I dreamt about my dad today.

That was the first thing I said when I woke up.

“You still remember his face?”

I thought I didn’t, actually. But I did. I saw it clearly, like I’d just seen him last week. I remembered every detail—every angle of his face, the exact roughness and texture of his hair, to the pores on his skin I used to always jokingly refer to as a water well because of how deep they were.

“What was it like?”

Familiar. Like no time had passed.

– – –

I was in a swimming pool. A lap pool, with the little floaties to keep the lanes separate. The pool was housed inside a very large gym, with a tall, beige, ceiling.

My cousin was there, and we were just hanging out like normal. Nothing felt amiss, not even when I looked beyond the pool to see my father who has been dead for 18 years, waiting for me to finish swimming. He kept himself busy with the newspaper he was holding with both hands. He seemed so alive and so healthy. Plumper, even.

I guess me dreaming about going for a swim while my dad patiently waited for me in the sidelines made sense. He loved taking me swimming—to a pool, to the beach, what have you. Months before he died, he was on a quest to look for a swimming class I could take. That was just the kind of father he was.

As soon as I realized he was there, I got out of the pool and went to him. At this point, I didn’t know that I was dreaming, but I was aware of whatever I was doing and could control what I did next. So I gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Then the scenery changed. The next second, I was in my parents’ bedroom with my dad sitting on the bed he shared with my mom. He still had the newspaper in his hands. It felt better. Like my life was better in all aspects. I felt relief. I felt safe.

I laid beside him, and began telling him what my conscious brain knew was true and my dream self didn’t.

“Alam mo, merong alternate universe na nage-exist na patay ka na.”

“Talaga?”

“Oo. I hated you in that universe.”

As soon as I said that, I woke up.

– – –

I have a feeing that this dream will haunt me for a very long time.

I don’t know why I dreamt of him. I haven’t even thought about dad—like really thought about him—for a long time. I don’t think about him during Father’s day, I don’t think about him on his death anniversary, I don’t think about him on his birthday, not even this year. I guess he just doesn’t exist to me now, and I’m not trying to be mean about it. He’s just… gone to me.

So I think this one will stay with me for a while.

Not because I dreamt of my dead father, but because I lied.

I told him that I hated him in the universe where he died. But that universe is this one. And I don’t hate him now. Not really.

I hate that he’s gone.
I hate that I had to grow up without a father.
I hate that I had to learn how to look after myself at 8.
I hate that my mom had to raise me by herself.
I hate how familiar I am with grief.
I hate that my mom hasn’t stopped loving him until now.
I hate everything that his absence has caused. But I don’t hate him. I don’t hate you, dad.

– – –

I dreamt about my dad today.

Maybe the only consolation I’ll ever get is to hope that somewhere, in some alternate universe, he’s okay and I’m okay, and we’re okay.

I guess that’ll have to do.

Ditto.

Growing up, I’ve always thought that I was part of the very small percentage of women who have never experienced sexual harassment. “The Lucky Ones” as they called it, although it never made me feel lucky. A short introspection into the years I’ve lived made me realize that that was never the case at all.

It’s not surprising that being a female in this would means that either you yourself or you know someone who has been sexually harassed at some point in their lives. But I thought sexual violence was the only thing that was quantifiable, the only thing that mattered. I thought my story was never relevant because it was not as brutal as the ones we see in the media, which is peppered with assault and inhumane acts against women—sometimes even BY other women.

Whenever I talk about being groomed at a young age, I always pass it off as a joke; an experience I found amusing. I grew up thinking that I had to please the male gaze. That I needed to be nice, pretty, and fuckable. In turn, grown men wanted me, objectified me, long before I even knew what that word meant. The worst one was when I was 19, and I thought that it wasn’t so bad because I wasn’t a minor so it didn’t count. It took me such a long time to convince myself that I mattered too.

I was nine when a tricycle driver made kissy faces at me as he drove by. I was thirteen when my underdeveloped breasts were groped by an unknown man inside a public jeepney. And again at 19. Different setting, different people (probably, but I wouldn’t know for sure), but the same feelings of disgust, and paralyzing fear.

Just last year, I saw a man masturbating beside our house. I passed by him as I went out to buy something from a store, and came back to him pleasuring himself right beside me as I was opening the gate. To this day, there are still marks on the floor where he climaxed. I avoid looking at that area at any cost.

There really is no point as to why I am writing this. I don’t have a profound insight, or a clever resolution to all of it. Now that I’m older, it’s men MY AGE who are victimizing the young girls online who, like me at that age, don’t know any better. I am so afraid for the girls in the younger generation.

Because me too.

10012021

I’ve been suicidal for a number of years now. My depression has always been at the back of my conscious mind, like a loose faucet dripping ever so slowly, but ever so constantly. Admittedly, I don’t think I’ve ever done anything to get rid of my depression under wraps; it’s always me waiting for the next moment it decides to assume control over my prefrontal cortex. It’s been with me for such a long time, that I grown accustomed to the barren nothingness of its orbit.

I’d like to think that my depression is what keeps me grounded and sane, but saying that would make me a hypocrite and a liar. On some days, it feels like a blanket, draped over my shoulders in an almost-comforting way. Other days, it’s a noose.

Yes, I’ve wanted to die for a long time, yet here I am still. Romanticizing my mental state when I have nothing better to do but to convince myself that the lack of serotonin might actually be good for me. “Not yet,” I repeat to myself every time the thought of dying becomes too much to bear. Not a yes, and certainly not a no—just a not yet. I’ve repeated those six letters to myself so many times that they are starting to sound gibberish to me now.

When I was younger, I’ve always been told that my stubbornness might end up being my downfall someday. It might. But for now, it’s going to serve as a lifeboat, buoyant enough to keep my head above the current. It’s exhausting, being alive. I’m exhausted. And I know that I’m going to succumb to the void one way or another soon. Just, not yet.

I had an early start to my day today, and all the quiet time made me think of how there will always be a part of me who will always seek and ask for validation. From what? From who? I’m not sure.

Most days feel like a battle. Like I’m always trying to be better because I’m too afraid of feeling like I’m not enough. Because I’ve been there and it’s not a great feeling.

I’m so afraid of this rat race against myself. But I’m also tired of running. Running away from the person I used to be, because I’m tired of feeling inadequate. I’m so afraid of everything but I can’t stop.

I always try to be a little bit of everything just so people won’t get tired of be. Because oh god, I AM tiring. I know I can’t please everyone, but I sure as hell try. And it kills me. It’s killing me that I can’t stop.

But I swear I’m doing my best. But I’m tired.

I think of 2018 as one of the best years of my life. And it’s impossible to reminisce about that year, and not think about Camp Sawi. It was during those times when I started going to Stef’s old house. I was there because all of us were there. Going out to party, then going home together. Or staying in, just to drink and laugh and sing. During those times, there was rarely ever a moment when we weren’t succumbing to our vices. But I’d like to think that our friendship was much more than that, because almost all of us had a lot going on at that time and we were there for each other. It was the best. You guys were the best. But as we all know, all good things come to an end.

We drifted apart. And maybe that kind of friendship was never sustainable to begin with. But goddammit, I really thought it would it would last longer than it did. It was the first time I experienced that level of friendship. It was explosive.

But maybe that’s really all there is to it. Like a supernova. It starts out big, and without warning. For a while, everything was bright and beautiful. Like everything was possible. You start to think that maybe things are supposed to be this colorful. Maybe life wasn’t supposed to be as mundane as you thought. But then it’s over even before you realize that it is. Everything has returned to its normal bleak state. Everything except you, because your eyes have already grown accustomed to the light, and now you can’t see anything else because of it.

my old url stopped working and now I’m sad

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When I think about my dad, I always think about him like a cardboard cutour. 2D and dimensionless. Most days, I forget that he was a real person. I forget that he existed. I forget that he raised me as a child, and a part of me will always be because of him.

I had the kind of childhood that most people dream about. A complete family. Warm, adoring parents that always doted on me—their little princess. Everything was aboundant; love, resources, time. I had everything a child could ever want. I had the best time as a child. That’s also probably why it took me such a long time to let go of my childhood. I was happy. This is all thanks to my parents.

I love my parents. I love my mom so much,although I don’t think I tell her often enough. I loved my dad. I still do. I was such a daddy’s girl. Evem when he was sick, he’d always do everything to make me happy—even when he was sick. I remember him taking me outside to play, even though he was huffing and puffing because his heart was already so weak. I love my dad. It’s been fifteen years, but I love him still. I think what I regret the most is that I never knew him outside of the “dad” figure.

I long to know him as a person. Everything I know about him, I know through my mom. Relayed like little puzzle pieces, and me figuring out where it all fit in the grand feature film that is his life.

What I wouldn’t give just to have one long conversation with him. I often wonder what he thinks of me now. What would he say about the kind of person I grew up to be. Would he disapprove? Would he be proud? Would he be disappointed that I didn’t grow up to be a doctor, just like he wanted?

Why did he support Roco in the 2005 elections? Why was Efren Bata his favorite athlete? What was his favorite movie? How did you know that my mom was the one? Are you proud of me, Dad?

So many questions left unanswered.

For the duration of this quarantine, I feel like I’m being the most productive I’ve ever been. The world is starting to unravel at the seams, but despite this, I’ve been thriving. I’m able to do a lot of the things I am most passionate about, and actually feel more fulfilled because a lot of the stuff I’ve been doing adds a certain weight and relevance to the things I care most about. I’m able to tick a lot of things off of my bucket list, mostly because I don’t have other commitments I need to attend to (i. e. school reqs, thesis, etc). I’m starting to rethink everything I know about myself. I’ve always thought of myself as lazy, but maybe I was just unmotivated. My life used to be dull and unexciting, and filled with irrelevant mumbling that bears no meaning to my existence. But now, I feel alive. Waking up in the morning feels exciting when you know you have another day to do things that really matter.

Regardless, I can’t help but feel quite guilty because I live such a privileged life that being quarantined is allowing me to do more things, instead of worrying how I’m going to get through the next few weeks. My sheltered life is letting me maximize the isolation while other people are struggling to keep their families from dying of starvation. But at the same time, I feel like being productive is the least that I could do. Speaking out for those who can’t.

For now, I am gently reminding myself that being from a place of privilege doesn’t have to equate to self-service. Once things normalize and I’m able to go back to school, maybe I’ll work harder. Do better. If not for me, for the people around me. That’s the point of education anyway. Not as an individual advantage, but to support those who have no voice. And I’m willing to lend my own.

Whenever the thought of killing myself crosses my mind, I always think of the people I’m going to leave behind. But now, I feel like I’m reaching a point where I start to not care about anything other than the infinite void that awaits me. I used to do everything just to escape the unwelcome pain that follows me around like a shadow, but now I’m thinking about embracing it instead. And it scares me that I’m not scared of it anymore.

I recently watched the movie Waking Life (Richard Linklater, 2001) for a class and there was a scene that immediately caught my interest because a man tried to—and successfully—ignited himself on fire. There wasn’t even a prelude to it. He just poured gasoline over himself and lit a match. It fascinated me to no end that as he was burning, he was just… sitting there, doing nothing. I expected him to start flailing around, to fight the fire, to free himself from anguish. Instead, he stayed put. During his soliloquy, he rambled on about how paradoxical it was for man to inherently want chaos, yet we’re not allowed to take be included in any of it. “We’re irresistibly drawn to that almost orgiastic state state created out of death and tragedies,” he said. Now him, lighting himself on fire, I think this is him in his own chaos, and this is also him trying to be participative of the chaos. Maybe to an extent, he was right. In all of mankind, I realized that a vast majority of us (if not all) engage in some form of self destruction. Overworking, alcoholism, nicotine dependence… These are all self-destructive habits that we willingly partake on because not everything is linear. These are our own personal acts of rebellion towards the system that is constantly forcing us to “be human/e”, do what is “good” and “normal”, without actually taking our nature as human beings into into account. “Let my own lack of a voice be heard,” he insisted. I agree. Because in my life, I am in charge of what I want so let me revel in my own personal chaos.

I guess today made me realize that, no matter how much of a feminist I claim to be, no matter how many times I preach to anyone who would listen to not victim-blame, once I’m the one in the position of getting sexually harassed, I still won’t be able to completely shut off that little part of my brain that tells me that maybe it was partly my fault. After all, it IS me and I am known for constantly making a fool out of myself 🥴

tangina. kahit naman isugal ko lahat, wala parin naman.
universe, i am tired. i am so so so so tired. my heart is so tired. my soul is so tired.

An excerpt from a screenplay I wrote, based off of Haruki Murakami’s Landscape with Flatiron:

Junko: “So tell me, Miss Hikari. Whenever you see strange shapes within those celestial bodies, do you ever feel, I don’t know, kind of strange?”

Hikari: “In what way?”

Junko: “I’m not sure how to explain it. It’s almost as if those rare moments of clarity slowly creeps up upon you, and you suddenly notice the things that most people don’t notice from the monotonous repetition of their everyday lives. I’m not eloquent enough to explain it properly, but looking at the stars now, it’s making me feel this tranquil deepness inside my chest.”

Hikari: *glances at Junko* “You know what Jun? The sky is limitless. The space beyond it is infinite. It has no specific shape or form, nor any constraints to restrict it. Simply put, the sky is free, which means it can be anything or look like anything that it wants. It all depends on who is looking. That deep sense of quietness you feel whenever you look at the sky means it’s reflecting back that quietness that you already have inside of yourself. You know what I mean?

Junko: “Yeah, I guess.”

Hikari: “But it doesn’t happen every night. For an awareness like that to take place, the sky itself has to be free. You have to be free. Free from all the background noise. Which isn’t easy. Not everybody can do it.”

But that was the point. To be busy. To be so busy that there was no room left for grief. To have the consciousness constantly occupied by the dull, meaningless, jibber-jabber. To have the nights spent passed out from exhaustion. To have no excess energy left to think. To overthink.

It worked, for a little bit. But like an ocean receding from the shorelines, a tsunami soon took its place. All the softness and sentiments they tried so hard to repress came back tenfold and swept them away with the waves of a thousand seas. It didn’t care that it knocked them breathless, all the wave wanted was to be felt–the way all emotions do. And feel it, they did.