FEELS FRIDAY: The living

20150814 The living


It was a while

It’s been a while since I last wrote about you.  A long while actually.  I think my mind is actively avoiding it because — let’s be honest — there’s no getting over you.

I always repeat it to myself.  It doesn’t get easier, you just get used to it.  I say it to people who keep asking if we’re okay.  It doesn’t get easier, you just get used to it.  I say it to friends that ask how Nanay is doing.  It doesn’t get easier, you just get used to it.  I’ve said it so many times, they had stopped asking.

This is a crappy club.  Two of my childhood friends belong to this club.  This no getting over club.  This forever taking a leave on your birthday club.  This no walk down the aisle club.  It’s a fucking crappy club.  More and more milestones are coming, and this is an absolute worldsuck crappy club to be a part of.

It doesn’t get easier, you just get used to it.

I want to blame everything on you so bad.  I really do.  I remember the times when you are just so hard headed and refused to visit the doctor.  I even threatened to not come home until you see a doctor; you countered you won’t see one until I came home.

I came home.  You didn’t go anywhere.

And now, I have to marry the love of my life without you.  I am attending weddings left and right, and I am pestered with everyone’s thank you speeches and father-daughter dances.  They are all lined up, wall to wall, all the things that I am now missing because you didn’t visit the fucking doctor.

I so want to blame everything on you.

It doesn’t get easier, you just get used to it.

But was it really your fault?  Or was it just time running out?  I am so over blaming myself for not being there because in my head, I would not be required there if you didn’t bring yourself there.  Or did you?  Did you really bring this upon yourself or was it just your time to checkout?

I don’t fucking know.

I am so angry.  I am livid.  I can’t believe I am here again.  It’s your birthday this Saturday and instead of going to a good buffet, we’ll have to set up camp on damp grass where a slab of stone bears your name and dine on takeout.

It doesn’t get easier, you just get used to it.

I don’t even know if the latter part of that statement is true.

Do I have to pray now to be more accepting?  Do I have to will myself to be more open and embrace your fate as your fate, not a mere circumstance of decisions that were not made?  Do I have to do all that just to get past this huge crap load of baggage?

I am marrying the love of my life, and my issues hound me at night.  I can’t even sleep unless the lights are on.  My dreams are sometimes dreams, often nightmares.  My mind is hardly empty and my head is going 60 miles a minute.

I am so tired of finding reason and being angry.  But right now, I’m just angry.  No reason, no rhyme.  I just want to be angry.

Because it doesn’t get any easier.

Because I have to get used to it.


When Jennifer Aniston divorced Brad Pitt years back, she eventually graced the cover of Vanity Fair (September 2005) to tell her side of the story.  I remember this article because of this line:

While the tabloids insist on dividing Aniston’s emotions into neat, distinct chapters, the reality is that pain and denial and anger and resignation all blur together, sometimes at the same moment—and the lengthy process of mourning is nowhere near over.

Mondays will never be the same for me, or for anyone in my family.  There is no end in sight as to when this heart-wrenching pain will turn into a normal daily occurrence.  When we lost Lolo in 2007, I admit to be irreparably broken, but now… Tatay….

I can’t even imagine how I look like.  How we all look like.  Or if we’ll ever look the same.  If we’ll even think of trying to be the within the vicinity of thinking of being the same people.  Some things are irreversible and some things stay that way.

Although it follows the natural order of things, the shock doesn’t come any softer, any gentler of a blow to the face.  Breakfast is awful; I don’t know how we all manage to weave in and out of our kitchen.  My mother may be the light of our home, but my father is the walls.  The floors.  The ceilings.  He is everything.

Or was.

Every fiber in my being prays and hopes that he passed knowing how much we love him.  Because there was never a day in our lives we didn’t feel how much he loves us.

Or loved.