Leaving A Trail

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When someone you do care for had an overdose of heart pills, it does rattle your brain and shake your confidence, bro… especially after you tried to talk him out of his funk.  It makes you feel useless, helpless and restless.  Not knowing how he’ll come out of it.  Did I say the wrong thing?  Did I extend my hand not far enough?

Though I still dream of my own death, I’m way past the “suicide stage”.  Having a friend go through it now is like having myself stuck in a coffin holding my breath.  Knowing the emotional pain he’s going through, I can’t blame him.  It’s a familiar avenue to me but I always knew which less scary route to take when I feel trapped in the darkest alley.  Suicide’s an off-course.  A friend’s foot on that corner is a part-of-me’s death…

I grieve for those who suffer in silence.  They drink their own tears and cower in a corner.  They absorb life’s blows and let themselves wither.  Only a few can hear their silent screams.  The rest just look down their noses at these wounded souls.  No wonder they’re into hiding.  Mental illness is a sensitive issue. Too hot to handle.  Too fragile to touch.

Having the balls to admit you’re mentally ill is one big step to a very long journey on the path to recovery.  No, you definitely cannot do it on your own.  You can block antidepressants, list off psychotherapy or brain synergy but just not me.  Don’t cast me out.  Don’t shut other caring souls out of your life.

Thinking it was my buddy who sent me the “spare-tire” text message after reading my “Shelved Thoughts“, I got in touch to assure him he wasn’t my subject.  Obviously, he wasn’t the anonymous text sender either.  It’s a neat time to catch up on each other, anyway… but the ensuing e-mail was disturbing.  I hate to call it a suicide note.  Please… prop yourself up, bro.

Flush the darn calcium channel blockers out of your system.  You’re not supposed to die young.  You’ll get a bum deal that way, man.  I want a pal crazier than I am, yes, but not THIS effing craziness.  It’s rattling my brain all right!

“Hindi mo talaga ako abu.  Abo na nga ako, gusto mo pa akong patayin,” reklamo ko kay Jayz.  Sabi kasi nya, “Ano ka ba?  ‘Di ka makakaligtas sa ‘kin.  Subukan mo akong pagmultuhan.  Kahit abo ka na, ihahalo kita sa semento’t ipoporma, tapos dudurugin kita.  Makabawi man lang ako sa ‘yo.” “Eh di, double-dead na ‘ko nun,” ‘ika ko.  “Ah, bahala ka.  Kung anu-anong kalokohan pumapasok sa ulo mo.  Sige, subukan mo.  Walang multo-multo sa ‘kin,” dagdag pa ni Jayz.

Ganito kasi yun…  Nabanggit ko kay Jayz na sinabihan ko ang mga pinsan ko dito sa Vancouver na i-cremate ako kung sakaling madedbol ako dito.  Tapos dadalawin ko na lang sya.  Hindi ko ibig sabihin na magbibigti ako, noh!  Hindi naman ganun kagrabe ang sira ng tuktok ko, ha.  Bago ko kasi sinabi yun kay Jayz, eh, super-emote na naman ang byuti ko’t umaatungal sa telepono na parang baka.  Kahit nasa Manila si Jayz, basag sigurado ang eardrum nun kung palagi na lang galit ko sa mundo ang maririnig nya.  Pero hindi naman ako tinutopak palagi, eh.  ‘Pag ‘di ko na lang ma-take ang bigat ng loob ko’t walang ibang nilalalang na gusto kong makausap, si Jayz palagi ang nasa kabilang linya ng telepono.  Ambait talaga ng Abest ko.  Sana ‘di pa sya kunin ni Lord… mauna sana ako sa kanya.  ;-D

Heto namang si Mr. B, “Oh, ano?  Kumusta na, abu?”   Sagot ko, “Magaling na ubo ko pero paminsan-minsan tinutopak pa rin ako.”  Sukat ba namang tumawa at sabihing, “Yung ubo mo, mawawala talaga.  Pero yang topak mo, ‘di na mawawala.  Forever na ‘yan.”   Aray ko!  Isa pa ‘tong brutal kung magsalita sa ‘kin.  Pero nungka, dalawa lang sila sa prozac ko.  Kung hindi  available o accessible yung iba ko pang “gamot” sa topak, bukas palagi ang linya ng telepono nila.  Hayan, ‘di ko na kailangan ang psychiatrist, prozac, o electric shock para mabalanse ang brain chemicals ko’t  lumiwanag ang madilim kong mundo. Hindi talaga kaya ng bulsa ko ang psychotherapist kaya yan pinagtityagaan ko na lang pang-aalaska ng mga best buddies ko.  Andyan kang sabihan ako ng, “You’re special“, sabay hagalpak ng tawa… kasi ibig sabihin nun special needs individual aketch. Hindi naman. Depressed lang.  At ganun lang naman ang therapy that my best buddies can offer.  Libre pa!  Hindi pala… may call charges syempre pero ‘ala kwenta yung katiting na gastos kung ang kapalit ay peace of mind ng mas essential na nilalang.

Ikaw po?  Inaatake rin ba ng topak?  Call mo ‘ko.  ‘Di ko man maayos yan, o baka mapalala ko pa katupakan mo, at least malaman mo na di ka nag-iisa sa mundo.  Marami tayo.  Okay lang na pag-usapan yan, hwag ka ng mahiya kung may depression ka.  Hindi tayo hopeless case.  Kailangan lang ng mga solidong nilalang na masasandalan sa oras na gustung-gusto mo ng bumigay at bumitaw sa laban.  Kung ayaw mo akong kausap, ibibigay ko sa ‘yo numero ng mga brutal kong “psychotherapist“.  Kung hindi man, humila ka na lang ng kung sino mang malapit sa ‘yo at yapusin mo ’sya.  Kulang ka lang sa hug… hindi yan maibibigay ng psychiatrist at antidepressants.  Iniisip ko nga tumayo sa paanan ng escalator sa Worldwide House at i-hug lahat ng aakyat.  Kapag napagod ka, lipat ka sa kabilang side… i-hug mo lahat ng bababa.  Powerful ang hug, ano ka ba!  Hwag ka na mahiya.  Hayaan mo, i-hug kita ng mahigpit pagdalaw ko ng Hong Kong.  Dalaw — as in bisita, taong-tao, hindi pa po multo. 

*Published in TF Newsmag (June 2009 issue)

When filling up other people’s empty spaces in their life becomes your way of life, you get used to being shelved, being put aside when their life’s too full of other things to fit you in.  You are immune to new or old pangs… or so you thought.

Do you ever get tired of being a spare tire? It’ll probably depend on how empty and full your life feels at the moment.  Too empty to quit?  Or too full to even care?

Now who’s treating who as a spare tire?  Don’t we all need one? Heck, you just can’t trust anyone nor anything anymore.  Not even your thoughts.

How safe are your thoughts when you entrusted them with a soul?  No guarantee.  Nothing’s safe.  You just take the leap of faith.  You jump off the bridge, you don’t expect to land on your feet.  You open your heart, you don’t expect it all the time to be in one piece.

You shelve your thoughts until there’s an empty space…

“You’re an artist you know what I mean…” I’ve heard the line on different occasions in the recent months past, from a couple of my literary band of loonies, er, full-of-wonder-and-woe earthlings, whom I’ve been brainstorming with.  From having my correspondent let me dissect his mind to having one probe my psyche.  An artist going through artist’s angst.  You just can’t shake that feeling off on a whim.  It comes with the territory.  Finding someone on the same wavelength is a blast.  Or a bust.  It’s just uncanny when you hear the very same words you have in your head spoken by another soul.  You sometimes get goose bumps.  You see your own reflection on someone else’s story.  Your doubts and fears uttered by someone going through the same hell you are in.  Maia, a fellow blogger’s blogpost, “Inhale, Exhale…” prompted me to write this post.

So everyone seems afflicted. Another friend, Migz, who’s in the middle of writing his novel, should realize he’s not alone in the battle — the attack of self-doubt — when the muse decides to take a holiday, leaving us bone dry of literary juices.  It is at moments like this that we should have something else to fall back on to save our sanity.  Maia turns to books.  I turn to my photography.  I bet the author friend turns to his drawings.  To each his own.  Anything to replenish stale ideas and awaken the gloomy slumber of stagnant word pool.  Or simply do nothing at all.  Procrastinate.  Wallow in self-pity.

We rave and rant, and rack our brain… nothing comes.  The muse abandoned us completely.  Doubt slowly creeps in.  “Am I good?  Can I really write?  Would anyone read my blog?  Do I have what it takes to write a book?  Am I making sense?  Will the readers think I’m crazy, stupid, trying-hard-no-good scribe?…” Endless self-doubt. You’d soon be hanging in the abyss of utter despair and isolation should you continue to tread on this avenue of thought.

When the writing bug finally comes, we seize the moment.  We tap the keyboard profusely and write like crazy. Sometimes, loneliness propels us to write deep and profound.  Making us delve deeper into our consciousness which could drain the life out of us, leaving us physically enervated and emotionally exhausted.  It’s a lonely task.  Your memory bank immensely feed you with unsavory details of the painful past, heightening your present doubts… and gradually easing it away as you lose yourself in your work, let your mind freely wander and you become completely uninhibited, unfazed at what people who read your uncensored thoughts would think about you.  A revelation.  A healing process.  Writing to me is.

You don’t gauge the magnitude of your readership by the number of comments you get on your blogposts, dear one.  There are much more than one earthling reading you but they just choose not to leave their e-prints behind.  Sometimes you’ll know you’ve touched some souls from the personal messages you get referring to your posts. People from the past catch up with you.  New ones start connecting with you. But this isn’t all about who “hears” you.  You write for yourself.  It’s your prozac.

Mr B said more than once, “It’s in you.  Nobody can take it away from you.  It goes wherever you go…”  That’s whenever I think I lost my writing voice — which is often. You grope for words in the dark but find only stale, cold air.  It sends you chills thinking your rope to sanity is absolutely severed.

Don’t fret.  It’s just a moment, it’s soon gone — the writer’s block, doubts, and temporary insanity.  The wandering muse is certain to be around again. Oh, you’re an artist.  You know what I mean!

Casual conversations have a way of sending you back to best-forgotten past, careening off the sanity road.  Ugly feelings you’ve decided to bury so deeply would resurface like a cork in the ocean.  With even an innocent word spoken kindly by a dear soul, if it’s the perfect keyword to hit a raw nerve, you’re a dead meat… the haunting has returned.

When you choose an optimistic disposition, choose to strive for joy despite the recurrent bouts of depression, you sometimes run out of resolve.  Everything you’ve worked so hard for just crumble… and you watch ‘em break into smithereens.  Old feelings of hurt and resentment form in a split second.  If anyone ask you to snap out of it, you could break a face.  It’s totally out of control.  It’s way out of your hands or anybody else’s.  Let it be.  As fast as it comes, it’s certain to go away.  And be back again, when something triggers the darn black cord.  You simply live with it.

A buddy once said that insight is one thing, living it is another.  You write positive things to rise above the negative pull of energy.  You get through the tough times by believing of better things to come.  You write the hope and joy you desperately want to believe in. It’s your prozac.  It works sometimes.  Other times, it does not… like a placebo pill having no effect on some individuals.  You just keep looking for ways that works.  You keep seeking for the magic pill — your prozac.  When you find what pill works for you, you could get immuned to it and it could lose its effect at some point.  When that happens, you get off it for a while.  You get back on it again… and the magic still works.  For however long it will, you couldn’t tell.  Just keep on it.

Hangin’ tough is just enervating.  It’s not pretending when you act strong.  You’re just willing your soul to be strong.  When you get exhausted you just allow yourself to break down, go weak and limp.  You let the blackness flow through your being.  You bawl.  You scream.  You face your demons and let the anger resurface before it’ll completely eat you up inside.  You let the poison flow through and spit it out.  You write about how f*&%^$ up and feeling shitty you are.  You welcome the anger and not feel guilty for feeling it.  You admit to yourself that life simply sucks at this moment.  You’re tired of it.

You’re a work in progress.  You’re healing your soul.  You are your own prozac.

When my brother Abe first revealed to me how he truly longs for our mom, I was surprised.  After all the years of seeming indifferent about her absence, my brother’s finally shown his most sensitive core — his need for Mom.  Only then did I realize I wasn’t alone feeling a big hole in my heart since Mom left 29 years back.  Now in our adult world, we still haven’t shaken up the need for our mother.  We’ll never outgrow that need but gone is that big-hole-in-the-heart feeling since we’ve finally reconnected and re-established the ties.  With Mom’s homecoming last March, a huge lot of healing had taken place.  We’re like big kids just wanting to be reassured we’re still loved by our mother.  My eldest brother in Korea and I may not have been a part of the recent re-union but we’re very much there.  Aaah, the power of new technology!  We chatted with Mom online while we see her on the web-cam munching on “suman” (making us salivate), having the time of her life, giggling, and laughing her heart out.  She’s never sounded as perky and energetic, whenever I talked with her on the phone in Los Angeles, as when she’s back home in the Philippines.  The joy, the peace, the love I feel is just beyond words.  I feel fulfilled and accomplished seeing Mom happily home for even just a short while.  Now, Mom’s talking about next year’s re-union.  Cool, she’s going to pay for my air ticket this time!  I just can’t wait.

Sons rarely talk about their deepest longing to be with their mothers but when they do, it surely clutches the heart.  There’s always a big lump in my throat whenever my son Jus sends me a text message saying how much he misses me.  I listen in awe and admiration as the man closest to my heart speaks so fondly of and expresses his need for his mother.  I laughed my heart out when my 42-year old cousin Ariel, in bed with the flu, was moaning in discomfort and calling out, “Mamang… hu, hu, hu… mamang,” for his mother.  My brother’s recollection of how Mom wraps her dress around our pillows, whenever she’s away when we were kids, brought tears to my eyes.  These are the men every mother would be very proud to have.  Men who are unafraid to show their soft side, shouting to the world their need and love for their mothers… the most caring men I know of.

Expressed and unexpressed, from the times of incesssant talk of longing to be with her to a period of utter silence on my part, Mom hears me.  Sometimes we need no words to communicate our feelings, we need not say sorry to be forgiven, our mother simply knows what’s inside of us.  It’s this security in Mom’s love that makes me feel secure in my current relationships.  I no longer have to always doubt myself.  I bear no worries in wearing my heart on my sleeves, being transparent in my wants and needs and believing that whatever comes from all these I lose nothing and gain only the joy of the experience despite the silly pain that goes with it.  I can always run to Mommy for a hug… in my mind’s eye…

Skylarking’s one of my cousinbears’ pastime.  So I decided to humor my early morning caller by answering her call.  If calling my mobile phone when I’m having coffee in the dining room while she’s in her room at the end of the hallway is one of cousin’s wifey’s pranks, am in for the ride.  I go, “Ja — loo?”  Ate Vangie squeaked, “Happy mothers’ day!  Itimpla-annak kape ngaruden!”   Oh, so sweet Ate of mine!  Still on the phone with me, she came out from the room and we had mothers’ day morning coffee. ;-)  I did pour hot water on her cup, she did the rest, heh, heh!  Before that, I was bombarded by mothers’ day greetings from other corners of the world in my mobile phone, headed by my young man, Jus.  On board the cab to work, “Happy mothers’ day, baby,” screamed the LCD screen… from the awesome man closest to my heart.

Mid-day, at work, a single huge red rose, a dark chocolate bar with a large card, a big bear hug, and a couple of warm kisses on both cheeks were lovingly delivered by a huge-tummied-due-anytime-now, trail-walk-buddy-Mommy-friend of mine — Prez.  ;-D

Before the day ended, I got the most wanted toy on the list in my arms — Nikon P90 bridge camera. Guess who the present is from… none other than me, of course!  ;-D  I spoiled myself crazy this day, so what?!  I’ve been drooling over a new cam with a very powerful lens.  I’m a Canon-crazed earthling but the Canon SX10 IS I’ve been eye-ing for quite a while is already out-of-stock by the time am ready to purchase it.  Nevertheless, I found a way better model, albeit a different brand.  Nikon’s second best on my list before I found this P90-baby-of-mine.  There are 2 other Sony models being pushed under my nose and so highly presented by the sales staff but I got my mind set on either Canon or Nikon… am blind to other brands no matter how great and promising their features may sound, sorry.

To equate it with life, purchasing a camera is like taking a partner… You can be lusting after someone for a certain period of time but realized in the end that you don’t really want him after all.  He could’ve left or could still be very much around but you no longer have that passion burning inside of you for the once-object of your desire and affection.  The flame died a natural death… just as it did with my obsession to Canon SX10 IS with 20x powerful lens.  It’s gone by the time I was ready to purchase it.  In its place was a high-end Nikon digital bridge camera with a superzoom lens of 24x. Though it costs a little bit more than the Canon, it’s way, way better.

Fate takes something… or someone… away from us to give way to much better, more awesome, way more beautiful things… or beings… of so much substance.  Then you got the new apple of your eye.  Your focus is solely on him.  Whoever other creatures present himself at your door, you look past ‘em because you have your eyes… and heart… set only for one wonderful being.

It’s all worth the wait… Rushing gets you nowhere…

p.s.  one-buck-a-day’s got a pay-off, maia.