Mantra Part 2

A rehash of my old Mantra post. Under different circumstances this time.

First commandment when you’re ABOUT TO pursue a relationship with me.

1. Be intimidated, yes. I can do all sorts of crazy things to you. Call me ball-crusher, drama queen, enchantress, what have you. But thou shall NOT falter. No matter what.

I need to know…something. If you are that Superminion you claim to be.

Strawberry ice cream and other guilty pleasures aside, whenever somebody SCARES me, for some weird reason I end up hurting, and I become a walking disaster. I can’t really explain why I hurt, but I end up being on a self-destruction mode. I end up doing evil, cruel, unthought-of things.

I feel remorse after a while, though. And I hate myself for that.

I actually feel like shit, really. I know I can’t take things back, but don’t hate me. Please.

What Could Have Been, and Then Not.

Dear you,

I cannot do this. We cannot do this.

You have successfully disarmed me, stripped me naked. With what and how, I honestly don’t know. The last few nights have left me utterly overwhelmed. Vulnerable. I’m scared shitless.

Perhaps you think nothing of it; I don’t know what you’re thinking, really. But before this acquaintance gets complicated any further, please understand that I have to nip it at the bud before it blooms into anything and something I will no longer have any control of.

The last few days had me finding slowly reacquainted with the past’s painful shadow. You make me want to wear pink and giggle. Tolerate dickery and playfulness. Run barefoot through Freedom Park’s grassy field. Chain smoke and roll some joints of Sagada weed. Chug down a few bottles of beer in some dimly lit bar. Pout and rant and make pakipot like a 5-year old and still expect to be chased after a huge fight. Prove to you that I’m the coolest girlfriend you can ever have. You make me want to take care of you, to fuss over you, to be falsely mad at you so you will quit smoking. You make me blush unashamedly every time you catch me off guard. You make me realize what I have been yearning and missing out all this time – tenderness.

But I cannot allow her to resurface. She always gave everything she had, and when she did, she became self-destructive. What you have experienced in this brief encounter is a glimpse of a ghost, vainly trying to get out. What she doesn’t know is that she is dead.

You asked me that one thing that can make me truly happy. I think I can answer that now.

It’s coming into terms with myself, and living with the resolve that I will not allow myself to be that vulnerable and giving and stupid again.

I don’t know how I would live with myself after this, but I had a life before you. And I was fine with that. It was cold, lonely. But it made my heart intact, from breaking further from what remains of its shattered state. But you and your quiet strength make a mockery of what I have carefully crafted to protect myself all these years – trying to appear like I have it altogether, that I am strong, impenetrable. The Bitch Goddess.

I cannot, must not fall for you. And so forgive me for what I am about to do to you.

I’m walking away.

And this, perhaps, is the most selfish decision I have ever made. And I know I will regret it.

Take care, big guy. I could have almost loved you.


I lay there, heaving and sweating, in a large canopied bed. At first, I couldn’t make any sense out of it, where I was, what I was exactly doing. My mind was muddled, as if I was streaming in and out of consciousness. I can hear women speaking in hushed tones, of water being poured in a basin, the heat emanating in the stuffy room. So old fashioned, I thought, even in that hazy state.

It’s so hot in here, I thought. Who’s holding my hand? More so, why? What’s going on?

I looked down and found my belly swollen and my legs parted.

“Mamaaaaaaaaaa?!!!!!” I frantically screamed, scared.

“She needs that epidural now!” I heard my mother say, clasping my hand tighter. “It’s coming along now, but don’t be scared. We’re all here.”

My sisters hovered and took my other hand, squeezing it. Before I knew it, I felt something stir inside me that I just had to let out. With one heave, I pushed. A few seconds later, a cry. It wasn’t painful at all.

“Now for the next one,” my mother said.

What? It’s not over?

I heaved and pushed. And pushed. And pushed. And pushed. They just came out of me, almost slippery in fact. The room is full of cries.

“Five! And now, we’ll have the last one,” somebody’s voice said. The doctor, probably.

Without warning, I pushed.

“No! Not yet!”

The doctor must have poked around but I wouldn’t have known because I hardly felt anything. I heard a “Hmmm.”

I should be pushing now, I thought.

“Alright, push now.”

I did. Nothing. Something felt stuck.

Another poking about, but I pushed anyway. It could be stifling in there. He had to breathe somehow.

I felt it being pulled, and then nothing. Silence.

I could have had six, as if that wouldn’t have been enough. But the last one was a blue one.

Life lost.

I dreamed about this last night. I felt everything. I felt the pushing, the releasing. I heard the cries.

I’ve always known I couldn’t conceive. I was seventeen then, and because I was eager to prove my womanhood, I copulated with whomever I fancied. But I never got pregnant. It got me wondering one day, when I felt the pang of envy when my sister gave birth to her son. Ten years ago, I would have never thought I had it in me, to dream of being a mother.

I always saw myself to be unmarried, living the boheme life, acquiring several lovers along the way, and perhaps adopt. I thought I hated children, how messy and cumbersome they can be to one’s independent lifestyle. But I fell in love with Matthew, my sister’s son. How can one not be? He’s adorable as a button.

And several years later, I met someone whose eyes remind me of sunflowers during summer. Gazing into them I saw myself running after rosy-cheeked cherubs with a spoon in my hand and a bib in the other. They excitedly scream ‘Papa!’ as they run towards him and I sigh in resignation. You do the dishes, I’d say, and I’ll have to bathe them. We argue, attempt to fuck once they’re tucked in, but too tired to even undress. He snores, I moan (as my way of snoring). I wake up nuzzled in his arms and gaze at his sleeping face, so beautiful.

I never told him this, as i didn’t want to scare him away. I know it is not how he prefers things to be. He reminds me of my old self, of how I used to want things. No commitments, nothing solid. Always leaving the door half open in case I’d want an easy way out.

I simply cannot go back. I cannot go forward either. I am barren, empty. Defective. Who would want me? Where do I go?

And so I weep for that lost little soul that never even had the chance to live. I weep for my own soul for I will never have the chance to give life.


For the past several weeks, I’ve been working my ass off.

A big change, really. I suddenly found myself having three jobs, one different from the other, a combination of the things I am passionate about. If I focused on one job alone, I’d definitely be bored; I would need to do other things. The great thing about it is that I get paid to do what I like.

Since Dad died, I was overwhelmed with a state of loss, listlessness, of wandering. I needed to do something, to make myself occupied. I now realize why people throw themselves at the mercy of their craft. I never really understood that bit, until now.

And it has been a refreshing change.

For once, it dawned on me that I am finally in control of my life.