're finally out of your safe bubble. After that, welcome to the world of responsibility. Yes, a spank on your baby butt helps.

I didn't realize the importance of culinary skills until my fiance requested for a dish. I never took cooking seriously before because my father does this for us all the time. I didn't even know how to cook rice. I learned about a dish or two but forgot them as soon as I got buried in my work. I mean, I
could cook up a transfer activity for verb tenses in a matter of minutes, but a dish out of raw ingredients? Too complicated.

But then I think one of the best things about being married would be stumbling upon bits and pieces of your who you can still become. I used to think that being a homemaker is a disgrace to the career woman that I am, but then I realized that taking care of the ones you love is an art in itself. Something that you also need to learn and execute with passion. It's quite amazing, really. I am actually watching myself grow personally out of love for another person.

Love is always like that, I guess. By lighting others, you unknowingly stoke your own fire.

I don't believe in making sacrifices for love. Sacrifice is doing something against your will, but because of some sentimental reasons, you do it anyway. I like the idea of learning to want something because it makes the other person happy. I entered this relationship as a complete person with a complete set of principles, which I acquired, forged and decided upon, I will not compromise who I am for anyone else, not even for my husband.

You know, even if you tell yourself that you won't put up with his shit, you have to realize that he's trying to put up with your shit, too. So be kind enough to meet the other person halfway, because you BOTH decided to live a life together for the rest of your lives.

I'm yet to learn to like his desire to drink alcohol with friends on weekdays, though. And as long as I still could not, he's gotta put up with my shitty mood and tantrums. Haha. Work both ways.

There's a long, long way to go. What I am now seeing is a tip of the tip of the huge iceberg underneath. I'm taking it one day at a time. Everything is better that way. Single and married life alike.

If love is an ocean, so impenetrable and vast, is marriage a boat that safely harbors you to the nearest port and save you from possible drowning? I bet not. I say marriage is a diving gear that lets you explore all its wonders, beautiful madness, deadly secrets and never-ending depth. The best part? You are not alone. :)

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Love your neighbor as you love yourself. It does not hurt to keep in mind: as you love yourself. Only a complete person can love someone else completely. The Lord knows. I love you as I love myself. And you know how vain I am, right?

The Legal Hype

 My father has been unemployed for a number of years now. All throughout it was my mother who provided for the family. In those rare moments when she feels fed up, my mother would always tell me never to depend on my husband for my needs. She says she works her ass off to give us good education so we won't grow up to be dependent on anybody.

I keep this in mind.

My family is so full of strong women that it's a shame to be anything but.

So when a friend asked me, while watching The Legal Wife on the bus, what I'd do if I caught my husband cheating, I told her, "Oh, I won't, because I'll be busy cheating on him, too."

Of couse it was a joke, so we both laughed.

But when she got off the bus, I thought about it. What the hell would I possibly do?

Well, for one, my vengeful nature won't let them get away with it, of course. I think I might kill them myself. Castrate him and torture the woman slowly then watch the NBA playoffs while they bleed to death. If the Houston Rockets can make it till game 7, I might let them live a few hours more. But then that would make me feel really guilty, after all the anger has subsided.

Try to fix what's left of the marriage, maybe? That's the right thing to do. But my huge ego tells me that I won't be able to forgive somebody who chose somebody else over me. Just not possible.

Then I thought, if all else fails, I still have my dreams. I can leave and continue with the life that I initially wanted for myself. Anyway, happiness, for me, is always a choice. I don't put my happiness where I'd need to look for it. I always keep it in. I incite it from within.

Like when I ride a bike and I feel so free. Or when I smell the scent of hay and flowers and morning mist when I jog early enough. When I wake up before the sun does and I just watch it rise. When I try to listen to God when I meditate in the dark. When our dog licks my foot. When my sisters and I laugh at Kim Kardashian memes. When my favorite team wins. There are so many beautiful things to be happy about. Surely, my cheating husband won't be so much of a loss.

I can live as my mother does. Independent. I'd probably buy my dream apartment with a view of the city lights. Pursue my dream of becoming a Nat Geo explorer. Teach in the far-flung barrios of the country. Be a UNICEF volunteer. Write a book. Maybe even stumble upon another romance.

But then again, who knows? Strong as we claim we are, love works in ways so mysterious, Samson let Delilah know his strength was in his hair. True love does not guarantee a perfect relationship. But it does say it will endure, and it will not fail. I guess if it's true love, it will be worth keeping in the end.

So what's your excuse?

I was bracing myself for this day but still ended up feeling disappointed.

I'm tough as a rock, but I still love surprises.

The Militant

Always you are like a wound that is soft and tender,
Always I press your exposed flesh and the blood springs,
Thick and heavy,
Your cries always muffled,
Your eyes tearful,
But are they shed?
Ever?