I waltzed into darkness
with my own tune
my own music
my own shoes.
As I danced in madness,
I drowned into you.
Your beauty did I drink
your breath,
your scent,
Your song
was my voiceless cry.
Yet the knives at my feet
were my own —
my own poison wine.
I waltzed and you were there.
I was the siren, you the song.
I danced closer and closer,
filling my poison with your grace
filling my shoes with red ooze.
I waltzed into darkness
and my tune became you.
It has been a few weeks into the enhanced community quarantine here in the Philippines. I have not been earning any money for two weeks now. And I’m totally out of antidepressants.
Before this turns into a ranting complain-o-rama, I’m going to list all the things that make me lucky – disgustingly lucky:
1. I am a bi-lingual, middle class, BPO-worker living in a small cozy studio condo with no kids.
2. My sweet, wonderful, and supportive husband is working full-time at home.
3. There is a cute little pop-up meat and vegetable market right next door.
4. My next-door neighbor is a semi-retired but super sharp nurse.
5. Most of my family and friends are keeping me afloat online with communication, love, and laughter.
6. My town has one of the best local governments in the land.
For all these and more, I am truly grateful. So why so serious? This is a confession of my privilege but also of my vulnerability and self-loathing.
I have set my mind to be productive and creative throughout this quarantine period. I was planning to:
• keep working on my backlog projects so I can be up to speed if and when we report back to work
• paint cards for the sick and for the frontliners
• write the chronicles of our videochat roleplaying game (Hi, Sunday Gamers!)
• exercise
• design more houses in Sims 4
• donate, give back
And I have done nothing. My energy is so depleted though I have all the time in the world to rest.
I feel guilty of not being able to make or eat dinner although I truly enjoy cooking. Mornings are better since I have my appetite and I do a bit of gardening from my window. I make great lunch food so I make big batches.
I sleep too much. Little things make me cry spontaneously. Like the word frontliner.
I was diagnosed with depression about a year ago. I am a classic case of not handling it well. I have probably had it longer than I care to discuss but I have been coping… badly. I do my insanely creative and awesome job badly. I haven’t been the best of friends to people who have literally saved me.
I rarely go to therapy because it’s expensive. My meds have tapered down to a fluoxetine pill every other day for about six months now. Since the quarantine, I am back to taking one every day. I haven’t told my doc yet because I haven’t seen her since October.
My amazing husband has the quarantine pass so he can get my meds today. I hope the drugstore is ok with my prescription, which is a few months old.
Also, he has purchased extra gallons of alcohol to give to family. He has given 4 extra gallons to my favorite organization, the Shiphrah Birthing Home and Lying-in Clinic in Taytay. Today he will be giving trays of eggs to my mom and dad. Told you guys, amazing.
He has been constantly reminding me that it’s ok. That it’s gonna be ok. I have a firm belief that things are gonna be ok, despite the third-world style emergency response. I have firm hope that we will come out of this as better people.
What I’m having trouble believing in is if I, as a person, am OK. If I am good. If I am brave. If I am kind. If I am tolerable. If I’m doing enough. I’m staying put. It’s the least I can do.
Talking about my brain is not easy but I want you to know that if you have been feeling this way, you’re not alone. I hope this helps.
For free mental health counseling
https://news.abs-cbn.com/life/04/06/20/la-salle-offers-free-online-counseling-service
To donate to the midwives of Taytay, Rizal
http://www.helpintl.org/shiphrah-birthing-home.html
Padme and Anakin
“It’s been.. ”
“Yes, a while. ”
“How have you been? ”
“Fine… like mad, I’m fine.”
“We kissed.”
“Yes. It burned.”
“We never should have.”
“I’m never leaving you, you know?”
“Sure, like a damn scar.”
“But not yet, not ever.”
“We can’t help it, can we?”
“I won’t let anything happen.”
“But you can’t help it, can you? ”
“But I can! I swear! I will!”
Weekdays
Wake up
Make up
Show up
Fuck up
Pack up
Hole up
Sleep (or not)
Repeat
Come and meet me, darling
I want to be your lie.
I see your waters dancing
With every pencil line.
Every speck of paint, a peck:
A kiss of dew and time.
Those shores so soft, so cool,
So calm, so green, upon the eye.
Where every blossom could be picked
If I could reach the stream.
Where I could swim inside your eyes,
A green and painted dream.
I’d swing upon the branches.
Your waters I would drink,
With lotuses and crocuses,
And heady hyacinths.
I reached til green have touched my toes
And lapped my dress of white.
The slime had slid up on my knees
And up across my thighs.
The waters pulled and tugged my dress
I felt it grip around my neck.
I tasted green turn cold and black.
From which I came, I can’t go back.
Was I a fool to see the warmth
The dazzling dance of light?
But, Hamlet, dear, you pushed me not.
I walked into goodnight.
And in the pink of you
I saw myself in green.
And from the white of warm
I tore myself in green.
And in the mirror’s depth,
my tiny tiny self.
Wouldn’t it feel great to look upon
The rows, the rows,
the Rose?
But in the mirror’s depth
I saw only myself in green.
And on the pond of still
I saw myself in green.
When will I ever learn?
I slicked myself in green.
And on the water’s skin
my sickly slimy self.
Wouldn’t it feel great to skate upon
the skin, the skin,
the scene?
But in the water’s depths
I’ve drowned myself in green.
Have you ever tasted dirty paint water?
“No, you’re not that stupid, right?”
No. No, I wasn’t. I never… but have you?
Anyway, I had sweet and warm coffee
right next to my wash cup
Did I dip into the wrong cup?
I dunno. Maybe.
It tasted sweet,
And red, and juicy.
And then I tasted salt,
metallic and red.
The thickness of the red covered my teeth,
My tongue, my lips,
And then my eyes were red.
And all I saw was that taste.
So I rubbed by eyes,
Hence, hands stained red forever.
All I touched was red.
Everyone stared back at me red.
I could not hear their hearts,
All I could hear was clanging, metallic red.
I dare not touch them.
Perhaps I feared my red.
Perhaps I feared theirs.
“Was it quinacridone?”
Nah. Cadmium, I think.
They say you took away my heart;
I say you’ve taken my feet,
Piece by piece the bottom part,
The skin that touch the ground –
My sole!
I can no longer land;
I can only hover.
Flesh too raw
too hurt
to touch
to stand.
Funny how I hover and shift
I can no longer put weight
on anything.
In a crowded room
I cannot stand
I cannot reach a soul
Was it just my feet you took, my love?
Alas, you took my hands!
I cannot reach, I can only grope.
I cannot touch, I can only burn.
I walk and all that’s read are marks,
No hope for my return.
They say you took away my heart.
Why have I none left
to give out?
Precious
a poem
I could have made myself precious:
salons every fortnight,
facials every month,
a bag for every outfit,
a wardrobe every season.
I could have made myself more … pleasing:
trimmer waist,
stick straight shiny hair,
a generous smile,
a witty little brain.
Instead of straightening my hair,
I chose to show every kink, every wave,
all the sharp curves of my brain.
Instead of slimming down my waist,
I chose to gorge on life joys and pains.
I chose to suck on the teat of life –
I imbibed. Too late to realize
That a thick waist will not keep a man
from holding me – or holding me back,
from completely embracing me – or completely crushing my breath.
I could have made myself precious:
Stone-cold marble skin
touched only by the highest bidder,
hands so light, I’d have flown away at the slightest slight,
a jewel, a treasure, a rare coveted delight.
I could have made myself slimmer.
Having more of me meant
more to give away,
more to lose,
more of me spread out on the table.
I could have been precious
but I let you touch.
I could have been precious
but I let you in.
I could have been precious
but I let you partake.
Yet, I can’t really be precious.
I’m not the type of girl that makes friends
or the type that men fall for.
Hell, I know I’m not precious.
Was I too easy?
Did I give too much of me?
I could have made myself precious to you.
When I was eight,
my cousins would make me play Sarah
so they could Lavinia me into rags
in our gumamela, dirt, and plastic kitchens.
But that didn’t matter because
I wouldn’t play Sarah with them again.
When I was sixteen,
my classmates all handed me their
black cards
at the senior class retreat because I was so “mysterious”
But that didn’t matter because
they had an after-party
and I went home.
When I was eighteen,
I lost my sight, holding the hands of a boy
I could see him
but I could hear everyone.
None of that mattered
because I pushed him away
and never saw him again.
When I was twenty-six,
I lost my voice at work, stupidly shouting,
“I have a solution!” “I fucking matter!”
But none of that mattered
because they had drinks after work
and I went home.
When I was thirty,
I lost my face
because I am cocky, vain, boring, and weird.
I serve up sour wine
because I wouldn’t
I couldn’t
play Sarah ever again.
But none of that matters
because through this thicket of spines,
the thickest of walls,
the spiciest of tongues,
the sharpest of eyerolls,
There were the aunts who aunt-kissed my face over and over
because they haven’t seen me in ages “How did you get so big, hija?”
There was the friend who would stay on the phone on a school night
just to listen.
There was the prof who would ask me about my work schedule,
“Make sure to get some sleep, hija.”
There was the boss who gave me time off
so I could take the board exams “Go get the top notch, hija.”
There is the man who would learn how to make soup
because my throat hurt.
There is the friend who would ride an hour more
just to have tea with me.
And for them, I would gladly play
a Sarah,
a Becky,
or even an Eowyn.
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