helloaymawkward

[helloaymawkward]

“I learned not to trust people; I learned not to believe what they say but to watch what they do. I learned to suspect that everyone is capable of living a lie. I came to believe that other people - even when you think you know them well - are ultimately unknowable.”

— Lynn Barber

[helloaymawkward]

“The years between eighteen and twenty-eight are the hardest, psychologically. It’s then you realize this is make or break, you no longer have the excuse of youth, and it is time to become an adult.”

— Helen Mirren

[helloaymawkward]

“You can never really go back to the same waters. Not only are you no longer the same, but neither are the waters you left. The current has changed. The elements of nature have affected the stream. When you return, although it appears the same, it really is a different river and you are a different person. Therefore, you cannot cross the same river twice.”

— Alice Walker

[helloaymawkward]

[helloaymawkward]

What's worse than giving up?

It's finding hope and thinking you have a way out, only to lose it all in the end. Getting to that light at the end if the tunnel is such a torture. Why must I suffer in order to heal? Did I commit a grave sin in my past life and so I'm living a life sentence?

[helloaymawkward]

Why is it easier to tell a friend to value their life? But when it comes to my own, a knife through my heart sounds so enticing right now. This is the 5th day the thought visits me.

[helloaymawkward]

using a multiverse as a narrative framework to tell an immigrant story really is THE best possible implementation of this concept. like the idea that every time you make a decision in your life a different branching universe splits off where you chose differently, while obviously broadly universal because of course everyone wonders what if (what if i had chosen differently, what would my life look like then), really does hit such a specific core question that is imo fundamental to the immigrant experience

all the time my parents talk about imagining what lives they might have lived if they had chosen differently, if they had never left home, if they had never come here, if they had not raised their daughter in a world and a culture so utterly foreign to their own where she might make her own choices that are painfully incomprehensible to them. it’s all tied up with a sense of grief and loss and regret and almost existential melancholy, not necessarily because they think they chose wrong specifically, not because they think they’d actually choose differently if they had a chance to do it over again, but merely because that choice is such a monumental one and the enormity of it and the ripples it would end up causing are only obvious in retrospect. you make the choice to uproot your life and move to a different world, a different universe, and once you cross that bridge you can never go back. you can never truly go home again. and when we do go back to visit, we see in their old friends and classmates and relatives funhouse versions of ourselves, people we might have been but never were and never will be.

every immigrant story is a ghost story and the ghosts that haunt you are all the people you left behind including yourself—versions of yourself, of your family, of your children, of the people that are you but that you are not, lives that you recognize but are not yours. immigrant stories are ghost stories are multiverse stories and in multiverse stories all of your ghosts inhabit your body simultaneously, everyone who came before you and after you and everyone you left behind, everything that is and everything that never was… it really is everything everywhere all at once i am going to scream

[helloaymawkward]

when the just some guy version of waymond wang said, “you tell me that it’s a cruel world, and we’re all just running around in circles. I know that. I’ve been on this earth just as many days as you. when I choose to see the good side of things, I’m not being naive. it is strategic and necessary. it’s how I’ve learned to survive through everything. I know you see yourself as a fighter. well, I see myself as one too. this is how I fight.”

[helloaymawkward]

Everything everywhere all at once is a film about a girl ripping the entire universe apart just to find a part of her mother that she feels understands her. And everything everywhere all at once is a film about a mother ripping the entire universe apart just to understand her daughter. And my chest feels like it’s caving in when I think about it too long

[helloaymawkward]

everything everywhere all at once is about intergenerational trauma. about depression and passive suicidality and the gravitational appeal of nothingness. about aging, getting older in your twenties and getting older in your fifties. about the specific hurt mothers can cause their daughters and daughters their mothers. about the harsh reality of the immigrant experience and the american dream. but it’s mostly about kindness and family and it’s about choosing to sit at home talking about taxes with someone who loves you, and it’s about telling your daughter that you’d choose her over the entire universe, and it’s about how even in the universes where life didn’t form, love can still exist. and it’s really all of that at once.

[helloaymawkward]

[helloaymawkward]

I want to romanticise life. Take photos of all things I find beautiful. Go on adventures and make friends among strangers. But how could I? When my fear and trust issues keeps me in my bedroom.

[helloaymawkward]

Love Letters to Mama Pt.I

Dear Mama,

It’s your death anniversary today. I don’t know how I exactly feel. I’ve cried thrice since yesterday, but only one was about you. Ako naman gud ang nipuli sa imong pagkapaspas muhilak pagnaay ginakwento or about as kwento. Ako na ang ginatagaan ug twalya or habol tungod sa salida.

Like you, I now cry at the little things that touches my heart – heartfelt stories, kind gestures, and reminders of those dear to me. Unlike you though, I easily cry for my heart’s burdens.

Nope, it’s not about romance– still not there yet. It’s just life and dreams. About life in general and life and death. About dreams when you visit me, and most importantly about my supposed dreams for you, for the family, and my dreams for myself. I’m even crying as I just wrote that line.

See, I’m such a crybaby.

I wonder if you were ever like this. Because despite being our favorite tease for easy tears, you were the bravest and strongest woman I knew. You’ve encountered loss and surpassed difficulties many times over, and perhaps worse than what I endure now. I remember your stories and life lessons. Most of all, I remember how I witness your strength, patience, kindness, and faith when life was a different kind of tough. Perhaps I just adore you too much that despite sharing a bed with you for most of my childhood until I left for the US, I can’t remember a moment when you cried to me. You got mad and annoyed, yes. But never in despair. You even made me laugh when I get frustrated and too emotional for when I thought you were enduring too much.

You know I hated it when you got too kind. We usually talked before we sleep.

I would tell you, “Ipakita pud na gikapoy na ka!”

You often responded with humor. “Aw makita ra man na nila. Unsa maning gamaya ni, kaisog ba. Ayaw kaayo kahighblood La… Lola Jella…”

And then you told me that it was all in God’s hands. You did your best in showing your love and setting a good example – that’s all that matters.

Every time, you would soothe me instead, while I pray and question God in anger. “When will He ever give you rest? What did you do to deserve these seemingly endless trials? Please Lord, just give her peace. I’ll do whatever it takes to provide her that comfort. Let her rest.”

Kabalo ka Ma, tinuod dyud imo giingon na pag naa kay i-ampo dapat specific. Kay wala man ko naging specific, gitubag sa Ginoo akong hangyo. Gipapahuway ka Niya. Eternally.

Now, I can only see you when I sleep. I’m favored. I guess. At least I see you somehow, and more often than the others.

Still, those encounters are short, and we never have full conversations. I have so much to ask. So much to say…

I was not ready to depart from you when I left for the US. I was still experiencing separation anxieties and was missing you as if I’ve lost you already when I could still video call you. I finally met a therapist and started adjusting to my new life. I confided how alone I felt. How I missed you – my best friend and confidant.

The morning after, daddy Ra video called, and I saw you through the phone screen. Intubated, in a hospital bed. Comatosed.

I was in the other side of the world. Helpless. I took mommy and I more than a week to reach you. You were pronounced brain dead while I was quarantined in Manila. When we finally saw you, all we could do was say our goodbyes, hoping that somehow you would hear us.

I would have stayed awake and hugged you as long as I could. But exhaustion took better of us. Your heart rate monitor woke us up.

Sometimes, when I have nothing to listen to, I can hear the doctors and nurses pounding on your chest. How they tried to resuscitate you, despite knowing it was a lost cause. Deep down I know, you only waited for mommy and me. Somehow, during my quarantine, I heard you. “Gikapoy naman ko Nak.”

It was perhaps a stress-induced delusion. How I wished it was all a delusion too. I would have rather imagined losing you. Because none of it felt real. When I cleaned our old room, took care of your stuff, and finally covered the bed we shared all those years, I felt like I was in a movie. Waiting for someone to yell cut. That I was simply in an elaborate prank.

Because back then, and even months before, I felt extreme guilt for leaving you. Your passing may have been predestined. Still, I regrated why I left. I felt I lost you already even when you were still alive. Somehow, you lost me too. You had to shoulder all the stress by yourself.

If I stayed, I would have seen you everyday. And every night, I could have asked how you felt. I could have seen the signs.

Or maybe I was warned but I took it for granted. Because I could not allow myself to believe for it to ever be possible.

Weeks before the tragedy, I dreamed I was back in Davao. We were hovering over Sasa. You were dressed all in white, like one of your church ensembles. I was confused and surprised to have seen you. Somehow my brain during the dream thought that the only way I could ever see you again was if I were dead. I even asked you if I were also dead. You did your lopsided smile, and the dream turned comical. I didn’t take it seriously. Little did I know, that was the beginning of meeting you only in my dreams.

Some call it a visitation. But how can a living soul visit another? Is time not linear? Perhaps, it was a foreshadowing? A precognition? Synchronicity? Realistically, my longing for you was so profound that my brain conjured scenarios as to how I felt. That being apart from you felt close to death. I was already grieving when you were only 13 hours away.

I’ve tried rationalizing all the moments that lead to your death. What could have caused it? What could we have done to prevent it? I should have done more for you. But was it set in stone? Why was I given a glimpse of an ill-fated future, when there was nothing I could do anyway?

These questions used to haunt me. I hated myself for awhile. I was angry at everyone who could have done and treated you better. I was mad for regretting later, while my guilt tore me. I was mad at you too.

But you always knew what to say. Even after death. You visited my dream again. That was the first time I could clearly hear your voice.

“Sorry Nak ha, kailangan naman gud dyud nako muuna.”

Whether it was my subconscious telling me one of the values you inculcated in me, or it was truly you, it lifted most of the heaviness. Although you were the one who said sorry, I knew there was nothing to forgive. I can never stay mad at you. It was me who wanted to say sorry. I wanted to ask for your forgiveness. I needed to forgive myself.

Gamay pa lang ko, isa sa imong mga pangaral kay “Dili magkumkom ug kalagot.” Holding on to hate does not only imprison the person it’s directed to. Most importantly, it holds the bearer imprisoned, in which he only has the keys. Hate is a burden you carry unless you forgive.

There is no use in finding blame to what has already happened. Trying to fix the past is impossible. Denying reality would only cripple me. I must move on to the present, so I can see my future.

But grieving is a weird process, Mama. Even after I forgave myself, I still find myself vexed and envious of others. Both at those who lost you with me, and at those who seems to have measly problems.

I’m easily annoyed at people who complain about how dire their situations are, when in fact they can still fix it. I wanted to ask them, “Is your problem in a brink of death? Did someone you love pass away? Did you lose someone irreplaceable that the only way you can be with them again is after you’ve been patient with this life, and hope the afterlife is real? If not, then stop making It a big deal and go fucking fix it!”

There was a time I was mad at people who kept saying “I’m sorry for your loss. We understand.” I felt like no one could truly grasp the pain, longing, and other indescribable emotions. I still can’t understand it by myself sometimes.

Two weeks ago, I gave the book I read about grief to my manager who recently lost her father. I teared up while doing so. After I went out of the office, I thought that was all. I would only tear up. But no, the dam was loose, and I couldn’t stop crying for I don’t know how long. How could I stop it when I couldn’t even find the source. I don’t know what triggered me. Or why I couldn’t stop. I had a good morning and haven’t even started the day yet.

My eyes eventually dried. Like usual, I acted like nothing happened and hoped no one noticed it.

Before that, I’ve cried so many times at work. Every time, I pray no one sees me. Because the last time I did, I felt so embarrassed. It felt like I crapped my pants in public.

I was also envious of those who were given more leniency. I felt like I was not allowed to be weak, while there were those who should just be given their time. “It is what it is. They are who they are. Let them heal in their own time.”

Mama, I was so mad when I was told this. I wanted to reply “Do you think I’m healed? Are their loss greater than mine? I’m in pain too. How about me?” I felt like I lost all my limbs, but I was told that I have to push someone else’s wheelchair, just so we can both move forward.

I didn’t like myself then. I even wrote an outburst: Grief is like literally keeping your shit together.

You wouldn’t be happy at me. I used so many ugly words. The world was unfair. I felt invalidated. I came across the term: Disenfranchised grief.

I’m sorry again, Mama. Every day, I try to be better. There are times that I’m genuinely okay. There are times that your loss hits worse. I try to give myself a deadline. But the kaleidoscope of emotions isn’t some flight of stairs going upward or downward, and you just get over it. The stages aren’t in order and there is no timeline.

Acceptance and longing can occur at the same time. I know you are not coming back, and I should stop looking for you. I can reminisce, but not remain in the past.

Ma, I’m doing my best to unstuck myself. I’m trying to be brave enough to carve a future without you in it. After all, you may have been the biggest motivation of my original dream, but you weren’t the only part.

Mommy and dad are still here. Si Tita, Daddy Ra, Dada, Lola Lily, and ako mga ig-agaw. There are still people I know who loves me no matter what. Perhaps healing from your loss will also mend other unaddressed pain.

Kabalo ba ka, mas open na mi ni mommy sa isat-isa ron. I feel closer to her now. Mom, dad, and I finally had actual discussions. I feel heard now. I’m not holding as much from them anymore. It’s still a work in progress. But I see progress.

A prospect of having children of my own comes to mind sometimes. Just so I can pass on the love you gave. Perhaps I get to receive a similar but different kind of love someday too. Maybe I’ll find a best friend and confidant again, and an actual soulmate.

I’m saving what’s left so I can live this life the way you hoped all your children and grandchildren would. A life with love, kindness, sincerity, and faith. I hope I still get to embody that someday and remain a good person despite how cruel life can be.

I hope the world doesn’t change me for the worse. Because I find myself just trying to survive these days. You know the saying, “Adapt to survive.” I’ve seen people who adapted and survived. But that’s all they did. Surviving yet never truly living. They lost their essence. They lost their soul.

Pero, I also witnessed you. You are a testament of how to adapt, survive, and live again.

I don’t revere you. You had your flaws. Despite your imperfections, you remained kind, loving, generous, brave, strong, and faithful. You didn’t conform to the world’s demands. You stood by your values and principles.

I pray I get to do the same, Ma. I have yet to grow a backbone. I’m closer to 30 now but I still have lots of growing up to do. So, please guide me just as you always did. Help me discern on my choices. Scold me when needed. I know you’re always cheering for me.

I may have lost my best friend, but I gained a guardian angel.

I love you forever. I’ll see you after I have my own grandchildren too.

Love,

Jella

#mine #grief

[helloaymawkward]

i want to be known.

truly, deeply known.

to have someone see

the unique,

the mundane,

(and especially the annoying)

things about me,

that i don’t notice.

or that i try to hide.

someone who can

no.

someone who wants to

understand me fully.

and in a way that

i have yet to.

but.

i yearn for the opportunity

to be that person

for someone else.

the equal gift and reception

of understanding

about that which makes us.

if that’s not love?

then let me live in indifference.

[helloaymawkward]

I like sleep. My life has a tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know?

Ernest Hemingway (via surqrised)

[helloaymawkward]

Ugly Truth: Grief is messy. Grief is ugly. It's like literally holding your shit together. Everyone will say "It's normal. You don't have to be ashamed." But when it starts smelling and you see the actual shit, or the act of it. No one wants to get near you.

Concern feels like pity. People are sorry because you're shitting yourself. You try your best to take it privately, but who the hell can control when you have to take a shit? In short, grief is an endless case of a loose bowel.

I'm sorry if I can't find the bathroom sometimes.

Grief is messy. Grief is ugly. Grief is exhausting.

Even when you think you've let all the bad stuff out, the stomach ache lingers. You try to squeeze out some more. But there's nothing left but pain and hollow insides.

Grief is messy. Grief is ugly. Grief is trying to hold your shit together while waiting in line for a long bathroom queue. If you're good at hiding it, no one expects for you to skip the line; no one will offer your relief.

Grief is messy. Grief is ugly. Grief is getting mad at people who can skip lines just because they are too obvious.

And while you wait for your turn, the pain somehow dissipates into frustrations, envy, and anger.

"It's okay. That's normal." But grief is shit. Don't tell me otherwise.

Some days, I don't feel being inspirational.

#griefsucks #spilled thoughts #mine #griefandloss #griefjourney

[helloaymawkward]

I think that's why I haven't been crying. My cold anger has frozen my wet tears.

#griefjourney