I AM MY OWN HEALER
April 16, 2005
I can feel my heart in my throat. Tears raring to flow. Chest about to explode. Heart is tightly squeezed. This pain! I’m in it again!
April 23, 2005
This damn pain again! I’m choking on the lump in my throat. I want to bawl, howl, and scream! I’m so darn angry about my whole damned life. My anger is poisoning me. The tightness in my chest. My heart is bloody bleeding. I want to sleep in peace. I’m so damn tired.
I’m so sleepy now…
May 23, 2005
Life stinks! Everything’s bullshit…
June 14, 2005
Why can’t I write anymore?
Sometime ago, I was in the middle of a book on an in-depth analysis of a suicide victim’s diary. The journal entries in the case study sounded so much like mine. It was like gazing into a mirror, it gave me the creeps. I hoped I wouldn’t end up as statistics, too. The purpose of my bibliotherapy was to prevent that from happening and to make me understand why I am the way I am. The books do give some answers, tracing the root of my mental, emotional and psychological state; but no solution is given. It made me remember but it didn’t stop the pain that came with those dark thoughts. I kept sinking back in to the lowest depths. I knew I badly needed help. The closest help I could get was within myself. Only me can save me. I became my own healer. In my utmost desire to find myself, I turned to books. Books that show me to look inside of me. I’ve read some only to see myself staring back at me. That had been scary. Most books had served as source of inspiration. Franz Kafka had whispered to me that “a book must be an ice-ax to break the seas frozen in our souls”. Such is the book where I lifted “A Warrior’s Prayer” from. A beautiful creed whose writer is yet unknown to me but whom I’d be forever grateful to.
I prefer the company of books over individuals I barely knew. In Hong Kong I spent most of my days-off in Hong Kong Central Library — my refuge in Causeway Bay for five years. If I wasn’t reading there, I’d be having literary feasts in my boarding house… still on books borrowed from the library. On days I’d be fetching my wards from school, I’d choose to read in the car to wait rather than engage in group conversations in the school’s waiting area. A “hi!”, smile and a friendly nod were just the pleasantries I could give to friendly-looking people. I’ve been labeled a snob, unpinoy, antiDH, aristocrat, royal blood… those obviously from people who don’t know me. And the heck did I care, I know me, my friends know the real me. I wasn’t any of those labels.
I can’t help it when I’m socially-inhibited. Part of me is the little girl lurking in the shadows, wanting to be forever invisible. If you seem intimidating and not reach out a hand first, I’ll remain in the shadows. If you extend your hand, I’ll reach out to you. When you pushed the right button, you’ll soon discover my lack of inhibitions… I’m not ashamed to say I’m cute; I goof off, make you laugh till you fart; I’ll compose a song for you, and sing off-key that is sure to entertain you — you’ll pee on your pants, begging me to stop (I’m tone deaf, you see); when you hear my version of the birthday song you wish never to hear anyone sing that song again… after I sing it to you the whole day, every day (my coworker of five years had been a victim); and boy, do I dance! A crazy dance. I’m a joy, a pain in the ass, and you’ll be happy I am both. With books for company? No, I’m not dull and boring at all. If anything, it makes me want to live my life and be livelier.
My social life sucks but given the choice between the company of a good book and an individual with a bad mouth, I’d definitely stick with the book. That way, I’d be nourishing my soul.
Along bibliotherapy, journal therapy keep me sane. I had come a long way since those raging and suicidal journal entries. I made a lot of self-discoveries since then. I no longer wish I’m dead but thankful I made it this far. I no longer write shitty stuff about life but of the light and torch bearers in my life. Now I believe what my tita Remy often say that “life is beautiful”; and though it’s not at all beautiful most of the time, I’m unafraid and brazen enough to say “I am Beauty all the time”. I stopped writing in my journal several months ago. I no longer write for my eyes only, though I always write for me, I joined the literary world. I now write for the whole world to see. My beating heart lay naked and exposed to your very eyes. I write as far as my courage allows me to. I had stepped out of the shadows. ‘Tis a giant leap of a peaceful warrior from a savage fighter.
*published in eFootprints Magazine November ‘07 issue
January 19th, 2008 at 1:08 am
Beautiful Joy!
Wow!! This is an intimate look into you, but, I’ve seen a lot of myself in your experience. Maybe that is why I became a librarian- books can be great friends. But, you’ve managed to maintain a balance.
Love you always, your friend,
Lydia