"This is going to hurt like hell"

Off and on, Sarah seems to be my only friend. That's so sad, making me doubly sad now. Hers songs are great and amazing, perfect for any moment. But when I feel really bad inside, her songs undeniably resonate.

When she whispers "good enough" and "hold on", she's cutting through all the layers and I believe her. She understands me, and I love her for that.

Perhaps all this is just conditioned reflex, associations established long ago, when she became the soundtrack to my depression years. I listened to her every night, crying and swaying in my dark studio apartment, in the middle of the city, six floors above the dirty streets, surrounded by much taller, ominous buildings. Through it all, she offered a metaphysical hug.

Each line she sings now reaches all the way back, a much-needed reminder that I can hope for better days.

In the back of my mind, I'm so thankful that she's still alive, which can only mean that all her words are still true. She's still making music, while living her own life, as wife, mother, and artist. I hope she lives a long, long life, as I'd rather die before she does.

For now, for this lonely moment, I cannot imagine a world without her.

Psychology of Defeat, Learned Helplessness

I have a new word floating around my head, dislodged from somewhere: defeat.

It's such a strange word. I always assumed it belonged in another world, of military metaphors, in sports, in combat. It's strange that it feels so appropriate, so right, so me.

I feel defeated.

Beaten down by life, the world, all my traumas, broken relationships, broken promises, deaths in the family, death of friendships. I am absolutely exhausted from hoping and waking up everyday.

I realize that I am here only by sheer force of will. I have no reason to be here, no reason to move forward, no where to go.

I have given up on love.

In my pocket, my secret pocket, I keep a small, small dream of escape, to another life, another chance at life.

I suspect I am on the verge of another depression. Oh, such a tiresome prospect. Depression won't save me anymore.

This, of course, is one big secret. My latest, grand secret of secrets. If you met me, you will never know this. I never let on. I will tell you, "Life is good" and mean it.

And that's the thing: despite me, despite my will, prayers, belief, desire--despite it all, I come down to this.

A heavy arrow embedded in my shoulder, embedded into the wall behind me, trapping me. A hail of arrows follow.

Therapeutic Properties of Google

My purging has come to an abrupt end, thanks to Google.

It turns out you fell in love with your best friend, like in the movies. I remember her, met her once when we were in a small cafe near her office, and she had something to give to you.

For the longest time, I didn't know with whom you ended up. I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.

You have been best friends since forever, I knew that. You've been through a lot together, know everything about each other, literally and absolutely soulmates, perfect in every and any way for each other.

How in hell can I compete with that?

But the whole idea overwhelms me, overpowers me. Really, it feels right, it feels greater than nearly a decade of unrequited love, visits to a shrink, 50-peso Prozac pills, cutting, tears, screams muffled by old pillows, nights upon nights being alone, touching myself, Sarah McLachlan singing, imagining you with me, all the times we were together, in the past.

I shouldn't have googled your name. Google obliged and spitted out all your old blogs, with her, letters to her, pictures of you.

She was so familiar! And I remembered, like a finger touching a live, open electrical wire. It was a mistake! I wish I could take it all back, erase the past hour, erase the logs, the blogs, and return to my well-loved misery, to my pining for you, to my missing you.

I still miss you, dear one, my chipmunk, my hamster. You with your sharp mind and beautiful wit, your lovely face, shoulders, lips, thighs. Your laugh and smile, your cute frown, cute butt.

I miss all out all-night coversations over wine, many times being shooed out by the waiter at closing time. I miss all our letters, our email, all erased and burned away years ago, in a fit, when I realized that I couldn't have you, that I couldn't make you love me.

And now, it's all over. Or, at least, the beginning of it being over. This novel has turned its last page, and your life is where it should be, never ever with me.

For the longest time, I didn't know with whom you ended up. I didn't want to know.

I fell in love with you, loved you, and will always love you, until my next lifetime.

Goodbye, and thanks for all the fish.

Long-Distance Anything, Unable to Sleep

I can't sleep. I've been trying to sleep. I played with my clit a little, but it didn't help. Something's really bothering me, and I'm not sure what.

Earlier tonight, I had a long webcam conversation with my best friend. We had a thing before, but she's now in New York working as an interior designer. It's such a hot job, I envy her. But she really deserves it, because she's got an amazing talent. Recently, she was asked to submit designs for a range of houseware, throw pillows, table cloths, plates, vases, what not. She's hoping it gets approved. If it does, she promised to send me a set of everything.

She told me she missed me, so I told her I missed her.

We've talked almost every night this past week. For some reason, our schedules clicked, and she had time to burn.

Most nights she would be talking about her work, meeting with clients, her designs, her inspirations. It's an exciting life, something I would gladly have. But she told me that she feels her life is on hold, that she feels stuck.

I've heard this before.

It's not something she mentions a lot, but we talk about it at least every six months, almost on schedule. Again, I hold my sigh and ask the same question I always ask:

Is it because of us?

The same pause, then the same answer. Part of it, yes, she answers.

It ends there. Nothing much else to talk about. We had a thing years ago, but she had to leave for New York, to study, then stayed on to work. Her entire family is there.

I'm happy for her, and I'm happy we're best friends.

But it's such a burden to know that someone's life is on hold because of you. Because of me. It would have been easier if I didn't care. I do care, but please move on.

So, tonight, I told her that.

There were tears and silences, and lots of quotes from self-help books. The call ended well enough. For her.

For me, I did my part as a good friend. But I only realize now, in my lack of sleep, that this is another relationship that could have been more.

We were inseparable for a while, and even tried being together. She let me talk and blabber all day, everyday, and she always listened and looked at me googly-eyed. She matched my sexual appetite and we kissed and fondled each other almost everyday (I loved how she kissed my breasts) , whenever we were together. We always made love (fucked, she prefers) while listening to Mishka Adams. It was fun and easy , but I always felt she had more love for me, more need for me, than I could for her.

We never had to resolve that, because she had a plane to catch. No real ending, no good-bye, no drama. Just a promise to keep in touch, and to keep the love. As friends. That was over two years ago.

I don't like long-distance anything. That's my conclusion for now.

Let the Burning, Purging Begin

When I first met you, I imagined you in black underwear.

We were Freshmen, we had common friends, and you were all talking about clothes. And underwear.

I was introduced to your group. "All poets," my friend said. The idea of poetry and lingerie quickly got me excited. You said your name and gave a little wave, then you went right back into your rousing discussions. You laughed, and it sounded so familiar. Your eyes twinkled in the afternoon light.

I had a crush on you right away.

A few weeks later, we met again. A bunch of friends were supposed to go to Club Dredd (in Timog, I'm so old!) to catch a poetry reading. Everyone backed out, and there were two.

Fate doth conspire!

We took a cab, had a great night, and fell in love—oh, if that were true. In fact, the opposite happened.

That night, while sipping San Miguel and popping calamares, I looked at you in the middle of this dark, cool room, in the middle of all these strange artists and musicians, and I realized that you were out of my league. You were a real poet and you knew where you were going.

In your presence, I truly felt like a Freshman.

Luckily, I had three more years to be in the same world as you.

Miss Nineteen Ninety-Seven

I miss you. I've been trying to write but nothing arrives. I know, I know that I just have to give time for it, to sit there and open up. I know all that, but I'm searching for something. Maybe I'm searching for you, for those lost, long nights that we talked and drank wine outside a darkened chapel. That scene haunts me. Walking across the car park, hugging you on the front steps, our countless dinners, that off-shoulder shirt you wore, revealing your smooth shoulder and emphasizing your young, slender neck. I wanted you, I was crazy for you. I realized that our deep discussions was like foreplay for me. I could have made love to you so many times. I miss that depth of sharing, the ideas and feelings. I never had that since. I regret that we didn't end up together, and I regret that I deleted all our emails. I was angry with you for the longest time, because I couldn't love you.

And now, only now, I realize that I've been literally so lost without you. And that all is lost, it's too late for anything, even for dreams and hopes and second chances.

All I have are memories and remembered fantasies. I know the idealized you, the lost you, the never-to-be-recovered you. And it is you that intrudes my thoughts when I write.

When I write, when I try to stir up my imagination, when I try to dip into the pool of creativity, I am always reminded by the exhilaration I felt when we were together. Here's another cliche: I was so alive when I was with you.

You, you, you. It's always been about you.

Now, I'm just stuck with my self, my sorry self and my reliable self-pity. The first few years were really bad, which contributed to my clinical depression. Nowadays, it just comes as an incessant dissatisfaction. A blah-ness in my daily life.

I never thought I'd still be alive at this age. I never planned for this.

They say that some writers write about the same thing over and over again, in different ways, in different works, in different times. I just might be one of those writers.

And you, yes, you.

You will probably never know this, but you were the one.

I was in love with you, and I loved you. I was truly, madly, deeply in love with you. And what did you say?

You said that you will invite me to your wedding.

I Want to Do the Impossible

I'm about to do something crazy. I'm not sure why. To fight against the meaninglessness of it all, some sort of existentialist gesture? Or, like I hope, to get something going, get the gears moving, get off the humdrum track and into the wilderness.

I want to fight bears and tigers. I want to jump on an eagle's back. I want to run across a lava field. I want to touch the floor of the abyss.

I want out, basically.

The great thing about being alone is that I can over dramatize my life and it'll seem real. There's no one to contradict me, or pull me back down to earth, or into the light.

I've had it, really, with all that surrounds me and fills me. I want a new hand of cards, a fresh plate. I want to be born in another place, another time.

What do I want to do? It's not just one thing anymore. Not a field, or career, or project. I want to change the assumptions, the premises, the foundations. I want to go deep down and decide for myself.

I don't want to end up as anything. I want to be there, in that place, as that person, in an instant. At the snap of my fingers, upon making a decision, I want my eyes and my world to change. I want my heart to turn inside out.

I don't want to have to justify or rationalize what I do anymore. I don't want to have to understand or explain myself anymore. I just want to know or not know and be okay with it all and move on anyway to do sure things, fantastic, unimaginable things. I just want to do and do and do, with no doubt or hesitation.

I am Afraid to Look Beyond the Lighted Room

Someone told me yesterday that I will live a long time, until I'm in my 90s. I didn't believe her. There's no reason for me to stay alive for that long, unless God wants to play a joke on me.

I broke my hip last April 1.

Luckily, or not, I was in St. Luke's when I slipped and fell down the stairs. They whisked me away to the emergency room. During the whole time, I was wondering what if this happened at home? What if the phone was out of reach? Could I dial 911 and help would arrive?

I was in hospital for a week. My aunt took care of me and paid all the bills, which cost as much as a hefty downpayment for a new car. When I was released, she took me home back to the province. I wallowed in bed and was served my meals. After my wound healed, a physical therapist started visiting me twice a week.

I can walk now. A bit. With a cane. But not too much. "Recovery is on schedule," my doctor said.

During that whole time, I watched way too much TV and ate very little, resulting in my now trendy body type. (I should eat more now.) I filled three notebooks with all my self-pity. All without the Internet.

Just Read this, I Don't Know What to Call it

It's such a stressful day for me. I'm fantasizing about that scene from the movie, The Hand That Rocks the Cradle: Rebecca De Mornay's character quietly goes to a public bathroom with a small shovel and, after gently closing the door, starts wildly hitting everything with the shovel.

A peek into the unimaginably wild beast beneath a calm skin.

And I thought everything was going along well.

I saw an old friend last night. Old, as in, we last saw each other in 1997. (She once promised she would invite me--if she ever gets married--to her small beach wedding.)

It was a small party in a small (but fairly new) Makati bar. I didn't think I would bump into her. But she was there. All smiles. We said our hello's and how-are-you's and performed our obligatory hug with matching beso. I didn't notice at first that she was with someone.

Half an hour later, she was across the room, posing for a photograph. And she was with someone. They held each other, just for a second, and it was all it needed for my world to turn upside down.

"Are they together?" my date asked me.

Isn't it freaking obvious?! "I'm not sure," I replied. "I think so. It seems like it. She hasn't said anything to me."

My old friend and her girlfriend.

How come she never told me? When did this start? My life started flashing before my eyes.

She was my secret love. That girl across the room. There was a time when I loved her, when love was able to make me vulnerable.

"It's weird," she said over the phone, a lifetime ago.

I didn't reply. I didn't know what to say. She continued, "You're a good friend, but I don't look at you that way. You're like a sister to me."

It was a hot summer afternoon. I had dropped off flowers and a do-or-die card at her house in Las Piñas. All the way across town. I was in Makati.

What could I say to that?

"Okay," I muttered. "I'm...I didn't..."

She added, "And I'm not into girls. I'm not gay."

End of flashback. The roar of the bar crowd comes back.

I wanted to call her a liar, to blame her for all the tear-soaked journal entries and the cuts on my arm, the pillows filled with muffled screams. For the pain of unrequited love.

I went to the bar--the open bar, thank God. "White Russian, please."

I was thirsty. "Another one please."

I found a bar stool and started a conversation in my head.

"I need a good fuck tonight."

"Oh, yes, you do."

"What's the worst quotable quote about love ever, in the history of freaking womankind?"

"What?"

"It's better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all."

Another White Russian gone.