ZEN Bitchin'

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.