The Moment

This moment also happens to be the saddest moment of my life. My father died on 21 January 2013, 12 days after my birthday. We buried him 6 days later. It wasn’t until his body was buried six feet under did I take a close look at all my relationships: the one I’m with, my friends, my family. It was a rude awakening.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t good to me. It wasn’t that he wasn’t kind. It was the lost wonder, the humility that comes with feeling a sense of disbelief that this person is with you. The how-did-I-get-so-lucky feeling. The I-cannot-believe-she-chose-me feeling. That one went out the window quite a long time ago, and it took three wheelbarrows of dirt and a hole in the ground to make myself finally admit that.

I have lost touch with the oldest of friends so much that if they did not insist on being present in my life, I won’t insist on their presence too. That was one of the worst decisions I’ve made, because at my lowest low, my friends were the first one to rally with me. I am blessed.

My brothers were hesitant to depend on me, but when our father passed, they knew they can count on me for anything. Some may say this kind of dependence should not be present anymore when you get older, but I do not mind. I want my brothers to need me as much as I need them.

I realized too that the strongest person in the room — actually in most rooms — is either my mother or my grandmother. I can only hope to grow up as strong willed as them.

So… I packed my bags for a quick staycation with my best friend and sister Marga, a quick trip to Cebu with another friend, went back to school, worked my butt off, and reclaimed the love that was never lost in the first place.

It is sad that my father cannot see that I am at my happiest, even though work sucks most days and school is hard. Still, my heart has never been happier, more content, and more at home with it belonging to one man and to all the people I have pulled back in my life.

Oh how glorious it is to be loved by the man who wishes to carry your baggage with you. <3

My slice of Pi

April 26, 2014April 26, 2014 / iamsupercarla / Leave a comment

It is no secret that 2013 was the most emotional year of our lives. Having lost my father at a time when I was questioning my existing relationships kicked off the year. And it was mostly downhill from there.

The week before my father died, I watched a movie on my own for the first time after a very long time. I remember feeling hurt, confused, and more than ever, clueless. This Ang Lee film was showing then, and I heard nothing but praises for its cinematography and perfect adaptation.

I walked out enlightened and braver, as if I needed it because in five days, I will lose the man who loved me the best.

Life of Pi

These words more than lifted my spirit. And I believe my faith strengthened as each trial came.

Because this point in my life is exactly where I have always hoped for and prayed to be.

Have a great weekend.

61

April 15, 2014 / iamsupercarla / Leave a comment

Last April 11, my father would have turned 61 years old.

The last (and most likely only) buffet he thoroughly enjoyed was Vikings, so most likely we would have celebrated there. Or at Sizzling Pepper Steak. He was always loyal to his favorites.

It was a Friday so I can imagine negotiating with him to just come to Makati or at least leave the premises of Las Pinas, and he would say, “Traffic is so bad there, let’s just meet at the Mall of Asia,” and by meet, he means “You better get there first because there is no way in hell I am going around that mall to look for you.”

He didn’t go out much. He mostly just went out because my mother asked. He often refused her, at the same time often joined her. It was as simple and as complicated as that.

If we’re at a buffet, he would look for the dishes that he can copy. Our clan has a penchant for meeting almost every week (and still has the gall to celebrate an annual “reunion”) and he was always thinking of new recipes. I think that was the reason he liked Vikings; I would like to think he picked out a lot of dishes to cook from there.

Then, of course, after the meal, he would sneak out for a smoke. Most people would say it was the cigarette that killed him and as much as I acknowledge my father’s efforts to trim it down, I have to agree. But he would just smoke one, linger outside for a bit, and then whisper to my mother, “I need to poop.” That’s the signal to go home.

But that was always a lie, I think. Because even with the need to poop, we would stop by for dessert elsewhere — coffee for him and my mother to share — chat for a bit, and before we even noticed, all three — my father and my two brothers — start calling dibs as to who would be the first to use the bathroom.

He would have been 61, and he would have bragged about his glorious 20% discount on almost everything.

He would have given me some money to pick out perfume or a bag for my mother’s upcoming 60th birthday. He would have said, “Make sure it’s something she likes ha.” He would have suggestions, but he would trust my choices more.

He would have bugged my brother Ted to drive home, because he would have been too full to drive. I think that was just an excuse to sit at the back with my mother. He liked hanging out with my mother.

He loved hanging out with us.

He would have been 61.

Dad

Happy birthday, Tatay.

For Sir Boy

April 14, 2014April 15, 2014 / iamsupercarla / Leave a comment

First of eternity

January 27, 2014 / iamsupercarla / 3 Comments

I have avoided writing about that day like the plague. I would like to think that in the year that has passed, I have mourned my father silently. People who are very close to me have handled that topic with a certain kind of delicateness and to be honest, I am yet to decide whether I should be thankful for the sensitivity or scornful that I am treated with so much vulnerability.

I cannot blame them though. Each time the topic of my father’s passing comes to mind, I am confronted with my inadequacies, every single one of which slapped across my face on that day — my disobedience as a daughter, my insufficiency as a sister, my lack of self-awareness. And I say these not to demean my person; my father had taught me long and good to never do that. I say these as a matter of fact because on the day he passed, I was all these.

There should be some sort of progress though. It has been a year. There has to be some form or semblance of forgiveness, for the instance, for the misfortune, for the people. But I will not act as if I’ve reached that level of self-actualization. Today, even after a year, I am still unforgiving.

But is that something bad though? I don’t think so. And I’ve said this a little too often, these things never get easier. Every day is still hard. Every day we are still fatherless. Every day we are still lacking. Every day we walk the floors and the walls of avenues and still have that nagging feeling of never being whole again. These things never get easier. You just get used to it.

I still sleep with the lights on. In France, there was an attempt to be in the dark again, but it pulled me deeper than it should have. The darkness never used to scare me, but now it does. I wish I can say I’ll be over it soon, but I can’t. I miss my father and in the dark, I am reminded of how little I gave to him on the days building up to his passing.

And that is one demon I can’t seem to outrun.

There will be no father-daughter dance at my wedding, and I will be attending so many more unions with the bride crying silently on her dad’s shoulder as he slowly lets her go. I will never be able to reconcile with that fact. But I will try. That’s the best we can all do anyway.

Try.

Sir Boy