Funny how you see another person’s true personality when it’s most needed. Funny how convenient that slip up came. Funny how he tried to defend himself and blame it on my paranoia. Funny how I pulled all stops to cater to him. Funny how I made myself believe in what I wanted to believe. Funny how I still tried to see the good in him, and that slip up came in at the right time. Funny how he tried to act the victim, and couldn’t see up to the very end the point of assurance. Funny how my dad, just after the first date, told me he wasn’t good for me; but I didn’t listen. Funny how every time my messages would be left unread and I’d see him post a ton, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I waited. I understood. Funny how I poured out my feelings, and all he could spew out were incoherent, irritated words. Funny how I thought he was the one all along and that we just couldn’t find the right timing. Funny how I got kilig with his posts on social media, when I mostly felt empty talking to him. Funny how this time, it was all the same. Funny how selfish people can be; how their ego and machismo can get in the way. Funny how he found it funny to send a screenshot of our conversation to his friend, only to realize that he sent it to me by mistake. I almost caved in. I almost believed he was sincere. Funny it all backfired.
I just really want flowers.
Lately, I’ve been stuck with men who think bouquets are a capitalistic way of expressing love. It’s too expensive. We can’t eat it. He’d rather spend the money on date food. I get it, but there’s something about receiving a bouquet of grandiose flowers that makes me think that I’m special.
And I’m not talking about your typical Island Rose bouquet, pre-arranged and all. I’m talking about a bouquet with meaning. I’m looking for someone who will spend time looking for tulips, lilies, carnations, and stargazers–and put them together just for me.
It’s expensive and wilts after a week, tops. Admittedly, it really is a waste of money. But isn’t that one of the many facts of love? You know it’s irrational and impractical, but you do it anyway. Because you want your significant other to feel loved; you think she’s worth spending a lot for something so useless, if only to see her eyes light up.
And I’ve yet to find someone who will think of me that way.
In keeping with Throwback Thursday, here’s a snippet of a conversation I had with my ex. Thanks for going through all the trouble of compiling our conversations in a document man.
This is for everyone who has ever thought of rekindling the old flame.
This song goes back to late nights with the family. My mom would ask all three of us to sleep beside her after my dad has left the country for work again, and this song would always be a part of our lullaby. Well, actually, my brother’s. He can’t sleep without music playing in the background. I always hated it. But then came this amazing movie, The Vow, starring Channing Tatum (my ultimate crush), and Rachel McAdams. It was perfect. Just like how I imagined it all those nights.
Loads of memories come with this song.
I could make this post all bitter and unbearable to read but, I’ve been writing manually. That, I think, is a more effective way to let some steam off. And judging by the fact that I’ve been rethinking my relationship decisions since I got cheated on, I think I’m temporarily unable to go through that crying-why-did-you-have-to-leave-me phase.
I need to find myself again.
I’ve been in back-to-back relationships since 2009. One particularly cruel move was to have a new boyfriend even before I officially ended up things with the other one. I’m a mess. And a cheater too, might I add. Well, what’s done is done and karma’s all up my ass right now. So no need to silently curse me in your seat. All those decisions were shitty, and so was my perception in life. It was all about having an arm candy in events. What’s a cheerleader without a boyfriend anyway, right? Although I basically don’t fit most cheerleader stereotypes, my taste in relationships fit that particular stereotype to a T.
I wasn’t always like this. Wait, no, I have always been like this. I need to take a break from everything and just focus on my career and who I really am. One particular Boracay trip put things into perspective. I realized how much I love meeting new people. I love being alone too. I love doing things in my own time, instead of compromising for someone else. Maybe that’s why I haven’t really excelled in law school. Or in my last year in Ateneo. According to my standards, that is. In 4th year college, I had a boyfriend who spent the whole day with me in school…although he didn’t actually study there. I even had to secure him a fake ID so he could hang out at Matteo while I go to class. He did that up until a few months in my first year in law school. And somewhere along those dark months, he also proposed to me in a shabby fastfood restaurant.
Then came this other one. I don’t really know why I did the whole thing again, when I specifically remember telling myself that I want to be a career woman, unattached and ready to welcome my adventurous side. Maybe it’s the eagerness to get out of my ex’s tightly-tied leash on me, or the eagerness of having another arm candy, or maybe his charm…I really don’t know. What I know is, it was all too soon and too good to be true. I know I was ready to welcome another relationship minus the whole cheating bit. But all too soon, I found out it was merely one-sided. Still I resisted the urge to go back to my old ways, but a nonchalant boyfriend who didn’t even care to say hi to me while I was para-para-paradise-ing at Boracay proved enough.
Well, screw that. And being a penniless chauffeur to him and his friends. And paying for mostly everything.
Oops, this is turning out to be a bitter post, after all.
Going back to soul searching. Who am I? Well, I’m a lover of books, music, being alone, meeting new friends, hanging out, getting lost, doing reckless things. I’m also a dork, collector of Transformers action figures, self-proclaimed Star Wars fan, and a dreamer. I recoil at the thought of hugging a friend in public. I love my own space. I don’t do the beso-beso thing on a regular basis. I’m a home buddy.
I love dancing. I’ve been dancing even before I learned how to walk. I love the pain and fulfillment I get from dancing. I love getting sprained, walking home cursing myself for going too hard on the mat, cursing myself for not trying hard enough to ace that liberty, and flinching whenever I remember how awfully unsnychronized I was from everyone else during half time.
I love to read and argue. I love hearing new ideas, silently disagreeing with someone and then realizing soon enough that it was a brilliant, new perspective. I love isolating myself from everyone else with only a good book in hand.
I love music. That thump-thump-thumping that mirrors my emotions and the steady flowing of blood in my veins. I don’t judge. A song is good when it’s able to penetrate my hard shell and open up my soul’s eyes. And it’s particularly awesome when it gets me thinking of moves so I can dance with it. When that touch becomes a pull on my soul to create movement.
I don’t regret anything that has happened to me. In fact I embrace it. Without those shitty decisions and dark days, I probably would still be the sheltered girl I used to be. MMKAY, I’m still considerably sheltered, but it’s an improvement from before. I’m more open to anything new. You can even call it gullible. I call it being adventurous and game. And fun.
Right now I just have to re-embrace the things that make me who I am. My brain is a clutter, that’s for sure. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t understand that clutter and be friends with it.
I’ve always been a believer in honest relationships. And that goes with faithfulness and loyalty to each other.
I just finished watching How I Met Your Mother’s latest episode, where Robin disappears and gets treated differently just because she’s wearing an engagement ring. Sure, all those perks disappeared the moment she put on that ring, but both Robin and Barney become immensely in love with each other. So much so that Robin didn’t need those guys to give her the perks, and Barney didn’t need the strip club or the one night stands.
That’s true love, I guess. When you don’t really see anybody else except that one person who means the world to you. I don’t believe this has to develop in a painfully slow way. It doesn’t need to be. It just comes, and you know it really is true. That it’s game over. That you’re tied down.
So what happens when Barney goes through a relapse? What if instead of asking Ted to proxy-fuck the young girl, he did it himself? Let’s complicate things up. What if Barney doesn’t tell Robin? And Ted wasn’t such a loose mouth but instead, was more loyal to Barney?
Robin only found out about Barney’s relapse by checking his Facebook account (or something). She confronts Barney, but he denies it flat out. Tells her that it was a long time ago, and that the conversation (and picture) was posted only now when he and his friends remembered about the incident. He goes on bombarding Robin of the fact that he loves her and only her. Would that really make up for the fact that he cheated on her through a relapse?
If what they really have for each other is true love, then that will definitely break Robin’s heart. But no matter what, she’ll stay with him, because people will make mistakes that they’ll regret. Remembering what she saw and how he denied it will always tear her apart. It won’t be easy either to let go of that in just a day. The fact will always remain that he broke her heart once, and she didn’t even give him reason to.
But I guess that’s true love. You’ll only know that it’s true love when it genuinely hurts you. And that the thought of getting revenge hurts too. True love will always be painful. You’ll accept that person for who he really is, and you’ll try to change it. You’ll always be on your toes. You’ll never be sure of who he becomes once he’s out of your sight. Yet you choose not to play the who’s-gonna-cheat-first game, because that’s how much you love him. You can’t bear to give him a reason to do it again. You’ll believe his promise, but inside it hurts. And you’ll believe in second chances, because he loves you as well.
9 months old. Or so. I didn’t really have any idea how numbers worked. Just how warm my mommy’s touch was. And how at home I felt whenever she’d rock me in her arms.
I remember being inside my crib, unable to sleep, crying.
Seconds later my mother stirs in her bed and slowly gets up. Zombie style. I see her peeking through the jumble of blankets and stuffed toys to the chubby baby in the crib. Slowly and carefully, she dismantled me from the mess, obviously struggling to make baby talk sense as she herself wakes her motor abilities up.
I am in my mommy’s arms, cradled by warmth and a lullaby, so vivid even after 20 years, to sleep.
This is coming from a daughter’s point of view, so if you’re a parent you might wanna reconsider reading this (although I think I may have some good points). But if you’re like me, having problems about some insensitive moms and dads, this is for us.
I have never flunked any subject in my entire life. The worse I got is a mere passing grade, or “pasang awa” as we call it in the Philippines. But that only happened twice in my life, only recently. My whole life, since I started going to school, I was never allowed to go out of my school-house-school-mass on Sundays-house-out with family routine. I was never allowed to go out with my friends even with a yaya to accompany me (except it involves some kind of practice for a presentation for school. And all that time, I saw my two older siblings going out with their friends, having friends over, or, bottom line, have friends. I blame my parents’ exaggerated protection for this.
By high school, I had already collected friends that I’ve known since pre-school. Part of growing up are invitation to slumber parties, birthday parties, and such things like that. I can only count with one hand the times I’ve been allowed to go to such without guilt or being forced to feel my conscience bothering me. As a result, I’d miss out on things that were crucial to building relationships. I was just your typical grade-conscious, obsessive-compulsive, all work and no play type of kid. I didn’t know the friendship protocols. I didn’t know how to keep friends. The worst part was in fourth year high school when my parents refused to allow me to go to our graduating class’ farewell party, which further isolated me and later on excluded me from the group. That’s why I had to start fresh in college. I could barely count anyone from high school who would go out of their way to visit me in the university I study at.
Of course, living in the dorm, I had all the freedom I never had before. It was so overwhelming and filling at the same time – I could go out of the campus with my friends, eat out, walk and explore the city on my own. No longer was I limited to places where my parents and the car would allow me to go. I could take the taxi. Ride the LRT for the first time. But a big part of me was still holding on to a debt of gratitude to my parents for sending me to the most prestigious university in the country. So I balanced the struggle to be academically in with the struggle to find friends and ultimately, a social life. I admit my grades were lower than my A-grade marks from the rest of my academic life, but nevertheless it was an effort not gone to waste. After all, three years into it I’m still here, right? But my mom, always assuming the worst of me, always reprimanded me for things she never really caught me doing. I understand it’s her way of reminding me how to be a ‘good’ person, but reprimanding me more than once a day and taking up valuable time that could otherwise have been time to actually mingle is just way too much. I never felt that I made my parents happy. Maybe I did, but it has always been lost to the times that my mom, especially, gave me a sermon or assumed that I’d turn out to be the bad daughters that she sees on the TV or hears from her officemates. I never really felt that I had a friend from my mom.
I entered cheerdancing again on my second year in college. Although it was hard, it gave me an identity in school – the cheerleader. Everyone thought that I was a typical dumb cheerleader who does nothing but make social appearances, make pompoms and make myself pretty. But what they don’t know is that I work hard to improve, take note not maintain, my grades. True enough, when my roommate-then told people about me, they’d say, “Ah, yung cheerleader.” Then when she tells them that I’m a Dean’s Lister, they get shocked. Apparently, even though dancing is the only vice I have, my parents don’t like it and would actually prefer my life to be all about school. Despite giving them outstanding grades. But when I finally quit in 3rd year, they changed their mind and wanted me to go back to the team.
I honestly don’t get it. I never felt close to my mom, never shared my most deepest, darkest secrets to her, and never felt that she’s happy with who I turned out to be. I try to tell her, but she doesn’t seem to want to listen; all she wants to do is assume that I’m a bad kid, and reprimand me for some imaginary bad thing I did. It’s as if she wants to spoon feed me everything and stop me from learning from my own mistakes. There’s always some imaginary offense that I committed, and my mom feels obliged to reprimand me for it, taking away what would really have been some quality time to hear each other out. It’s depressing. And it never ever made me feel safe to talk to my mom.
Whoever said that the last kid is spoiled by their parents… he mustn’t know how it feels like to be born eight years after who they thought was the last one.
Try being me and you’ll get how tough it is to catch up with everyone else in the family. I distinctly remember being ignored when I wrote my first letter “B” when I was two or three years old. I wasn’t attending school yet but my yaya-aunt thought it would be nice if I was ahead of my batchmates in writing. So I think I was. My pop is working abroad, so when I wrote my first, almost distinctly readable letter, we showed it to my mom. I guess you can blame it on bad timing because she was busy working on something for work that weekend, but when I approached her and showed her what I was able to do, she merely gave me a half smile and a half-hearted “good job”. Well, she has seen things like that before I was born, having two siblings and more than enough nieces and nephews. So what was so special about her last daughter’s first “B” anyway, right?
I’m also teased in the family for being so short. My brother, now 30, stands at 5″11′; my sister, now turning 27, stands at 5″7′; and me? Well, let’s just say I almost didn’t make the 5″ cut. I am the midget in the family. At least my brother is being more considerate now, assuring me that I’m still young and I won’t stop growing until I’m 21 or something. When I was little and my sister still lives with us, she and my brother would pretend not to see me at home, calling me “midget” or “dwarf” every chance they could. Yeah, it might be a training for some real world harshness, but come on, to couple with that with some adolescent hormones? Not a good idea. As a result, I always cried and locked myself up just to stay away from everyone else. So I didn’t catch the growth hormones, is it my fault I was born just when ‘tall genes’ were out of stock in my mom’s and dad’s system?
Pop likes to shower us with presents from abroad. But I never got any gaming consoles. My parents sort of imposed the “no video games allowed” rule when they saw the effect in my siblings. So I grew up being foreign to the gaming world while everyone else at school talked about those things. Everyone knew how to use the Playstation, while I avoided the topic. In family gatherings, my parents would tell me to go and play with my cousins the PS, until they find out that they have to teach me from scratch. For crying out loud, I didn’t even know what the ‘x’, triangle, ‘o’, and ‘square’ was for! Later on I found out that they should have at least allowed me to go to arcades to play, it could have served helpful in developing good strategy, which I don’t really have.
Growing up I never got the middle ground. It was always the extremes. Either they expect me to be mature in my decisions, or they expect me to be too young for this and that. I would not be allowed to have this and that because I’m too young (yes, even now that I’m already 19). Or, they expect me to single-handedly run the family business because I know enough from what I have been observing. Thanks, but I think they left the part where I should be taught, not expected to be like them in a snap.
And on being spoiled? Hell, no. My brother and sister always come first. Then whatever’s left for me, is mine. Yeah sure, they’re allowed to drive on their own, get whatever they ask for from my dad, be able to live like an adult because they are. Me? I have to prove that I deserve it before I’m given whatever’s left. I can’t act like a proper nineteen-year-old because I’m too young and I’m the bunso.
Now tell me if I am spoiled as the third kid.
Love makes the world go round, don’t you think?
But for the lovers out there, I know the world stops turning when you are with the one you love.
For the lovers-then, I know the world stops when you see the one you love with someone else.
Isn’t it ironic?
Those two contradicting situations are really responsible for keeping us on our toes. Keeping us on the lookout for that perfect moment.
It keeps us standing on top of a picket fence.