As I write this piece, the Philippines is nearing 400,000 coronavirus cases, and as of publishing this, case numbers have surpassed the 410,000-mark. Behind such a big figure is people, though, and they don't deserve to be treated as just a statistic. That's 410,000 people— 400,000 strangers, but they are someone's beloved— a father, a mother, a brother, a sister, a husband, a wife, a lover, a friend— all at the mercy of such a deadly illness that won't be leaving this country any time soon.
The fact that I can even write about this so loosely just shows the extent of my privilege. This disease hasn't touched me in any way at all because my family and I have all the means to protect ourselves from it, but I'm well aware of the dangers it entails and I am bothered by the fact that so little is being done to prevent any further spread of it. All I do now is raise awareness and hold people accountable, telling them of their irresponsibility and how not wearing a mask or practising the right social distancing can have severe implications for even just a small mountain town.
I hear about this disease every day at work and think, oh, just look at how one act of carelessness threw the whole world into disarray. But then again, I'm probably no different since I've thrown our whole ministry into disarray simply because I'm running away from my responsibilities. (Half of the time lol.) But that's a story for another blog post. Funny how I can’t be left alone with my head even for a bit because I tend to think about things way too much.
And as I write this part, I lament the co-workers I've lost along the way in my happy working life (I'm snorting lol), but they remain friends, of course. Our office just finished its second wave of lay-offs and I was teetering between wanting to be sacked and wanting to stay— simply because I don't want to be bothered with the process of looking for new work while the job market is so troubled and unsteady. Our team lives to see another morning, but we don't want to be complacent. I told one of my friends how it's still way better to work at a job I don't have any particularly strong feelings for rather than being a drifter of sorts.
It's a bitter cup of tea I've learned to live with, but I can't help but keep on adding honey just to convince myself that it tastes just fine.
It's been two years since I started working and I'm about to celebrate my first year as part of a different team. A lot of people know I started working fairly late in my life since I went to college twice and never got any work experience in between. I graduated from my design course back in 2012 and never really got into design even though I wanted to.
My time in art school isn't really something I like looking back at, but don't get me wrong, though. It was fun for the most part and I learned a lot about design that I sadly can't apply to my current job, but it did serve an entirely different purpose. I worked pro-bono on church designs and I may never get to do so again because the only person who ever commissioned me to make something out of what I know is in a better place now.
Art is probably my greatest heartache ever because it's something I never got better in even if I tried. Not that I ever even tried, but I was really convinced that I'd never get better at it. After all, the two art teachers who were absolute polar opposites had the same opinion about the art I made and if that wasn't enough to convince me, then I don't know what else would.
But it's probably my younger self's fault for being persuaded by mere words rather than listening to my own feelings. So I gave up. I gave up drawing and gave up trying to get better because I was convinced that my "art style" would never make an impact in this world. I was convinced that it wasn't even art, to begin with. There were days I used to slave over portraits with stories behind them, characters I breathed life to in the screen with every stroke of the pen I made on my tablet. I would stop for a moment and think that maybe I'll get better in time, but I never did get better. But nah.
These four girls are characters from one of my stories ("An Aria of Constellations") and they form part of a "family" (as in mafia family, but run by younger people). Selene serves as Angelica's right-hand (wo)man, while Gabrielle and Danielle serve as enforcers of sorts. They also have powers (!!!). Part of me just wants to cringe because just look at those proportions. However, this remains one of my most favourite pieces of all time, even though I did a lot of tracing.
One day, I just stopped drawing. Sometimes I wish I never did, and it hurts me whenever I pick up a pen and paper and start scribbling, only to find that my art remained suspended in time even as the world kept moving around me. Dear God, if only I knew back then that I was committing emotional suicide, then maybe I would've kept on drawing even just for myself. Would it have made a difference? Would I get better? Maybe not, but at least I was happy. Happier than today? Most definitely.
I hate how coffee makes my blood boil, like literally.
I can feel the heat coursing through my whole system, making me feel like I'm about to burst at the seams. There's nothing I hate more than being so completely self-aware and self-conscious of my own pulse.
I hate how I'm so aware that I'm alive and I have so many unfinished dreams I want and have yet to take flight in.
This is why I'm not a coffee person. I hate how awake I am.
I think pets are so much easier to remember than people.
After all, they spend most of their lives giving you joy. You see people and sometimes you remember how they hurt you more than how happy they made you— it's only natural, really. You can talk shit about a dead person, but you can't do that to a pet whose only purpose in their short life was to love you— unconditionally, to add.
There were nights when I'd come home completely tired after work and no one else was awake but Jepoy. He'd come and sit with me on our kitchen floor as I down a glass of chocolate milk and count every mistake I've made in my life ever since I started working. I'd wallow in self-pity and the love of a single dog who awoke to the sound of my keys clinking against the doorknob. I'm pretty sure he had no idea why the hell I was sad, but his presence helped a lot.
Pets don't judge. And I don't hear an earful from them whenever I come home drunk as a bat.
I believe in endless dog treats at the end of the Rainbow Bridge. And a pack of dogs waiting for me on the steps of the Pearly Gates. I just gotta make sure I'm heading to that place.
After my last break-up, there was this one time my father asked me if I still knew how to drive. I was on my way to the mall to grab a few things for myself real quick and I never gave that question much thought since I told him that driving should be muscle memory for me by now. It was true, though, since I still knew how to drive after months of isolation. Later that day, the kind lady guard at the mall asked me how old I was since she probably thought I was still a minor, which isn't new to me at all. I haven't been out for months back then and I had a pretty good laugh at that and my first instinct was to call my boyfriend back then to tell him about it. Only... I didn't have a boyfriend anymore. That again is muscle memory in action. I was so used to having someone to talk about all the cute, crazy and random shit that happens in my life that it became a force of habit for me. And for the first time in such a long time, all I had to talk about that funny incident was myself.
I've been in a relationship for the last 10 years of my life. Yes, it's hard to believe that I wasn't really my own person for the last decade and I have my 17-year-old self to blame and thank for that. I've been through many break-ups and heartaches, each one a unique story to me and each one a lesson learned. Pardon me for asking myself, but are we not yet done writing about love? Ah, but I'm mistaken. It's love that isn't done with me.
I write about love so soothingly and tenderly because that's how it treated me, despite all the heartbreak. In all of my relationships, I was never treated unkindly, so why would I think at all that love just isn't for me? All of my loves were probably victims of wrong timing and indecisiveness. But even so, I committed myself to every relationship I had because that's just part of who I am. Hook-ups? Mutual understanding? I can't do all of that because it's just not me. I don't fear commitment because that's one thing I can offer in exchange for security. Whatever relationship I get into, I always make it a point to say I'm in it for the long run, especially now that I'm nearing 30.
I gave the online dating world a try as well. Is this how love in the time of COVID-19 works? It's probably not working well enough for me since I don't have the right mindset for it, or maybe the timing's just awful. But it's way too early to be writing this especially since I haven't made a single match on Bumble or Facebook Dating. (I actually did make a match!... But I suddenly went off the radar because I'm suddenly not so sure about the whole thing?!) I thought I would have a crack at meeting someone online after weeks of consideration and since no one really cares about the three-month rule anymore. (Just kidding. I care about the three-month rule because I'm an old-fashioned little shit.)
I think I'll never get used to the whole getting to know a person through the internet kind of thing. I've only dated guys whom I already knew back then (an underclassman, a batchmate, a classmate, a guy from ministry) because I believe nothing beats real, face-to-face conversations. You can easily tell what kind of person someone is by their manner of talking to you and how they act around you.
However, I believe it's that mindset that made me realise that I may be limiting myself from all the other roads I have yet to take.
Love can be so many things— a choice, a feeling, an emotion— but it's also a risk. You lay yourself bare to another person and hold your breath while thinking of all the possible outcomes and different ways your relationship could go.
It's either you take a leap of faith, jump off and brave the fall.
Or you leave yourself standing on the cliff, forever wondering and imagining how the wind feels blowing over your face.
I've risked so much this last decade and I'm far from stopping. What's another gamble in this short life, after all? Now, I'm setting higher standards for myself because I don't want to settle for anything less ever again. I don't want guys with emotional baggage and insecurities they have yet to deal with. It's not my job to make them feel like a man. I don't want those manipulative soft bois because I've been tricked by that act way too many times now and shame on myself if that happens again.
While I know I've been a loving girlfriend to all of my exes, that doesn't excuse all the shitty things I've done, and all of that I've learned lessons from, which is only right. So will I still be writing about love? Of course. My hopeless romantic ass won't have a life without love.
But right now, I simply want to love myself. Silly as it may sound, I've come to realise that I can only ever fully love someone else once I finally and completely love— and forgive— myself. (I'm still having a bit of a hard time with the forgiving part, though.)
Same, Dorothea. Same.
I have a simple message for my 17-year-old self, who rushed into relationship after relationship without a second thought— While I wish you knew then what I know right now, you're gonna have to learn from whatever it is you get yourself into. Take all of it in your stride and accept the fact that maybe you did rush in too quickly, even before realising and understanding what it is you really wanted out of those relationships. Accept the fact that you will hurt people because of your own indecisiveness and never do it again. Accept the fact that you were already enough but you had to shrink yourself even further and never let them kill your essence ever again. And listen to your father, for goodness' fucking sake, I cannot exaggerate this any more than that.
And for me now, I hope that your next love will be the last and the greatest one of them all— and that they're able to give as much as you do. Never settle for anything less than what you deserve. (It's not your job to fix them.) Keep your head up and love yourself more now so that the next time love finds you, you'll be ready to give it your all once again.
I know that love will always come into my life, and I know that well enough because I'm simply made for it— loving. I still believe in it even after so many failed relationships (yes, not just my own), and I know well enough that I can devote and commit myself to one person again and again and again because that's just how I love.
I feel like this should have been a separate blog post just because it's all about love and my hopeless romantic ass. I actually have a number of cute posts lined up and I hope you stick around for them.
I recently made a blog Instagram page which you can follow here. For those who have been here with me since I started this whole thing, you know by now that I'm not totally new to the blogging community, but I guess I am in a way as well. To quote from my personal account, I've been writing about my life and the things I love since 2013 but only decided to put it out here now because I actually want people to see and read what I have to say about whatever's happening in my adulthood journey— and the pretty, amusing and heartbreaking things I encounter along the way. 🌙 I've never been out with any blogger friends, let alone be a part of a group, so I'm hoping to make a few friends along the way as well.
You're welcome to message me there if you want me to write about something, which I may or may not comply with depending on my backlog— or if my muse strikes or decides to ghost me.
I bid you a good night for now. Isn't it nice to let out a sigh of relief every once in a while?
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