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
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.
He loves people but hate going places.
I hate people but love going places.
Everyday I wonder why he chose me.
Well that was a bad title for a child’s story. But then again, this is not a story for children. This is a child’s story. A story about a child, more accurately.
I recently shared with my husband about how I found out I was different from other kids. I’ve always been keenly aware how odd and off I am. Yes, I am keenly aware that my presence repels people and I find it hard to build real relationships. This realization happened at a small outlet of Kowloon House, twenty-something years ago. It’s still stands to this day, prompting me to give my husband a piece of nostalgia.
I was about eight or nine when one of our tenants celebrated her eighteenth birthday. She had Down’s Syndrome. It was both a debutante ball and a children’s party. Her parents rented a small commercial space on the ground floor of our building so me and my brothers were invited, along with other neighborhood kids.
They asked my two darling brothers to dance in the cotillion. I didn’t realise or even wonder why I wasn’t asked. I was too busy playing. Perhaps I was too tall and awkward for any boy to be my partner. I was only happy to attend, I even accompanied my brothers to watch the rehearsals. I remember the other kids also didn’t care so much for the celebrant. We all just wanted to party.
This was an entirely new experience for my eight-year-old self. I felt miles away from home. The Kowloon House outlet was a good hour away from home and looked small in front. The dance rehearsal was on the top floor. The actual party was going to be in a bigger, fancier branch specifically for events. A lady tried to choreograph a dozen pair of kids to the tune of Blue Danube. It took the entire day.
It took a while for the boys to give in to the fact that this kind of dancing involved holding their female playmates. It didn’t help that the other kids, including me, poked fun at them and made pretend camera-flashing gestures.
The other girls shrank in horror at their antics, my antics. When the day started, I was too busy playing to care about how girls treated me. This was the moment that I realised that they never played with me before, and I realised that they never would.
I looked out at the awesome view from the rooftop and saw the neon lights beyond. I spotted the neon lights of a very familiar mall. That mall assured me that I’m in my lolo’s town. I wanted to get out of Kowloon. I wanted my lolo.
So I started walking. They caught me just as I was about to cross the highway. I spent the rest of the evening looking out towards the mall.
I’ve never been able to put a finger on what exactly what was wrong with me. I wasn’t exactly a happy kid. I was a cry-baby, a fact that my cousins took delight in. Perhaps I was too serious and irritable for a kid. I wasn’t exactly smart, pretty or charming. That combination just made a boring and annoying child.
A few years after, my parents hired a child psychologist to figure me out. They never talked to me about my diagnosis. I tried to self-diagnose as I was growing up. I read books about personality disorders. The closest that I got was that I have a highly-functioning sociopathy, a frightful case of self-centeredness, an inert personality or simply that I am a misplaced introvert. Mental health is so taboo and expensive here, it’s not even worth mentioning.
I’m still struggling with building relationships. I’m far from accepting myself. I find that for me to accept something fully, I have to understand myself. I’m quite comfortable with the few strong friendships that I have but I still find it hard to connect with the people I love. I try my best but I am annoyed with the fact that I have to try. I am frequently amazed by people who find it natural to be friends with others. I am amazed by people who put up with me.
I’m still that kid on the rooftop, looking towards the neon light. Often alone.
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