sin, sinner

It’s been a while since I last wrote to you. I know I say that every time I send a letter out, but unfortunately, it's always true. It's so much harder to find the drive to write, especially when I’ve associated the act with adolescent grief. Words were all I had when I was a child. A few life stages later, I have so many more things to hold on to. And hold on to them I do.

A lot of life-changing things happened last year, but here's the supercut—I got my own place in Quezon City and moved out of my childhood home for the first time ever. I got my dream job in an FMCG. I was earning more than I had any right earning. I was making grown-up decisions. On paper, these all looked good, right? It felt good, for a while. And then it didn't. And then I was so miserable I just wanted to run.

Do you know how devastating it is to work so hard for a dream, only to one day get there and realize the picture never fit in the frame? Since then, I've been second-guessing everything. For someone who's always been guided by her yearning, I was in a limbo of shame.

So I escaped to the other side of the world. I thought that soaking up the California sun would make me feel better. Surely a change in scenery would be grounding, right? And it did feel good, but again, only for a while. And then it didn't. After a month and a half, I packed my bags, went home to the Philippines, and rotted in Boracay. Such a beautiful place for such an ugly feeling.

"Wherever you go, there you are." Wherever I went, there the fuck I was. How humiliating to have so much and still yearn for something more. Half present in milestones, yet still pushing your boulder up the hill.

I never believed in setting intentions for the new year. I didn't want to set myself up for even more disappointment (a feeling familiar to ever discontent me). But I read this beautiful Barbara Crooker poem and figured I needed to do something new.

So even though the prize-winning envelope has someone else’s name on it, I sit at my desk and begin.

This year, I’m going to rediscover my love for reading, for writing, for sewing, for creating music. I want to return to the starry-eyed, 16-year-old version of me. I want to start doing things for her again. I'm tired of the 20s rat race, the life insurances, the fucking crypto talk. I guess in the back of my mind, I always knew that kind of life wasn't for me, but I wanted in anyway. That's the curse of adulthood—sometimes you want things just because you're told to want them, afraid of missing out on the grand, packaged experience of growing up. Sometimes you work toward goals just to prove to the people around you that you can get there. I was there and I know better. What a scam it all is.

So, friend, if you're going to take anything from this letter, I hope it's the reminder that happiness will only exist on your terms, and fulfillment doesn't have to look good to anyone else other than yourself.

My Lolo,

It's been 399 days since you left, but we mourn you daily like we'd just lost you. When people tell me that you're with an outdated concept of a god that fits their narrative, it fills me with a rage that's new to me.

I think I'll carry this grief with me to my grave.

I don't really know how to write about you, lolo. My heart folds in on itself when I try to. But I'll dedicate this space in my most favorite place in the world to you.

Love,

Unprompted, the man whose attention I used to get drunk off of asked how I was doing. I didn't answer. I didn't feel the need to answer. 

My last confession was when I still believed in you.

The previous years call to me in desperation, but there is no screaming. My sins don't look like sins anymore. We try to define the right thing, but our fingers still tremble when we hold hands.

Stop fighting so hard to make sense of all this ugliness. Don't believe them. Nothing will ever complete us, not even love.

Dear friend, Waking up is a task again. Days pass by and for most of them, I will myself into non-existence. My limbs feel heavy, and it's painful having to drag them to school and back home. Mostly I've been grappling with the meaninglessness of existence. We're all shaped by our interactions with each other. We're all controlled by forces completely external from self-will. Which part of ourselves are truly ours? Do we all belong to systems that we will never be able to break free from? The university has placed me on suicide watch. They say I have to see a psychiatrist again, that I need to consult a professional and ask that person to confirm whether or not I'm still mentally fit to proceed through the school year. They say that I could still take a late leave of absence; I could leave this term behind and pretend it never happened. I don't want to, because doing so will make me feel like I've failed in something. For somebody with a fuckton of pride, it's a bitter pill to swallow. I know seeking help again isn't failing, but I'm terrified. I don't want to be prescribed with anti-depressants again. Those little white pills made me feel numb inside, like the world could come at me with anything and I would meet it with my indifference. I’m also worried about opening up to a complete stranger and reliving my repressed childhood traumas, while somebody who couldn't care less writes my spilled guts onto a condescending clipboard, my entire life reduced to a bunch of words and sopoforic medicine. But then, do I have any other choice? There's no other way to put it. I think about dying all the time. I think about disappearing.

I want to say that I'm trying to fight my relapse with guns blazing. I've enrolled in a 24-hour gym. I'm forcing myself to have better sleeping patterns. I take my vitamins. I force myself out of bed even on days where I would rather disappear under the covers. It's a daily war against something I can't assign a face to, but I need to fight. It’s all I can do at this point.

This world is a cruel place. We are trapped in institutions we can never really run away from: family, society, country. I am trying to learn how to deal with this. I am trying to relearn how to breathe. The only bright spots I have are my few remaining friends and a boy who loves me even when I’m sick, who forces me out of bed every morning.

Tonight, I'm looking at love from across this small table. It's 11pm and we're stuck somewhere in Katipunan. I wanted to play god on his phone all night, but he wouldn't let me.

You said you wanted to be productive, he says with an amused smile on his face. I tell him that I hate him and that school sucks ass. He laughs again. I'm wearing his Ateneo football shirt. It's freezing in here, but I feel warm all over from his presence. We attempt to be good students but end up laughing at each other instead.

Coldplay is playing in the background. I look at him and think, you don't understand how grateful I am. 

You are in a coffee shop with the boy you love. There's a storm brewing inside you because he’s everything you’ve ever asked for. Every time you look at him, you see an entire city with the power out, windows and doors shut in fear of the rain. You know you love him but when has your love ever been pure enough to be reliable? You think to yourself, this is happening again, and you know you’re gonna end up dismantling it with your unforgiving hands.