Leaving A Trail

101.  Life

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1.   Life

;-)  happy joy’s day! 

I found an alternative to the inflatable punching bag which I was advised to purchase… run the distance of a soccer field — 9 rounds.  My knees were buckling, I was panting like crazy I almost gave up on the first round. What I did was to alternate running and power walking.  Run on the first round, walk on the second round.  Run on the third round, walk the fourth, and so on… until I got on the 9th round 25 minutes later.  Then I made a beeline for Tim Horton’s for an iced cappuccino.  From the shop’s doorstep was a highly recommended 7-minute exercise for balance — a walk with an extra-large cup of iced coffee in one hand, a box of dozen Boston-creme doughnuts balanced on the other — all the way to the apartment.  No, I didn’t have the doughnut for breakfast.  I had a small piece of buttered French bread (freshly baked by cousin-Ariel-bear) with the coffee instead.  It’s only much later that I had a couple of Boston creme for snack.  ;-D

I was forced to run.  I had been putting it off for two weeks until my cousin’s wife, Ate Vanz, got fed up with my talks-of-walk-but-not-walking-the-talk so she dared me…  I didn’t want to part with my $20 so I had to get up at 6 a.m. to walk-the-talk so off to the soccer field I went. The side-trip to Tim Horton’s was a sweet treat which only cost me less than $10.

The run is an effort to stay in shape — mentally.  The physical benefit’s just secondary, a bonus, for me.  I have been strongly advised by my doctor bestfriend, Rebz, to steer clear of drugs so am taking an alternative therapy.  I was supposed to run again the next morning before heading off to work but my thigh and leg muscles are still sore from the previous day’s work-out.  So a walk has to do for now.  Running two days a week is not bad… especially when Tim’s Boston creme and iced cappuccino are just waiting around the corner.  ;-D

The comfort, the peace and quiet that solitude brings is priceless.  A bliss!  I wish I find this very rare moment of solitude more often.  The time to stop, take stock, and quit resisting change.

Just as we allow emotions to roll through us, we come to terms with the fact that people pass through our lives — like “passing ships in the ocean” (as my dear friend the ‘crazy crow’ once put it).  People come, people go. We let it happen.  We allow the transitions.  It’s when we put up a fight and resist the flux that we suffer.  So we welcome change.  That’s how we turn into well-orbed earthlings, I guess. 

Sometimes new circumstances make it impossible for old situations to continue.  However comfortable we’ve been in the old (joyful or joyless) ways, getting out of that comfort zone is the only sane choice… unless you want a stunted growth.  Even if it means bloody crawling your way out of “it”, out is the best way to go. Jobs, loved ones, relationships — all must go through fundamental changes.  It’s hard.  It’s inevitable.  But it’s definitely possible and achievable. And you’re the sole soul who’s best to do the job.  Alone.  No one else is ever going to do it for you.  No other soul to live your life for you.

You can do it.

A moment of solitude is just what you need to start things right. Your self is your best company for now. Cherish the moment.  Drink in the glory of it.

Savor.  The.  Sweetness.

If you could only stare intently at this earthling’s mug, you could decipher the code written all over her face…

a b c d e f g hij k l m no p q r s t u v w x y z a b c d e f g h i j kl m n o p q r s t u v w x y z a b c d e f g h i j k l m o p q r s t u v w x y z .  .  .

A year.  On tagged.  A soul.  Tugged heart…

Blue funk.  The high on being low.  “IT” is my joy.  Rehab.  Leap of Faith.  Reminders: At a crossroads; Choices.  Beyond Words.  Fading Memory.  What’s with the baby?

Shelved thoughts???

Losing two people in less than a week, whom I deeply care about, is more than too much to cope with.  One just faded away, the other one almost “expired” (but Fate decided it isn’t his “expiration date” yet ;-)).

I have the tendency to drop all contact when I’m in a black mood.  Zoning out is an automatic response when negative emotions overwhelm me.  I totally clam up and shut down.  Only quite a few can actually penetrate my wall.  Oftentimes there’s nobody I want in at all.  My personal space sealed off from any outside interferences.  I’d be totally sapped out of energy to talk.  It’s a horrible black hole which I intend not to drag another soul into.  I simply want to be left alone, undisturbed.  It is at moments like this that I consider not the feelings of the people close to me but only my own.  I’m self-absorbed.  Moments would pass and I’d realize I wounded others by my utter silence…

Being now on the receiving end of the black episode by a loved one makes me entirely realize the full extent of the effect isolating one’s self creates.  It could damage relationships.  It is confusing and hurts like hell when a buddy just pulls away.  You’re left wondering what you’ve done terribly wrong.  It cuts.  You get mad and strike back — cut the ties, dissociate yourself, or worse, you lash out.  It is only when you take the risk to reach out, make an effort to find out why the buddy-who-just-faded-away acted the way he did, will understanding and peace come.  It will then be easier to give that certain someone the personal space he desperately needs… the personal space you too often desperately need.  You’ve worn a similar shoe after all.

Taking one’s own life, kicking your dear one’s butt (before he has the chance to kick yours or you simply want to be left alone with your dark thoughts) aren’t too good options.  It’s often our loved ones who profoundly suffer when we become unpredictable and just pull away.  I didn’t lose my buddies, anyway.  Keeping a safe distance from anyone is what everyone of us consider but when we make it clearly known what our intentions and needs are, we don’t have to suffer long and deep.

This is all part of being alive.  Emotions are meant to roll through us.  Experience it.  We’d come through…

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!