Nevergirl's

My heart is raw, raw, raw. I just spent the last two days crying. But this is how I know I will be fine: today, I woke up hungry.

The day you remember you have a tummy is the day you will be okay.

You can quote me on this one, yessir, you may, and you can even take that to the bank and back (and have engraved it on personalized note cards)!

Some days, I want to fail, break down, get lost, need help, not know what to do, what to do here, what to do next. I want to be numb, and dumb, and weak, and vengeful, and selfish, and helpless, and unforgiving; or go to seed, or come to ruin so you will see what you haven’t seen since I was nine: I do not always know where to go, what to do, when to stay, what to say, how to sit to a breakfast of sadness and chew, chew as if I were eating a meal that fills (because heaven help me I try, I try but I am not always so stoic).

You’re still the only boy who makes me cry, the only boy who can make me leak tears like a busted kitchen faucet.

Happy 51st birthday soon, first and sharpest heartbreak.

I Skyped with my sisters from 7pm to midnight this week. Strangely enough, our conversation left me feeling sadder and lonelier. It doesn’t help any that I’m as sick as can be, and feeling glum, glum, glum. It’s when I’m sick that I get the most homesick.

I miss my sisters. I miss talking to them. I miss taking them to the mall, for a little shopping trip or two or just to get our nails done.

Back when getting a pampering was fun (because I didn't have to do it alone)

Living so far away from family feels a lot like juggling frogs (or for that matter, having to choose from a hundred quick weight loss pills). It’s tough, tough, tough. When I lived in Davao for two years, I cried myself to sleep every night, for almost a year. I don’t do that now, but that doesn’t mean I miss my sisters any less. Some days, I spend mornings rifing through old photos and wishing growing up didn’t have to mean living apart. The man and the girls make fun of me whenever they catch me. Naturally, I feel daft as a brush afterwards. I know my sisters and I can’t live with each other forever; that’s just not how it’s done. Sometimes, though, I wish we can.

I need to stop being so darned frail and sickly. I go through enough medicines to supply a small barrio. In my 28 years, I cannot remember a year that I didn’t spend sick.  I remember spending one New Year’s Eve and three Christmases in a hospital. My aunt tells me I almost died as a baby. This is why I light candles and dance before the Sto. Nino every year. My mother, daughter of a small town and believer of powers unseen and unheard, made a desperate vow to keep her firstborn alive, despite a weak lung and a weak heart: a dance for a life.

I kept the promise for 18 years. Mama made sure of it for the first 9; and after she died, Lola kept me at it for 9 years more. By the time I was 19, however, I realized God doesn’t really want me dancing before him like that because he can see what my mama and lola refuse to: I cannot dance to save my life. In fact, I alienate His faithful one day a year in Opon by dancing. They either go home convinced of the perversity of the religion or scarred for life because really, Achinette dancing is a scary, scary sight. Pray you never see it in this lifetime.

Fast forward to 2010. Things are as they have always been. I am a walking cocktail of medications. I am allergic to anything and everything one can be allergic to. My nose bleeds if I get too much heat or sun. At one point, my nose swelled so bad from allergies I had to spray steroids up my nose for two weeks! The culprit? Pollen. I’m also allergic to dust, cats, dogs, perfume, cigarette smoke, vehicle emission, seafood, heat, latex, eggs, dried fish, and many other things betwixt and between. Did I mention I’m allergic to Safeguard? Apparently, my immune system grew pretensions while I wasn’t looking. I hope it doesn’t grow allergies to Dove at some point. I’m cheap; I grew up using Safeguard. I cannot imagine using any soap that’s pricier than Dove.

I’m grousing about my immune system in the hospital. Yep, I’m in one right now, and I hate it more than I hate reading up on rv insurance. I loathe  hospitals. They’re just like airports, only sadder. People are always coming and going, but for sadder reasons. When I was 10, I spent three to four weeks in a hospital, give or take. I came down with a horrific case of German measles, developed broncho-pneumonia as a secondary infection, was diagnosed with severe malnutrition not long after, and almost went blind. It was the longest four weeks of my life. I spent most of it in darkness. My aunts Hazel and Babie took turns reading books out loud to me. I remember one story best of all: Maddie’s Song. Even at 10 years old, I knew Maddie’s is a sorrier life than my own—and it was that which kept me from feeling sorry for myself.

I’m dangerously close to feeling sorry for myself right now.

Ah Maddie, I need reminding just how bad you had it.