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It's 1:23 AM.

I am ending my day after having gone to a long but VERY fruitful meeting...

After (happily) having seen my editor make very little changes to my first draft... (check out MyHome August!)

And after having completed, in one inspired go, the designer piece that I was dreading to write (check out Condo Living August!).

I feel soooo damn good.

Four Corners

Four corners
She thought she would explore
Four corners
Of the Universe
With him.

There were rivers to cross
Mountains to scale
Stones to dislodge
Seas to swim in
And it would have been
An adventure
An exploration
Of Life and its possibilities
For she would have been
With him.

But a wall crashed
And little by little
One by one
Little pieces of brick
Came crashing down
Upon her
Crushing
The world that she knew.

Now all she has
Are four corners
A stifling prison
Where she cannot move
Cannot speak
Cannot feel.

It is
An abyss
Where dreams do not exist.

Four corners
Of her little world
Are closing in
And she can no longer breathe.


- For N -

Sofia Ybarriza-Ros

You Will Never Hear My Heart Breaking

You will never hear my heart breaking
It shatters into a million pieces
And yet my heart is mute
And you are deaf.

You will not hear my sobs
These cries of anguish that escape
From my soul,
But not from my lips
For my lips smile when you are near
Yet my eyes hide
The tears that will not come out.

My peace is an illusion
As is your love.

But I know
That without my peace
Your world will crumble
And without your love
My world will end.

And so we stand here
Deaf,
Mute,
Blind.

Indeed, love is blind
The heart has gouged its eyes out
For love cannot see
What is truly in the heart of man--
Darkness
An abyss that extends to eternity
A nothingness
That love believes to be serenity,
Peace.

My peace is an illusion
As is your love
But you will never hear my heart breaking


- For N -

Sofia Ybarriza-Ros

Healing from the Inside Out

Being in and out of the doctor’s office for the past month has turned my life outside down. For the first time in a very long time, I felt pains that I did not know could ever exist; I experienced the feeling of helplessness and uncertainty; I felt useless, pathetic, and unloved. It was very brutal for my ego, and unsettling for my soul.

But then I realized that everything that was happening to me was, indeed, a result of my own negligence—and not of the physical sort. For months now, I have been keeping negative thoughts, ill feelings, hurts, pains, and debilitating beliefs inside me, and they were already damaging my psyche and battering my self-esteem. Now they were manifesting themselves physically, showing up as ugly lumps and bruises, or as sharp and sometimes disabling pains. My spirit was crying out for help, and it used my body to make me sit up and take notice.

I’m sure you’ve had similar experiences in your life: that time when someone broke your heart so bad that you thought your chest would already explode, or that time when you were worrying so much about something that you were already getting unexplainable migraines, or that time when you held so much hatred for someone that you were already developing ulcers. Our minds are more powerful, and our bodies more responsive to energies, than we think, that even the slightest alterations in our deeply held beliefs and thoughts can manifest themselves physically. If positive thoughts can save us, then so can negative thoughts destroy us.

I really have had enough of these pains, so last night, I did what I should have done months ago: I wrote my dad a letter detailing everything that I felt for him, all the hurt that I could not articulate, all the hopes that I still had for our relationship. I poured out everything that was causing me pain… and then I burned the letter as a sign of release. I love you, Dad, and I forgive you for everything, my mind said as I watched the paper turn into ashes. I refuse to let this petty little fight hurt us both any longer.

And I felt so much lighter.

When I woke up this morning, a little voice inside me told me that, perhaps, I should write a letter for my mom, too. After all, there was also so much about our relationship that I was keeping inside of me, so many pent-up frustrations and hurts that I could not tell her for fear of hurting her. But I also realized that, by keeping all of those things to myself, I was hurting ME. I was battering myself in the guise of being loyal to my family, and it was just so wrong. Ultimately, I told myself, I had to release all of my pains so that I don’t perpetuate the cycle of hurt and pass it on to my future children. The hurting stops here.

So another letter was written and burned, and with the rising of the smoke came the rising of my hopes that, indeed, all will be forgiven. My parents have had their share of weaknesses and faults; they are only human, after all. But they are MY parents, whether I like it or not. Mom gave me life; Dad gave me legitimacy and a name. They raised me the only way they knew how, and I turned out pretty okay. I may be scarred and bruised for life, but at least I know how to handle adversity, and I know how to rise up from the ashes every time I get burned.

Of course, I cannot discount the fact that I still need to take care of my physical health. But now that I feel cleansed and somewhat healed from within, I’m sure it won’t take long before my body responds and says, “All clear here!”

Yup… all clear here… =)

Hot Pink Racerback: A Biographical Sketch

She stepped out of the house that day, dressed in her favorite jeans and a hot pink racerback. The jeans made her look slimmer; the racerback made her feel sexy. She didn’t know why she had to dress that way, since she was taking a tricycle and was risking getting leered at by the sweaty tricycle drivers, but she just knew that she wanted to feel more confident.

A few minutes later, she was at her destination, disrobed and then clothed in a floral hospital gown. It was her first time to be here—in an operating room—and dressed this way, and she realized that she was somewhat scared. She was anxious, too, the first time that she had to go to a surgeon to have the mass on her underarm removed, but she had tried to hide it then as she made her way to the hospital riding a yellow pedicab with a candidate’s face on it. This time, the procedure was going to be a little more serious—it would involve cutting, scooping, cauterising, and stitching—and she felt her anxiety rising within her chest.

She realized, too, that she would have felt much better if someone had gone to the hospital with her, or if someone would fetch her later in a car so that she wouldn’t have to ride the tricycle alone with her bandages. But that’s the way it’s always been for her: her strength and her temperament have been both her blessing and her curse. Since she has usually been able to handle much graver adversities, people around her trust that she’ll be fine making her way to the hospital for a surgery on her own.

A nurse broke her reverie and made her sit up, handing her a tiny bluish gray tablet. It was a Valium. The nurse wanted her to take it “to relax.” She wanted to tell the nurse that a Valium wasn’t necessary—she could pretty much turn on an internal switch in order to relax—and that it would take her only a fourth of a V to put her to sleep anyway. Of course, she didn’t want the nurse asking questions about when she had taken a Valium before that, or why, so she obliged. The V acted pretty quickly, putting her in a semi-meditative state.

But as she felt the placidity rising up her arms and then her neck, she once again remembered all those times that she had to do things on her own: filling out enrolment forms for her and her siblings while she was still barely in high school, managing household finances when she was nine years old, washing the dishes and tidying up the condo that she shared with her partner after he had invited his buddies over to “crash for the night,” coming up with a six-figure sum that her mom needed for her hospitalisation earlier that year, going to the hospital for check-ups, struggling to keep the pan steady in her hand and cook herself a meal while still in bandages… All these underscored the fact that, no matter where she was or whom she was with, she was always alone.

Indeed, loneliness is more acute when one is surrounded by supposed loved ones, and she could not stop the tears from falling from her left eye. She quickly turned to the side and tried to brush off the tears; she did not want the nurses to think that she was crying because she was scared of the operation. Hell no! This procedure was the least of her problems.

Or could her ailment be a physical manifestation of everything that she was bottling up inside? The past several weeks had been very difficult for her, and studies in mind-body science have proven that unresolved emotions often manifest themselves through illness or disease. The mass within her—the abscess—was probably an accumulation of all the hurt that she had refused to show anyone. After all, she was “strong”; nobody saw her when she cried.

An hour and a half later, the procedure was over, and the surgeon extracted from her a mass the size of a baby fist. Wow, that much junk in my body, huh? She thought as she put her hot pink racerback back on. The bandages were hideous—they ran from her chest to her right underarm and then a bit to her right backside. But she felt better, stronger… as if the bandages were some badge of honor that showed the battle that she had just survived. She knew that people would stare at her as she waited for a tricycle that would take her back home. But she was used to it, and she couldn’t give a damn. She was wearing her hot pink racerback, and she felt strong—if only on the outside.

Sugar No More

For the past month or so, I've been gravely inconvenienced by abscesses in my underarm. It first looked like a tiny pimple, or a skin irritation that might have been caused by shaving. Then it grew into a huge lump the size of a jackstone ball, and I had to have it incised and drained. I thought that was the end of it.

A few days after that first "mini-surgery," another abscess came out. And another. The second one had to be incised and drained as well; the third just popped on its own (with some help from healing meditations that I've been performing), and the wounds seemed to have healed pretty well. I didn't have to worry much anymore--except for whether they will show when I wear my gown to Nicole's wedding.

When two more huge abscesses showed up a week or so after the second and third ones had healed, I knew there was something more to it.

After consulting with a new surgeon, I was told that the procedure I'd need would be more than incision and drainage. They'd have to open up my arm, take out whatever was under it, and... test me for diabetes.

DIABETES. I could hardly believe my ears! No-carb, diet-manic, repressed-eater-me, with diabetes?? It was impossible. The doctor asked me if my father has any history of diabetes in his family, and I just said no (because there really is no way of me finding out, is there?). Still, he insisted on me getting tested for it.

So, last night, after a 90-minute procedure, the doctors were able to extract a half-fist-sized abscess from under my arm. The cause? Excessively high blood sugar. I was "pre-diabetic."

"But, doctor," I explained, "I haven't been eating rice for three years now. I avoid pasta and carbs, and I really rarely eat sweet stuff anymore."

"Juice? Softdrinks?" he asked.

"None, just water. I've even junked green tea for about a month already."

He grinned in a manner that I couldn't decipher. "Then thank God you eat the way you do, or you'd be diabetic by now."

Everything just seemed to go on slow motion as he filled out prescriptions for three kinds of medicines that I had to pop into my mouth after every meal. I know it's not a big deal for many, but for me, needing to take medication is like violating some kind of lifestyle ethic. I NEVER take medicines--not for headaches, not for pains, not even vitamins. And it's not because I'm some stubborn ass who just refuses to take my meds; it's because I believe in natural healing, and (so far) I've been pretty successful at living a healthy, wholesome lifestyle free of synthetic drugs.

So, here I am, trying to take it easy and make sense of things... while trying to ignore the bulky bandages that have been strapped around my arm and chest. I know that this is just a minor thing, really--nothing earth-shattering like many illnesses that other people have survived--but it still makes me feel out of focus.

The girl who writes "A Spoonful of Sugar" has apparently had a spoonful too many... *Sigh* Life sure has a sense of humor. (I'm still waiting to regain mine.)

Openness and Vulnerability

Via Filipina 2007 No. 22
Openness and Vulnerability
By Niña Terol


Last night I wrote—and quite openly, too—about a deeper issue that I had been contending with for quite some time now. In processing my questions concerning my romantic relationship, I inevitably ended up looking at my parents’ marriage and how my own broken relationship with my father has influenced many of the fears that I now face.

And I suppose that catharsis is often accompanied by moments of guilt and self-doubt, because the first thought that entered my mind this morning was: Did I really write all of that for the entire world to see?? What on earth was I thinking??

Clearly, acknowledging that I had all these feelings was one thing, but declaring them to the world was another. I know people (aside from my own mother) who would berate me for writing so candidly about our family’s “dirty laundry”. There was even one time when I got “hate mail” from someone I didn’t know who thought that I was being very annoying for broadcasting my life to the world.

I say to that: To each, his own.

* * * * *

I find some comfort in the words of Indian Nobel Prize winner, Rabindranath Tagore: “For undisguised pursuit of self has its safety in openness, like filth exposed to the sun and air.” In my search for a deeper sense of identity and purpose, I have discovered that there is, indeed, some security in openness, for what else do people have to take away from me or accuse me of when I have already laid it out there for everyone to see? There is no secrecy, there is no guilt, there is no tension between what the mind knows and what the Self experiences.

Conversely, I find that the more closed I am—the more I deny myself of my thoughts and feelings—the more vulnerable and exposed I feel. It’s like I’m always second-guessing others and myself, always paranoid about whether my words were revealing much more than they should, always tiptoeing, afraid of stepping on broken glass and hurting myself. But then, you see? The act of hiding, the act of tiptoeing, the act of denying—that, in itself, is hurtful. It’s hurtful not only me, but also to the people whom I hold dear. (Nobody likes to be around a volcano that’s always about to erupt.)

So, my dear friends, please indulge me in my openness. (At least if you get bored of the soap operas that are playing onscreen, you can always tune in to the soap opera of my life. It’s free of charge, too!)

* * * * *

In my other blog, Soul Work, I chose this line by the German philosopher Martin Buber as my Quote of the Day:

Then, it requires me time after time to thank my fellow-man even when he has not done anything special for me. But for what? For encountering me for real when he encountered me; for opening his eyes and perceiving reliably what I had to tell him; yes, for opening what I talked to: the well-closed heart.

I dedicate this line to you, my dear readers and friends, who, by reading my words have acknowledged who I am and what I seek. You have seen me and have not judged me, you have even encouraged me and pushed me to go forward. In sharing my life and my experiences with you—whether I know you already or know you through the Universe’s mind—you have made me richer, fuller, more myself, and more able to face the challenges of the day.

Thank you.

My Father, My Self

Via Filipina 2007 No. 21
My Father, My Self
By Niña Terol


Last night, I had the most horrible, most violent dream. I dare not describe it in detail here for fear of being psychoanalyzed, but what shocked me most about it was that, in it, I committed a heinous crime without beating an eyelash—and even looked at myself in the mirror, full of pride and faux girlish innocence, right after committing the act.

I could not forget the way I stared at the mirror, brushed my hair even, and smiled with so much peace and contentment. It was a side of me that I had not seen before, and I woke up repulsed by what my mind had just forced me to do.

And, somehow, I knew that it was all connected to my dad.

* * * * *

On my birthday this year, my dad stopped talking to me for the most inane, the most childish of reasons: I had failed to answer his calls confirming the time of the celebration because I was busy cooking and had left my phone in my bag. The Drama King that he has always been, he found this reason enough to declare me persona non grata in his life, and he has successfully kept me out of every family gathering that had happened since then. All because I was busy cooking my own version of Dad’s paella, which I had planned on presenting to him with pride that night.

This wasn’t the first time that my dad walked out on me. And I’m sure that—should we ever reconcile in time for my wedding—this won’t be the last.

The first time he did that was on Christmas Eve, 1985, when he packed his bags, left my mom and his children, and did not look back. It was a sad, numbing event, and I remember having spent most of my childhood years, maybe until I was eleven or twelve, hating my dad for it. I resisted spending weekends or holidays with him, avoided him whenever I could, and wrote him a looooong "hate letter" (on Little Twin Stars stationery, which he still keeps to this day) when I was nine. It was a terrible burden for me to bear when I was growing up, but somehow I got over it.

We somehow patched things up when I was in high school, and I spent a lot of years being Daddy’s Girl until a few years ago, maybe in 2000. For reasons I don’t remember anymore, Dad and I had a huge fight (over SMS), and we said our bitter goodbyes to each other. I did not talk to him for two years after that, and I did not feel the least bit guilty for it.

Now we’re back to the same old situation, and all because of that stupid paella.

* * * * *

Yesterday I found a book (for only Php40 in Book Sale!) titled The Wounded Woman: Healing the Father-Daughter Relationship. It was a twenty-plus-year-old book, but I decided to buy it anyway because the strain on my relationship with my father is slowly taking its toll on me. I need comfort. I need answers. Most of all, I need to know that what we have can still be repaired—because I don’t want repeating any subconscious patterns or cycles in my life and relationships. The destruction has to stop with me, in this lifetime. I grew up without a father; I can’t bear to have my children do the same.

Reading that book, I realized that I have a lot of deep-seated issues regarding abandonment and rejection. You see, my Dad is not my real father; my biological father is an Englishman with whom my mom had had a brief relationship while she was abroad in ‘79. His family did not approve of their relationship and he did not stand up for it, so Mom moved back to the Philippines when she found out that she was pregnant with me. She told me that she had sent him photos of me during the first few months of my life, and he had offered to help support me, but her pride refused to allow her to accept that. We never met each other. (I checked him out online once, and even sent him an email asking if he knew my mom, and when he responded to the affirmative, I chickened out and never attempted to get in touch with him again.)

So there: my biological father does not know who I am, and, sadly, neither does my adopted father. Not anymore, at least.

And it consumes me because I know that I deserve to have them in my life! I deserve to be known, to be seen as more than just the fruit of my mother’s womb… and yet “the Dad issue” is just a hard, blank wall staring me in the face. I am sad, I am hurt, I am angry, and I don’t really know what to do about it.

Sure, I could always call my Dad and say sorry. But sorry for what? For making sure that people were fed properly during my party? For preparing his specialty dish because I so wanted his approval that night? For putting him on a pedestal (at least these last few years) and still believing that Dad does want to make it up to us? Isn’t he the one who should be saying sorry for messing up our lives so badly (and doing it over and over again)?

Silence. There are no answers. At least not right now.

* * * * *

And so, at least in my mind, my bitterness toward my fathers has pushed me to commit a truly grievous act, a sin that will put me in the lowest depths of Dante’s Inferno. I do not know this girl who looked back at me in the mirror with a sly, malicious look on her seemingly innocent face. But I fear that, until my issues with my paternal images are resolved, she will continue to haunt my nights—and possibly manifest her hatred in my waking world.

So I write, and write still... To keep the silence and the fears away for the meantime...