It used to be very difficult for me to write about the things I went through —the stuff that hurt the most, those that exposed me to the prickliest of thorns, and the people who took part in these episodes of heartache.
It still is difficult.
It took Brandy’s music to nudge me out of the dark cave of indifference, this numbness I feel. How can this be possible, that I am greatly incapable of getting up from my own misery, terribly trying to make a success of brushing off the soot and ashes of a relationship that has burned itself to cinders and failing to make a go of it. I keep pretending to myself that I have indeed moved on, that I no longer wake up in the middle of the night to weep at what could have been, that I no longer stare in disbelief at wedding pictures with him on it seated beside a raven-haired girl with a listless smile pasted on her crimson-colored lips. I used to believe that the universe revolves around me and me alone, that the moon shines on my face and my face alone, and that he loved me and me alone.
But alas, not all fairy tales have princesses who once were household help, who have mice as pets and bed-mates, and who just happened to have kind fairy godmothers who grant them free makeovers and provide them with carriages fashioned out of kitchen scrap. In fact, I no longer believe in fairy tales and happy endings. I now believe that for me to cope, I need to view this experience in a different light; it was as if I invested in a venture with a partner who copped out. Of course, I got all of these ideas from my brother who may have grown tired of my ramblings, my failings and emotional turbulences, and my incessant text and Yahoo! messaging. I tried to quench his fiery theories with my watery arguments, only to be given a dressing down by his better sense of judgment, his sharp-as-a-sword one-liners and messages inclusive of over a thousand characters, replete with exclamation points that were meant to drive home several conclusive points. I hate that I love him enough to value what he says, even if his words scrape at my ego.
The night when bad news was delivered by a frog which I mistakenly considered as my prince, my eyes could not comprehend the letters in the message he sent me. How, I asked myself repeatedly as I was seated on the lower deck of the bed in our office quarters, could our five-year relationship be trivialized into a mere twenty-or-so character message and be sent to its recipient (me) with a service charge worth less than Bush’s dollar? I couldn’t imagine that breaking up would be made easier by technology but made much worse by a heart rendered lifeless by abbreviated messages as cold as a grave. Perhaps it has already become a force of habit for him to squeeze in everything into a single SMS transaction, the way fashionable New Yorkers try to squeeze in a foot the size of a grand piano into a teeny-weeny Manolo Blahnik shoe. The way he has trivialized everything that transpired during a five-year period was way beyond me, even up to this day. Well, perhaps he has thrown me the sort of affection he can afford, but I myself am to be blamed, anyway. I got my just desserts for settling for scraps the way Cinderella swept the chimney in exchange for a bowl of porridge and her stepmother’s affection. I hung on to the notion with the skin of my teeth, hoping that someday my prince can fulfill my hopes of a happy family life held together by tattered, impractical dreams. And since life’s highways are littered with in-your-face surprises, I was left holding the bag.
I attribute my healing to everyone, to everything and to God. I owe my resurrection to fallen dreams, countless hours in rendering overtime service, the nurturing of a seemingly impossible dream of traipsing down a glittering ramp in a two-piece bikini, devoted friends, helpful authors (thanks Bo, thanks Nelson!), my beautiful pamangkins, St. Michael (my archangel, NOT the famous shop), my faith, criticism, mean girls who turned out to be great buddies, margarita (The drink? A person’s name?), fave tambayans in Salcedo, convenience stores, movies, unsalted regular popcorn, SMS and IM, coffee, and walking down Ayala’s dimly-lit streets in my trainers at 5AM with the cold morning air caressing my newly-bathed skin. In some ways, I will miss this pain I have to deal with, not because of the difficulty it took me to face it squarely but because of the grace God poured upon me for me to properly bear it, and make it appear as if I eat heartaches for breakfast every single day. In many ways, it has made me realize that inasmuch as one person left me to follow the dictates of his heart, pocket and lust, there are those who have stayed behind, rummaged through the garbage bin and recovered my heart from the trash.
Lately, I have renewed my erratic conversations with God. I never questioned Him for the drastic turn of events in my life because I totally own up to the consequences I am now enduring; rather, I keep looking at Him, waiting for Him to speak. Most of the time, I grow impatient and finish off His sentences for Him. I also constantly take it upon myself to fashion a life I want, unheeding of His genle voice prodding me to keep still. Ah, the hazards of being His prodigal daughter —part of me is still much attuned to this world, while most of my being is hungry for His love. I wanted to listen more to Him; it is no myth when my folks say that He loves me greatly. It’s just that there are those moments in my crazed life when i sit and pray for rain when it’s fair and sunny outside. I patiently wait on closed doors like a tired hooker waiting for her dues, forcibly open shuttered windows the way Kris Aquino’s character tugged at a window nailed shut by Boyet’s role in a long-forgotten movie, and glue together shattered, irrecoverable pieces the way senile grannies try to piece together broken dentures hoping to smile through Polydent-ridden gaps.
What makes this bearable is not because my silence and indifference towards his uncouth behaviour has rendered his conscience restless; it is the newfound joy I keep seeking in the arms of people who have my wellbeing at heart and who loved me no matter how difficult I can be. It is also the promise of something better, the prospect of a better life, the hope that there are better things and people to come. I no longer dread waking up in the morning; indeed I find my days rather shorter than they used to be. It still continues to amaze me that His creation remains to be a portent of things to come —everything has meaning. The way dark nights quietly segue into warm busy mornings are just but an indication that after this heartache there will be love, there will be happiness, there is ALWAYS hope.
I imagine Him patiently seated on His throne, waiting for me, His quiet eyes piercing my thoughts, already anticipating my actions even before I carry them out. I then lift my eyes, retrieve my bloodied and broken heart and carry the pieces in my small hands. I inch closer towards His blinding light and resist the urge to run away. I look back at His gentle face and keep myself from smiling —He already knows how I feel as He reaches out, His arms engulfing me in a warm and comforting embrace. Countless questions are swimming in my head, but the foremost is the one that I immediately voice out and which make Him double up with laughter:
"Diyos ko, pwede na po ako magka-lovelife ulit?"
