Alex in Wonderland

You never had to shout.

Your silence was louder.

It filled entire houses, crossed cities, sat beside me in dorm rooms where I waited for a reply that never came.

You called it discipline.

You called it teaching me a lesson.

But what I learned was this:

love is fragile, and I am one mistake away from losing it.

When I failed you, you disappeared.

Months of quiet.

No warmth.

No softness.

Just the cold knowledge that I had fallen from grace.

And when I studied far from home,

your silence learned new shapes-

seen messages,

unanswered calls,

money withheld,

reminders that even distance

could not protect me from your disappointment.

Do you know what that does to a child?

To measure every word, every grade, every breath against the possibility of exile?

I grew up believing

I must be perfect, useful and exceptional to deserve staying.

And now I am afraid to become you.

Afraid that love in my hands will turn conditional.

Afraid that one day I will look at my own child and feel the urge to go quiet when they fail me.

But here is what you did not teach me:

Your silence hurt me

more than any mistake ever could.

Your absence carved questions

into my bones-

Am I only worthy when I perform?

Am I only lovable when I succeed?

Is love something that leaves

when I am most in need?

I am learning now

that love should not withdraw.

It should not punish by disappearing.

It should not starve a child

I’ve carried these words with me for a long time, unsure if giving them shape would reopen wounds or finally let them breathe. But I need to say this, not for you, but for the pieces of myself I spent years trying to stitch back together.

Your actions, your broken promises, and the constant uncertainty you wrapped our relationship in… they fractured something inside me that I didn’t even know could break. I walked through those years questioning my worth, wondering if I was unlovable, wondering what was wrong with me. I kept thinking if I just tried harder, begged longer, or gave up more of myself, maybe things would change. But all it did was hollow me out.

You didn’t just affect me—you left a mark on the relationships around me. You damaged connections I once trusted would be unshakeable, including the one I had with my mother, the one person whose recognition I once sought after.

Even now, as we try to rebuild what cracked under the weight of everything I went through, there is a part of that bond that will never fully return to what it was. Some things can heal, yes, but not always back into their original shape.

But here’s the truth I only learned after the ending:

Sometimes peace only arrives after you finally stop fighting for what was never meant for you.

And leaving you, ending us, became the beginning I didn’t know I desperately needed.

I am now in a good place. I have met someone else, he is now my husband.

My husband treats me with a gentleness I didn’t know existed. He listens, not just to my words but to the quiet parts of me I used to hide. He loves me in ways that remind me daily that I am not hard to love, that I am not too much, that I am not someone to be tolerated. He shows me a version of love that isn’t painful, isn’t conditional, isn’t fragile. A love that nurtures rather than drains.

He doesn’t take me for granted nor does he patch up the ugly side of our relationship with gifts. He teaches me to work on them, together. When he apologizes he means them and strives to not repeat the same mistake and actually tries to change.

He has taken it upon himself to help mend things he never broke—wounds he didn’t inflict, scars he didn’t leave. In his hands, I have found peace. In his love, I rediscovered myself.

And with that clarity came a truth that feels like freedom:

I would never trade the love I have now for anything—not for the past, not for the memories, not even for the version of myself who once believed you were the best I could hope for.

This letter is not about blame. It’s about truth. It’s about acknowledging what happened so that I can finally leave the remnants of that past behind. I was not perfect. I never said I was. I too was flawed and caused the relationship to fail.

But I’m no longer the person you once knew. I’m healing, I’m whole, and I am loved in ways you were never willing—or able—to love me.

And for that, I am glad. Truly.

Sincerely,

One of the hardest things to accept that motherhood is something that God has deemed impossible for me to do. Accepting that my body fails to do its biological duty is one of the most bitter pills I had to swallow.

Motherhood is a role that I have long given up on. I have long thrown the towel. I have mourned and buried the loss and the what could have beens.

I would never bring a child in this world but sometimes I dream about the kids that I’ll never know. I wonder what it would feel to call the names I have long picked for them. I wonder what it would be like to watch my son laugh and play to his heart’s content or what it would be like to sit my daughter in my lap and brush her hair as she tells me stories of her day. I wonder how they would look like, whose eyes would they take, what little habits would they have.

I wonder what it would be like to have a mini-me who will like to play dress up and with make up or what it would be like to learn about sports and games so I can relate to my son. I wonder about what their favorites are, will they like the same things as me? I wonder about their curiosity, what would be their interest, what will spark their passion, and how will they find their place in this world.

I wonder about the ways I could tell and make them feel that I love them. I wonder if I could do a better job than my mother when she was raising me. I wonder if I could break the generational trauma and provide them of the things I hoped I had.

I helped people through their heartbreaks, took care of people when they were sick, provided when they had none, stopped people from ending their lives, and what did I get in return?

Heartbreak

Lies

Anger

Betrayal

The person I helped ruined me to the point where I wanted to die. The person I have loved made me hate myself to the point where I wanted to just end it. The person I treated like a sister did things so terrible that it changed me and turned me into someone I no longer recognize.

I have become a stranger in my own body.

I sometimes wonder what would happen if I didn't stop you from killing yourself, would I have survived? If I didn't talk you out of it, would my life be any better?

I am not angry. I've gone beyond it. I do not hate you, I don't think hatred can cover what I feel about you.

I wish you died.

You've already painted me as a bad person, the monster in your story but you never told anyone the reason why. This is the first time I have addressed you, and I just want to say FUCK YOU. I hope you never find true happiness, I hope you get ruined, I hope everything that you have done bite you in the fucking back when you least expected it, when you've moved on, when you've already tasted happiness. I hope you live a long and miserable life.

I am at a place in my life where I have rebuilt everything. I have thrown out everything in my past and have fully embraced the things I have gained after you.

My family is full of paradoxes. The very same people who would spout praises are the very same people whou would drag me to the mud by throwing words that add only to the insecurities that burns me from within. They would say “you’re pretty” only to follow it up with “but you’ll look even prettier if you lose weight because you’re getting fat”. The very same people who preach about protecting the young ones only to box them in their excessive expectations that crushes your very soul.

Tell me about the stars that witness their suffering and how the tried to pass on their messages of sweet nothings and promises of being together.

Tell me about the planets and how they tried their hardest to help but the heavens shackled and forbade them.

I am not good with words verbally. I would rather lie than openly say what I feel. Words seem to get stuck in my throat whenever emotions get involved. Sentences feel like vomiting hot lava, it clings to my tongue.

But with writing? I can use idioms to encompass my feelings and thoughts. I can write words and stitch them to make sense of the chaos that seems to reside in my mind. I can vomit in writing, typing as fast as my brain can think. It gives me a sense of calmness knowing I can write, and read, cross off, write, and reread everything over and over again until I am fully satisfied of the jumbled letters I have in front of me.

It is easy to take care of her.

Last night, my sister was talking to me about how she feels towards a friend. She said she feels hurt because she feels left out in the new environment her friend invited her in. She aired out her sentiments over close friendships that have run their course. She was hurt. She was sad. It was like she didn’t know that these things could happen.

As the eldest, I told her the realities of life. About how relationships are sometimes bound to run its course especially when you no longer have a common thing to bond about. I told her that friendship that were build over classrooms sometimes do not survive in a new environment because people mature and interests change.

As I tell her these things, I was confused. Confused as to how she is having a difficult time navigating things like these when I thought these were common sense. I was confused why she looked so hurt.

Then I realized, when I went through these things I had no one to talk to while she has me. She has her “Ate” to guide her though things nobody prepared me for. She has me to brace her about the harsh realities of life while I am still facing it alone. She has me.

I am beginning to understand what being the eldest means. It means that you have to build the plane while your flying it so you can teach your siblings to fly well. It means that most, if not all, the time you need to brave and brace yourself alone because life doesn’t stop throwing shit your way. It means having to stand a second parent because our parents never took the time to learn to care for us in a way we needed to and wanted to.

Being the experimental child as the eldest never stopped at what baby products should parents use. It is something every first born child with “absent” parents carries as we navigate life because our parents are too busy at work and they thought we are simply too mature for our age so they know we can handle ourselves.

Let me put it this way my darling, whenever I am with you all my demons quiet down as if they can feel that you’d protect me from everything. Whenever I am with you, breathing becomes easier, it is like taking in fresh air. Whenever I am with you, my anxiety goes away and my muscles begins to relax (maybe this is why I sleep better when I am with you, your mere presence in bed chase away the bad dreams and insomnia away). Whenever I am with you, I feel more grounded and present so much so that there is no need to drift and get lost in my thoughts.

I have given parts of me to fix someone only to be left alone as soon as they are whole again. I let them in my life with a permanent place in my heart only to be abandoned with no way of removing the void that their precence created.

Their presence haunt me and my feelings for them tortures my very soul that even sleeping doesn't help nor does drowning myself in either a mountain of work or in a sea of alcohol. The smallest thing reminds me of them and of the old times that I end up disassociating myself from everything in fear that the heavy feeling in chest and the physical pain it creates will suffocate me.

Some days I just wish for death. I think death is peaceful. I think death is the key to not feeling anymore. I wish there is a switch that you can simply flick to stop yourself from breathing. I would ty to do it on my own, hold my breath until my lungs starts to burn and my mind forces itself to run after air.

My mind is a dark place recently and I do not have any way out of it. They say the years of your early adult should have some resemblance of fun and excitement because this is your peak but why does mine look gloomy and sad?

I cannot remember what happiness looks like, my mind blanks out when I try to remember a happy thought. My smile these days carry sadness that even I couldn't explain. I cannot remember a happy thought because every single of them tortures my very soul with the existence of people I helped and who have left me during my greatest downfalls.