With a couple of friends I shipped all the furniture and stuff I acquired here to Manila. With only the clothes on my back (and in 3 or so pieces of luggage) and a few select things, I moved out of the house I shared with a friend, into another friend’s household. For the summer only, I told her. I applied to 2 universities–one in Manila, the other in Bangkok–even though my heart is set to going to school in Manila. Studying in Bangkok is clearly much more expensive than studying in Manila and this huge expense is the price of my freedom, literally.

I wish I were joking but I’m not. One of the things that I’m not looking forward to coming back to Manila, to live in my parents’ house while I’m studying, without enough time to do any work while in school, ergo a lack of disposable income, is allowing myself to be subject to my mother’s rules. once I am again under her roof. For someone who has managed to live independently for 6 years, this is something of a regression. But this is just a for a year, I’ve told myself many times. “After that, you are free to go anywhere you want.”

Words of comfort that I apply on my mind the way one would apply mentholated balm over an aching, fatigued limb.

My first Cambodian summer was in 2004. I arrived here right after the Khmer New Year, as a guest of my Cambodian friend. The first thing I noticed upon arriving was the heat. I felt it was hotter here than in Manila, but I perspired less. The heat wasn’t as humid as Manila heat, a friend pointed out to me. To which, I saw no reason to disagree. Like the dry heat, everything else was new to me. The motodup, the cyclo, and the tuktuk. The wide cobble-stoned banquettes, the pagodas, and the monks with their shaved brows and wire-rimmed spectacles. The rivers and lakes. The palace, the museum, and the art galleries. The humblest flats with high vaulted ceilings. Decrepit Art Deco buildings. Moat tonle and the well-utilized parks around the city. That thing that makes the happy pizza ‘happy’. The cuisine. Khmer men with their baffling smiles. The scent of night-blooming jasmines and frangipani.

This year’s summer is particularly cruel. And not just because of the oppressive heat. I think we have global warming to blame for the long scorching summer this side of the world. Unfortunately, for all the things that are going on inside my head, I have no singular object of blame. I can only resort to speculation (a sweet, highly addictive undertaking that my and my friends like to do) in a vain effort to trace its roots, its pathogenesis, so to speak.

Two brushes with Death. Fucked-up friendships and a relationship. Threats of penury. Ennui that fed itself like a vicious cycle. High and low drama. Lost translations. Inertia. Procrastination. My old evils resurfacing.

Speaking of speculation, I had forgotten how it feels to be on the other end of this phenomenon. To be that one person other people speculate about. No one is ever truly alone; no matter how much one wants to be. We don’t live hermetically-sealed, vacuum-packed lives, after all. What we do affects other people, even if we don’t want this to happen. Therefore, it is utterly useless for me to plead that I be left alone. Hence my silence. Because I think there’s a fine line between genuine concern and plain voyeurism. Or the pleasure of witnessing something disastrous; like a vehicular accident or someone having a meltdown.

If you are really concerned about me and my well-being, you will shut up. Just a thought…

Perhaps, I am indeed unworthy of trust. How can I be, when I don’t even trust my own perceptions lately? My feelings, thoughts, and actions all seem to be tainted by this… whatever-this-is. Words evade me. Even my writing has become inarticulate.

Now, everything is familiar. Too familiar. The grit and grime on the streets. The brown dust that coats the buildings. And the heat that seals and bakes everything under its path. Stories that fly like startled birds. The wagging of tongues. Whispers and snickers. Sometimes I feel these the way I can sometimes feel those who have lived and died years before. During my second year here, at a particularly painful time, I wrote about the strangeness of being in a city of ghosts and yet be haunted only by the living.

Four years later, it’s still true.

Here in Buddhist Cambodia, where I have seen Valentine’s day for at least 5 years, I’m still surprised at the increasing fervor in which this holiday is being celebrated. I would venture an opinion that it rivals–if not exceeds the celebration of Christmas, in terms of the commercial aspects of this particular holiday. From almost every street corner of Phnom Penh, vendors with flowers, balloons, plush toys and other gifts sprout like mushrooms after a rainy day. Blame this on the increasing purchasing power of the so-called middle class Cambodians, or on the fact that more than half of Cambodia’s population is under the age of 24, even on the youth’s love of anything barang (foreign).

Now, there has never been a Valentine’s day when I had someone to celebrate it with. It always come at at time when I had no lover, or if I had one, we always seemed to fight a week or a few days before that day, to reconcile a few days after, or never. Some of my friends think it’s a deliberate effort on my part, but it’s not. Really. I don’t mind spending for some gifts, silly as some of them might be. Though I’m clearly not the world’s biggest romantic (refer to my Edwardian parents above), I still long for that day when someone who’s not my friend will greet me a happy Valentine’s day with a kiss, or God forbid, a gift of sweets or of fragrance. But there are times when life seems to play a practical joke on me, forcing me to laugh at myself rather than risk being laughed at by others.

February 13, year ####. One of my favorite malls. I lock gazes with a man as I am browsing in a bookstore. X is 36 years old, dressed like a young executive, a brown Jansport backpack slung on his somewhat broad shoulders in place of a briefcase. We end up watching a movie, fingers entwined, his head on my shoulder. In the comfort room, a man in a white shirt and blue corduroy jacket smiles at me while we stand in front of the mirror, washing our hands. His jeans barely contains his thighs and buttocks. Y and I shake hands then start to kiss. He pulls me out of the room when three laughing boys enter. We talk in the lobby. X, whom I had almost forgotten, looks for me in the toilet and clears his throat after finding me in the lobby. After a few awkward seconds I introduce them to each other, and for a while we chat. Small, autobiographical, non-sexual talk.

But it soon becomes apparent that we are not there to talk. I discreetly lace my fingers over Y’s hand. X amiably hangs his arm over my shoulders. We grin foolishly. Laugh like mischievous Catholic schoolboys. We check into a motel near the mall, splitting the bill equally among us. Y calls room service and orders six bottles of beer. X fishes out a pack of fried peanuts from his backpack. He is shivering. Tells us it’s his first time to enter a motel with guys. Y, who’s my age, laughs. “With a guy or two guys?” X says both. But after half a bottle of beer, he is raring to go. Soon we all are. After coming, X gets up, grabs a towel and rushes into the bathroom. The sound of the shower nearly drowns out Y’s languid, sleep-laced speech.

When X emerges from the bathroom, he explains the rush. He’s married. The wife should be mildly worried by now. It’s almost midnight. We stare at him as he puts on his clothes, combs his hair, fixes his tie. Perfunctorily he asks if we’re staying and leaves without really waiting for our response. Y laughs. We didn’t even get his last name. Alone again, we snuggle. Lap up the remaining beer. Kiss. Laugh. Make love twice. While resting Y blurts that he ought to stop cruising at the theater. I ask him why. “My lover. I don’t want to keep on hurting him.” This is it, I think. No more round four. “I think you two should discuss this. If you can’t be faithful, you might want to open the relationship.” Y says the lover wouldn’t be pleased. “Well,” I said, “it’s either that or you change. Which is more possible?” Y smiled at me and the sweetness of that smile made me understand the predicament of his lover. Such beauty cannot be contained, and consequently, should not be possessed by one man alone. Loving Y would break anyone’s heart, surely. Unless one is willing to share with the world.

It’s almost 3AM when Y and I walk out of the motel, our hair still wet from the shower that we took together (round 4, as it turns out). His calling card is a brittle weight in my breast pocket. We hail a cab and he suggested I take it. He opens the door for me. As I’m about to get in he holds me by the shoulders and almost decorously plants a firm, wet kiss in my mouth.

“Happy Valentine’s day!”

America Ferrera as Betty, circa season 4

Towards the end of season 1 a scene tugged at the remaining strings of my heart. In this scene, Betty (America Ferrera) was being prevailed upon by her father, sister, and nephew to forgive her colleague/friend who betrayed Betty’s trust. Frustrated, her elder sister Hilda exclaimed that Betty was too hard on her friends. Betty denied this with alacrity but when her father and nephew agreed with Hilda, she was forced to examine herself if she was indeed being too hard on her friends.

The state of my friendships has been relatively peaceful since the turmoil of the last 2 years. However, lately, I have found myself becoming irritated at some of my friends over the most mundane things. I have increasingly felt that most of the people around me seem to be able to do nothing but fail me in some way or another. This feeling did not help me at all. It, in fact, added to my distress, fueling my desire to avoid company as much as possible, for fear of being hurt or worst, frustrated.

Like Betty I had been told that I’m too hard on my friends. Unlike Betty I did not deny this. On some fundamental level, I know that this is at least partly true. I think, because it takes me a long time to be friends with somebody, I tend to completely give my trust to the few that become my friends. In addition, probably because of my insecurities, I like–no, I need to be reassured that this particular friend deserves my friendship. Because of this, I always tend to subject my friendships (and my friends) to tests and experiments.

That I am more demanding of my friends than my lovers is something I will readily admit as well. I was never a jealous lover; I cherished independence in a relationship. So much so that one former lover got so frustrated by this ‘indifference’ that he openly flirted with another guy hoping I’d get jealous or, at least mad. I didn’t, by the way. Because somehow I had it in my head that choosing a lover requires some degree of irrationality and recklessness (like loving someone in spite of one’s obvious faults) whereas choosing people to become friends requires deep, rational thought and deliberation (why would you be friends with someone who didn’t share your mind?). This is why I never attempted to be friends with my former lovers (except for one, but this is another story).

I set high standards of behavior for my friends (and implicitly, to myself as well); yes, I’ll admit this too. Because I think I know they can keep up. But have these standards become impossibly high that I have found my friends dropping like fighter planes shot down by ground-to-air missiles of indiscretions and trespasses? I am not sure. I only know now (because it was pointed out to me by another friend) that when these failures happen, I feel great sadness and distress because I know these failures are reflected as my own, as well. Egotistic, much? Yes, I think that is me.

Just last week, I got so irritated to learn that D has kept in touch with one of my non-friends, and I couldn’t resist confronting him about it. Mildly exasperated (I can only hope), he explained that his seeming friendship with my non-friend does not diminish the kind of friendship that we have. My heart swelled at the implication. D is one of the few people I consider to be a true friend in this darn country. If I had a brother, I would love him the same way I love D. But of course I made sure D didn’t notice this; I acted as if I didn’t believe the point he made. That’s when he said that similar line I heard in ‘Ugly Betty’.

V said something similar as well, echoing D’s opinion that V’s friendship with my non-friend is a non-issue. In V’s case, I am somehow resigned to the fact that when push came to shove, V would choose the non-friend over me. This is primarily because they’ve been friends for much longer than we were. Longer (and mature) friendships are difficult to wrestle. Still, V’s suggestion that I should probably ’soften’ my stance on my friends’ behaviors if only to avoid further stress brought on by frustration seems reasonable enough.

During the last weeks, I’d been avoiding E because he failed my most recent ‘test’. I wouldn’t bother you with the details anymore but in the continuum of trespasses, his failure is as mundane as it can get. This, however, did not prevent me from blowing it out of proportion (only in my head) till I was filled with chagrin. Since then I have seen him twice. And in both occasions I managed to give him my good old cold shoulder. He has apparently asked our mutual friends what he needed to do so I would speak to him. The most logical answer would have been that he addressed the only reason I got mad at him. But of course none of our friends answered him satisfactorily.

But now, in the dark silence of my room, in the coldness of dawn, I have realized that at this point, he doesn’t need to do anything. E, if you are reading this, please know that you don’t need to do anything anymore. Because the ball is already in my court, so to speak. You have attempted to speak to me, and I rebuffed you. The art of war requires me to make the next move. And whether this move will result in peace or further discord is also up to me.

Whatever consequence might follow is already my burden.

After this initial contact, she invited me to peruse her profile so I could get in touch with our other classmates. And before the euphoria faded away, I did exactly just that. I stifled a groan when I saw that she had 500+ friends. How was I supposed to get through this list? But about 90 minutes (and a blooming migraine) later, I have seen the many names that populated my young life. However, out of the 30+ names I saw in her profile, I only managed to click about 3 other names.

I have previously written how I felt about my unremarkable years in high school. Of course, when one hears that I graduated from high school at age 14, he or she wouldn’t agree right away that it was an unremarkable 4 years. But to be honest, that’s really how it was. If anything, the only remarkable things in my high school life were how socially inept I were, the sense of alienation that I felt (which never lifted until after my second year at university, and my utter lack of friends. If I were going to use my present definition of friends, I’d say that I only made one true friend in high school. And I never contacted him again since going to Manila a few weeks after graduating from high school. I saw him only 10 years later, by accident, while I was dining with my boyfriend at a restaurant. We were cordial with each other; he seemed excited about a supposed high school reunion that was going to happen in a few months. I feigned excitement when he mentioned the reunion, but I knew in my heart that I couldn’t be bothered to return to a place where I existed virtually invisible–always on the fringes, on the outside looking in the beautiful and popular ones.

Last I heard, J is dead. I remember he had a congenital heart defect. In fact, in our senior year, he got sick and almost died, about the time we had our annual spiritual retreat.

I didn’t attend that reunion or any other gathering related to my high school batch. No one probably knew how to reach me. After all, I (along with my family) left Bulacan after my high school graduation to settle in Manila. My father stayed with his job in the province for a good few years. I think I went to Bulacan only twice while I was studying. And one of the reasons why I did was just to hook up with someone I used to regularly fooled around with. When that proved unsuccessful, my interest waned. I would hear news on my old school from another alumnus, who graduated 2 years ahead of me and ended up marrying my uncle. She kept in touch with her high school friends. Some of these friends are elder siblings of my classmates so I would hear news about them too. I feigned interest but remained indifferent deep inside.

But, was high school really as bad as I like to picture it? This is a question that I hadn’t asked myself before, to tell the truth. Lately, I have to accept that our memory can play tricks with our emotions. Memories are, at best, tenuous and fleeting, always affected by external factors, and never truly accurate as, let’s say, a photograph. In all honesty, I can attest that my feelings about high school are true. If there is a part of my life that I have no intention of doing again, it will be my 4 years at Saint Paul’s School in San Rafael, Bulacan, hands down. I would like no more of those social missteps, the failures & frustrations, and the uninformed choices that defined my early adolescence.

Still, my contact with G brought on a rush of happy memories of high school. Small memories, actually, but happy nonetheless. And there were things about high school that made me happy. Teachers I genuinely liked. The nuns. The work I did for the school paper. They won’t be enough to dispel my opinion of high school, but enough to make me realize that like everything in life, there were good parts that went with the bad ones in my high school life. Makes no sense in looking at my high school life with disdain. Recognizing this reality will help me look back on high school with a more sympathetic perspective. Maybe, in doing so, it will also help me forgive myself for my past trespasses in high school, which were probably done in an unsuccessful attempt to gain leverage and, eventually, social acceptance within that microcosm called high school.

I was too young; I didn’t know any better.

And now I can’t even do that.

I am resisting the urge of seeking someone to talk to regarding this, whatever-the-hell-this-is. I tried doing it to my friend but it ended in disaster. What was I thinking, anyway? I couldn’t–shouldn’t burden any of them with this. I am told I cannot do it alone but how can I bring other people into this morbid dance? It’s not that they brought me here in the first place. Well, some of them, probably. But the nature of my friendships has always been one that is frustrating and infuriating and loving and caring, all at the same time. Although, lately, yeah, I have to admit that, of late, all of them seem to frustrate and infuriate me more than love and care for me.

My gut tells me stay away, but my mind tells me I cannot do this alone.

But, pray tell, do what? Get over this funk? Emerge from this rut? Be free from despair and anger? Regard the glass as half-full instead as half-empty? Let my heart swell with emotion?

It seems that like writing, I am unable to do any of these things as well.

My mind is a bottomless well of ideas. A thousand ways–or more, to deal with whatever-this-is.

Do the things that made you feel differently. If this fails, do new things that will (hopefully) make you feel differently (hopefully, better). Seek the company of friends. Go out and (try to) have fun. Eat and drink and indulge. Do some physical activities and get an endorphin high. Read books with positive messages. Have a good cry. Have a good laugh. Pray. Talk to someone. Talk to a professional. Renew ties with  loved ones. Communicate with your family. Communicate with God.

The list is possibly endless.

If only these ideas will march out of my mind, coax my tired body to actually move, and turn these thought-forms into concrete actions.

Since I learned to count, I have been fascinated by patterns. I would measure the area of a room my counting the tiles, count how many books would fit on a single shelf, or decipher the order of colors in a printed fabric. The word ‘obsessive-compulsive’ comes to mind. Over the years, this fascination did not bloom to be an obsession (fortunately) but instead distilled into a quiet interest that nudges me time and again. I guess this is why I always excelled in abstract reasoning exams and why I love jigsaw puzzles.

However, this quiet interest has also caused me to look for, and see, patterns in my own life. My behavior, my decisions, even the things that have happened to me. Please don’t be so quick to dismiss my hypothesis; twenty-five years or so of scrutiny have led me to make this pronouncement.

For example, in the last 3 decades of my life, I have met at least one person who became close to me and later s/he betrayed me in one way or another. In my teens, my social ineptitude made me vulnerable to manipulation that resulted in a social disaster that tainted my entire high school experience. In my twenties, a colleague who’d become my confidante betrayed my trust for his own career advancement. A couple of years ago, I experienced quite a public betrayal in the hands of two supposed-friends (one old and one new) who not only tried to appear to be the aggrieved party but also tried to malign me to our common friends. Did they succeed? Let’s just say that my remaining friends deserve to be my friends and those who chose to listen to their shit-talk do not.

I have written in this blog what my physical type is: curled hair, high forehead, wide eyes, lanky body, and bowed legs. All of my past lovers possess these characteristics (with the exception of 2, who had almond-shaped eyes). However, the first 3 shared something more common. Their family names all started with ‘M’ and ended with ‘S’. All of them had asthma. All of them considered me as their first same-sex lover (one regarded me as his first-ever). And all of them are still my good friends, even if we don’t keep in touch as often as before. My fourth was an ‘O-O’ while my fifth was an ‘M-O’. If there is a common denominator between these last two, it is most likely the fact that I am not on speaking terms with any of them after our respective relationships ended.

Patterns, by definition, emerge when there is repetition. So when it comes to choosing friends and partners, do my repeated decisions cause the development of these patterns–morbid and otherwise? Do I keep making the same mistakes? I have long ago surmised that I am an inept judge of character. However, these past experiences I’ve had with friends who became my non-friends have taught me to be more discerning about the company I keep. I like to think that the quality of my friends and the quality of my friendships have tremendously improved over the years. The friends and friendships I have kept through the years have more or less kept me honest, strong, and afloat in times of dread (such as the days of late).

Sometimes, these patterns (or my consciousness of their existence) throw my equilibrium back in place when it is askew. There are times when it brings sparkle to my otherwise luster-less eyes. This year, when I went to Singapore, I finally met a guy who I came to know through blogging. We read each other’s blogs. When he writes he seems to attack you with a barrage of words but the words themselves, having been selected carefully, do not overwhelm the reading experience. In person he is self-placating yet confident, brimming with a combination of impish glee and unforced virility. I have never paid much attention to chinky-eyed guys but for him I will make an exemption. Obviously, I am infatuated with him. And I think he knows because, yes, I think I am quite obvious about my feelings. In fairness to him, he’s been very gracious. I’m not sure if he likes me the way I like him (because we never discussed anything that remotely resembles the topic of sex and relationships when we met) but I felt very welcome in his presence. In any case, it is impossible for us to get together (even in the fortunate event that the attraction I’m feeling turns out to be mutual) simply because with me living in a developing country and he in a developed (mini) country, we are not only geographically apart, we are also worlds apart.

Two months ago, my friends and I decided to spend the Cambodian All Saints’ Day (called Pchhum Ben) in Saigon. Because of prior commitments, they had to return to Phnom Penh a day ahead of me so I was alone in the 6-hour bus ride back to my dear PP. Usually, when I travel alone by bus I purchase 2 tickets so that I wouldn’t have to sit with a stranger. I, however, managed to buy only one because of the holidays. The night before I sincerely prayed I wouldn’t sit next to any of the following: (a) a woman; (b) a child; (c) a breast-feeding mother; (d) someone who stinks; (e) someone who eats incessantly the whole trip; (f) someone who is as large or larger than I am; and (g) a combination of any of the previously mentioned. I went to the bus station early to see in advance my possible seat-mate. My heart leaped up to my throat when I saw that he was already there. Why? Over the years as my reading list grew, I have often encountered the word ’strapping’ when referring to men. But when I saw him, the first thing I thought was that he was the embodiment of that word. He was wearing a cotton shirt, cargo shorts and walking shoes. He stood about an inch short of six feet, muscles in appropriate amount in all the right places. His head was shaved but I suspected he was a blonde, judging by his brows and the hair on his forearms. He had gray-green eyes framed by lashes you can almost paint with watercolors. His nose rose delicately from his face, tapering to nostrils that slightly flared when he exhaled, or laughed. He was from Czech Republic but he spoke with almost a French accent. He spoke 4 languages. When he spoke to you, you’d feel as if you’re the only people in the room (I certainly felt like we were the only 2 people in the bus). Maybe this was because he was a police officer in his old country. His attention is so focused and precise, it is almost physically impossible to ignore him. We shared a rainy, muddy and bumpy motorcycle taxi ride from the bus station to our homes that evening. And until now we exchange a few text messages.

Now, one might want to know why the heck did I decide to write extensively about these guys. Is there a pattern within these seemingly disparate men? Well, their initials are the same: J-Z.

Like I said, sometimes these patterns provide me with sparks of joy that momentarily light up the darkness that seem to hover around me lately, like a haunting spirit. But the darkness, like the paralysis to write I’d been feeling, is another story. One I’d hope to share one day, when the leaves have returned to the trees, so that the patterns they create are no longer against the brick and the dirt, but against blue skies and white clouds.

But very few people know me past the bright eyes, the impish smile, and the laughter. Very few people know that I have this great capacity for melancholia. It’s like there is a well deep within my chest, or ample belly, that continuously taps me on the shoulder, like an insistent beggar of my attention. It is this well that I constantly turn to when I tire of the world. It allows me to wallow in its darkness until such time I am ready to emerge and face the light of day. In a way, sadness nurtures me.

When I started blogging in 2006 (in Friendster) I had no idea how my blog was going to be. I didn’t create a new persona that will allow me to vent (like a ventriloquist’s puppet) because venting was never my problem. All I wanted was to exercise my writing muscle with my observations of the world around me: the people, the events, the places, and so on. Plus my feelings on the matter. My blog would be an extension of myself: warts and all. I had a momentary dream that my blog would be read by millions (rendering me able to become an arbiter of opinion on everything) but I knew that this was unlikely. I (including my views) was never popular so any extension of this ’self’ would never be popular. It’s the simple fact of the fruit not falling far from the tree.

I would also explore the depths of this well whenever I wrote my stories and poems. Although when my literary arm takes over, the well takes on a new name. It became the abyss. Very well. The abyss was the bowl of ink in which I dipped my pen whenever I was writing. I would dive into the darkest recesses of my self, propagate the spaces inside my head with ideas I commit to paper (or whatever medium was on hand) and I would emerge from the experience unscathed. The arrangement was perfect. Or resembled it so much that I hadn’t planned for the day when the inevitable happened. There is a quote, whose source escapes my mind at the moment, that goes: ‘Each time we look into the abyss, the abyss looks back at us’.

How can I explain it? Perhaps, it was bound to happen. I felt it start, however, last year, as I lay in a post-anesthetic haze in the recovery room of the hospital where I had my gallstones (and gall bladder) removed. It seemed that my body was one big pin cushion riddled with pins. Each point corresponded to a site of pain, but the sites were too many that the pain melded into one almost-tangible shell that lay just beneath my clammy skin. The shadows on the ceiling looked like gnarled fingers reaching to me in my bed, where I lay sweating and writhing from pain. I tried to call for help but my throat were filled with sand and gravel; I almost choked on the dust alone.

After that, everything changed. Nothing was the same for me. It seemed that the surgery removed more than my stone-filled gall bladder. I walked around, met people, worked, ate, drank, fucked, smiled, slept, exercised but everything felt perfunctory. I thought I wanted to experience and taste everything. But I quickly found everything (people included) to be tiresome. A few months ago I had a spat with my mother over something she said (which I would normally let pass) that didn’t sit well with me. I didn’t speak to her for weeks. I was surprised (and frightened) at the ease with which I managed this. My anger, which I usually managed well, was becoming a force that was too strong for its existing restraints (decorum, self-image, and pacifism).

Which brings me to my current predicament. The well/abyss deep within my body is gone. In its place is a void, a nothingness that feels more terrible than what it previously had. No light can penetrate this. No sound is carried off into this darkness. Everything just disappears into it. Misery, anger, disappointments. Words and promises. Inspirations. All gone.

One more thing: I think it’s getting bigger.

I think it would eat me up from the inside, until nothing is left of me.

My disappearance. Unnoticed. Unlamented. Forgotten.

A perfect ending. If not, something I deserve.

A song, perhaps. Someone’s death, maybe.  Or getting my heart broken, surely. But my tears also well up over some good things. A small gesture or affection from a friend, or a loved one. A film that touches me inside. A poem, even.

But problems? I don’t think so.

I have learned at an early age not to cry over these things. I’ve learned to suck it up and show a smiling, if not resolute, face when beset by problems. Because I have been taught at an early age that things–including problems, have a way of working themselves out. And if they don’t?

Well, I have also learned that no matter how screwed up you get, you’re not the first one to get screwed up, or the last, even. In short, the only way to get through a tough time is to become tougher.

If only things were this simple.

Now this is an entirely new expression for me. I have heard it uttered before, but I didn’t think I would one day have it come out of my mouth. I was surprised when, first, I thought of it more than a couple of weeks ago–as I sat idly in front of my computer. I was more surprised when I said it in front of a friend as we were driving to another friend’s house only yesterday.

In fact, I am also surprising myself by writing this. Here. God knows I haven’t had the will to write anything the past few weeks. My work-related writing I am able to do (barely), but the rest of my writing? Nothing.

I have no appetite to do anything. Sleeping is pained and laborious as waking up. I cringe at the sound of my mobile phone ringing, shiver at the sight of my friends’ names flashing luridly on the screen. I seem to face two choices when this happens: pick it up or cut my throat. I am seething with so much anger and frustration inside and yet, I laugh loudly at the smallest of jokes. Food and sex are the only things I consume with voracity. And even that doesn’t bring me any real measure of joy, if truth be told.

And I have no one to talk to about this.

I think I have driven all of them away with my rancor. Those who remained are either wrapped up in the swirl of their lives or perhaps fed up with my neuroses that their smiles and kind words only bounce and skid over mine. It is like I’m in the water, and they’re in the boat. They’ve thrown me a line but they threw it ever so gently that it fell a few meters away from me. And I am floating away, driven by strong currents, away from the boat. Away from them. Away from everything.

One of the last things I see are their silhouettes. They seem to be clinking wine glasses.

I am wondering why things are not working the way they used to work.

I am wondering if I would emerge from this rut sooner, or later, or not at all.

I wait.

Because there’s nothing else to do.

Kris Aquino had the good fortune of being directed by Ishmael Bernal early in her career. The title of this film escapes me now, what I remember is a scene–a snippet of a dialogue actually, with the character being played by Christopher de Leon. She’d been crying, tears wetting most of her cheeks, when she said, “Bakit walang sumeseryoso sa akin?” (Why is no one taking me seriously?) The line was said with utmost sincere pathos. But there was also subtext that existed outside the film itself. At that time, Kris’s fame (infamy?) rested mostly on her being the daughter of Cory and Ninoy, the rest probably on her cute, tact-less charm, but not on her acting talent. So the line, her next-to-nothing-acting notwithstanding, was particularly ironic, if not poignant.

Of course, I found it a bit funny as well. But not now.

Maybe because I find myself saying the same thing, when I’m alone with my thoughts (which happens a lot lately).

However, I think the sadder part of this questioning bit is the fact that I have a multitude of answers: possible reasons and circumstances and decisions that have resulted in this situation, that have led me to this rut. And I have no one to blame but myself. Ten years ago I wrote about cynicism, when I’d decided that I wasn’t one, in spite of being called as such by a former lover. It’s true: I wasn’t a fault-finder who always thought that people only acted to benefit their own interests. I, in fact, always tried to find what is good in each person even if their reputation seems to precede them like the most embarrassing case of halitosis.

Now, I’m not certain if I can still say the same thing with the same degree of conviction. I mean, after all the betrayals and deception I experienced with old and new friends, after all those affairs that soured before reaching its peak of sweetness, after all those comings and goings of people, who wouldn’t? It would seem that the only thing I managed to nurture and develop after all these years was my array of defense mechanisms that I employ to soften the blows of heartache, to numb the pain of frustrations, and to dilute the bitterness of defeat.

Yes, I got ‘em. By the buckets. My alter-name is by itself a defense mechanism, if truth be told. My reticence; my ability to keep quiet in the face of a word-war. My scathing wit, my ability to cut a person down in a few words and statements, my talent to render someone invisible even if s/he is standing in front of my face, even that sharp fugitive glance. My masks of invulnerability and indifference–impervious to any form of attack on my person. I wear these, alternating depending on the immediate need.

But why am I writing about this, here, openly, under your scrutiny? Doing this contradicts my (still another) defense mechanism of silence. Have I gone really starved and parched for attention? Though it is easy to look at it this way (and I won’t blame you for doing so), but I’m not. At least I hope I’m not.

Know this: there are moments when wearing masks stifle me. In these times, I take them off and breathe unobtrusively. Let the wind brush against the skin of my face. But these past year these moments have become rare. And when these moments do happen, these have been met by befuddlement, uncomfortable laughter, or in some extreme cases, derision. I can only wonder why.

Which begs the question: have I put on too many masks that no one can recognize my true face anymore? Have I told too many lies about myself that I have lost all credibility? I remember the time when I felt how therapeutic it was to be able to write my feelings down. I even remember how good it felt to find other people who seem to relate with the things I’d been writing about. But now these same things seem to have become my own undoing.

Distrust manifests itself in the littlest of ways. Words and statements can take on new meanings under a layer of distrust. These feel like little razor cuts on the skin. A glance, a nonchalant smirk, can easily bruise one’s spirit. Everything becomes tainted.

On the other hand, proving one’s trustworthiness is like pushing a boulder up a steep hill. It requires a dogged determination, unwavering faith, and mindless courage.

Other people (friends mostly) have betrayed this trust many times in the past. I am generally patient; I can put up with many things, but once this patience runs out, there’s no turning back. Forgiveness is like a delicious dish: one can finish eating it all too quickly.

This is why I believe that once trust has been irreparably broken between 2 people, they should just say good-bye and move on to other things (and people). It is completely useless to continue any relationship when there is no trust between the people involved. Trying to trust someone again after being betrayed by that person is extremely difficult, as is trying to prove one’s trustworthiness. I don’t blame people for giving up doing any of the two.

Now, if only things were indeed this simple and easy.

I’m thinking of scalpels–and cutting with surgical precision. I’m thinking of the bonds between family members, between friends, lovers, and partners. And how complicated it is to sever any of these ties.