the monsters under the bed disappear (but they are replaced by the cruelties of reality)
Growing up, I thought adulthood was glamorous. I have been stuck on this notion that being an adult meant I would never need to worry about anything, hakuna matata, as Timone and Pumbaa once said. I thought that moving out and stepping into the world as my own person would be easy and would open up an endless universe filled with possibilities right in front of me. I was so fixated on growing up and moving out of my childhood home that I never paused to think just how lonesome it could be.
I moved out of my childhood home on the 18th of February, excited to finally be able to live a life by myself where I wouldn’t have to worry about avoiding my parents’ disappointed looks whenever I go home late. My first thought upon moving into my new place was how I could maximize and balance my time so that I could hang out with my friends after work. I thought about decorating my new space with all the things I brought from home, never thinking twice if I would actually last in this place or if I would cower down and run back home with my tail tucked between my legs. When I packed my bags and set off for the glitz and glamour of Tomas Morato, I was completely blinded by the idea of finally living on my own and getting to do what I want.
Except, I was wrong. It is a given that adults must pay the bills, and still give extra cash for their families if they get some (or perhaps that’s just another part of my culture that’s never shared with the entire world). While I had these in mind, I never thought that it would be so grueling and lonesome that I would wish to go back to my hometown on a Friday night instead of going out with the new people I’ve become acquainted with.
Before Tomas Morato, I would be stuck at home, desperately wishing to go out of the house just for a new environment to explore, or to go to a familiar place to experience something new with other people. I wanted to move out, to be able to see my boyfriend and friends without thinking about how my parents would be annoyed if I ask them to go out once more (because even at twenty-one, I still needed my parents’ permission to go out). Now, I go home to an empty studio room on the thirty-third floor of a high-rise condominium with no one waiting for me other than my laundry.
I used to go home to the sound of my sister screaming over her video games, the smell of my father’s cooking, my mother’s endless talk about her work, and the heart-melting sight of my cats just being cats. My dad would ask me where I’ve been, who I was with, and what we were up to. My tone always depended on his’. If he asked me with that domineering and annoyed tone, I would give him short and quick answers with an air of nonchalance — sometimes they would be laced with half-truths because my dad could never know that I’m the type of girl to go out day-drinking.
The same routine follows. I’d take my shoes off, haphazardly throw my sweaty socks on the laundry basket beside the single bathroom, and I’d place my shoes on the stairs above my sister’s pair of shoes that was originally mine. (She borrowed it, but never gave me a chance to wear it again.) Upstairs was different. My little sister would always rush out of the door just to greet me and ask about what I’ve been up to. Thankfully, I’ve grown out of my phase where I never wanted to do anything with my sister — though it took eleven years after her birth before I finally came around to realizing that my little sister is, in fact, my best friend. She would ask me endless questions that would sometimes go unanswered. Nevertheless, answered or not, my sister would always go back into her room satisfied with our interaction.
There’s white noise in the form of the television in the other room. My mother is on the bed scrolling through Facebook on her phone while an old movie plays on one of the HBO channels on the cable. I would take a peek inside the room, and my mother would either notice me or not. When she does, she would always ask me what I did when i went out, or how my job went. I never initiate a conversation with my mother about my day unless something good happened. Perhaps it’s the fucked-up metaphor of daughters and mothers being mirrors of each other that stops me from going to her first, but I never wanted to bother my mother with something that wouldn’t be worth her while.
I never realized how much I took that familiar routine of going home for granted until now. Despite all my grievances against my parents and what broke my childhood, it still feels different knowing that there’s someone waiting for me whenever I go home. I had romanticized the thought of living by myself so much and prepared myself for it, but I never expected willingly working longer hours just to avoid going home to an empty space and no one to talk to but myself. The thought of wanting to stay behind at work until ungodly hours occurred so much because I desperately want to avoid the silence of my own place that always makes me want to scream.
My favorite professor told me that adulthood mostly meant paying for my peace of mind, and I understood that. In fact, I had wholeheartedly accepted that advice and went with it when I moved out of my house. But she never told me about the deafening silence of being alone, or the feeling of being so small between the four walls of my own place because there’s no one to turn to but myself. I don’t know if she purposefully left that part out, or if she’d forgotten about that part already.
I wasn’t so isolated growing up that I don’t have many friends. It’s the opposite, actually. I have so many circles of friends that it’s hard managing my time between them. It would have been easier to see them if they weren’t so far away from me, living so close to my childhood home that I miss so much. There was no one within reach here in the city (except perhaps for my friend who lives seven floors down but is hardly there because he prefers his hometown). Being apart from my family is already isolating in itself, but being apart from all of my friends just makes the loneliness even more unbearable.
Most days, I would casually ask my boyfriend to come over. It’s mostly because I miss him, and partly because I couldn’t stand the emptiness that greets me whenever I open the door to my unit. Three days ago, I stopped trying to ask him if he would come over on his day off from uni. While our cities sit right beside each other, our timelines never seem to match. He’s out there busy trying to graduate, and I’m trying to make it through the weekend without feeling like work has beaten me into a pulp — a shell of the bubbly and outgoing person I used to be.
My days used to be filled with endless stories and connections that are always there. I would never need to seek them out whenever I need someone to talk to. Now, my days are filled with worrying about bills and desperately trying to forget about the mishaps at work. I would think about whether I should go to work on a cab or walk several blocks just to ensure that I have enough money to last me the next week until my paycheck.
I knew adulthood is hard, but I never thought that it would mean being stuck in an endless cycle of going home to an empty space, working myself to death for a salary that couldn’t even meet most of my needs, and going to bed feeling emptier than I had the night before. It feels like the world I used to live in has thrown me out to another, harsher, world that seeks to eat me alive. While my friends are out there regularly seeing each other whenever they feel like it, I am forced to decline their requests because of geographical reasons that I could never seem to fix. While my family goes on with a single daughter in their home, I am stuck here wishing I never took living in my childhood home for granted.
I may have outgrown my fear of monsters coming out of the bed or the closet, but my fear of being left alone as the world goes on remains. At this point, I’m just hoping that whoever said the words ‘this, too, shall pass’ is right.
there were days when i wish i’d forget the way his name falls easily off my lips. days where i keep on wishing that i would forget how we counted every single crack on the pavement from the highway until we reached the turn leading to our neighborhood. however, there are some days where i want myself to see him right beside me with his bright smile, so bright that my eyes could get hurt. there are some days when i wish he’s still beside me, holding my hand and stroking it with his thumb. i walk through the very same route leading to my house in the neighborhood we once shared with all the memories of him flowing inside my head like they’re a part of a symphony i’d memorized long before this very moment. my hand encased in his, his smile directed at me, and moments later he’d put his arm around my waist.
every single day is a sequence of events on autopilot. the only time things would change is when i reach the curve leading up to my street, that is when i would either start getting angry, or when i would start crying. these days, things are a little better. while i do miss his presence, i understand now that it is just pure nostalgia – a short moment of weakness where i would miss how things used to be, a short longing for the previous routine i had. i finally reach the turn leading up to my street and i find myself sighing in relief. i count the steps leading up to my apartment and as i open the door, sure enough, there is my best friend waiting for me with a smile on his face and a heart full of love.
i do not need to drown myself in the nostalgia of yesterday anymore. the present is right in front of me with a toothy grin. i do not need to compare him with the smile of yesterday because i know that this is more than enough. he is more than enough.
Yesterday, I was passing through EDSA while on my way to go back home from a trip to Palawan. My head was aching, the fish-bite on my left leg stinging, and my body calling for rest. I have been traveling the whole day, coming from Palawan and then back to Laguna.
But when the car finally reached EDSA, flashes of what seems like the EDSA Revolution came to mind. Although I wasn’t there, although I haven’t been born yet during that time, I still feel it in my bones like the call of Bonifacio to his Katipuneros.
The Philippines celebrated it’s Independence Day yesterday, but I couldn’t help but feel as though we aren’t truly free from the reigns of colonization. That we truly aren’t free with our own culture and values, for our culture was lost in centuries of torment and loss brought upon by the bloody hands of our colonizers.
We are not free for we live in a country where a madman rules and presents our very own country to another, saying that the Philippines could be their province if they wanted. We are not free for we live in fear of what would come next; if this madman would turn into a dictator or if the people would still blindly support him despite millions of sins he had done to our motherland.
I didn’t celebrate Independence Day yesterday because we are not quite there yet. As long as we are within the shackles of foreign men who think they can manipulate us into thinking they mean well, or as long as we are living under the rule of a politician whose regime does more harm than good, we are never truly free.
As long as we treat Western qualities far more superior than our own, as long as we feel like we need to whiten our skin in favor of looking more like them than what we truly look like, then we are not free. We will never be free while our very own people devalue our true qualities in favour of our colonizers.
I think it’s time we embrace what truly is ours and shut down all ideologies than conform to Western Standards. I think it’s time we embrace our right to speak out and voice out the problems that causes our country to fall. I think it’s time we utilize our voices and shun all the public officials that serve only themselves and not the people.
I think it’s time we revolt to change the system. The Philippines, as beautiful as it is, is never truly free and it is up to us to reclaim our rightful Independence from tyranny and colonization.
