Scarred
May 14, 2014, 10:59 PM
Great Love,
I am writing to and about you now because I am so torn and don’t know what to feel about you, about this and about everything anymore. I am writing to and about you again because I want you to know what I feel and think right now, even if you won’t ever read this. And I miss you. A lot. And I love you so much this epic yearning brings tears to my eyes every fucking time.
I am so jealous right now. And so confused. I learned that this particular female friend you have is somewhat romantically linked to you – and the silly thing is, all this time I felt threatened by a
different girl! I knew it – I knew she has a special place in your heart. I already had a hunch about it but I refused to believe. She is so pretty – even
I would have a liking for her. And would you look at that: you and her share a lot of interests, like your love for technology and concerts. How can I compete with that? I have no interest with technology or gadgets or anything that requires numbers and mechanisms, and I’d probably die in a packed concert, especially in a mosh pit. It is a pity. I should’ve known that you and I barely share the same interests. Yes, we both like Paramore and
Harry Potter, but who doesn’t? Yes, we both listen to The Summer Set and Parachute, but that’s because I recommended them to you! If I didn’t you’d live your whole life not knowing about their awesomeness.
I should’ve known better. We are
not compatible. The thing they say about magnets and how opposites attract is more or less an utter
bullshit. Not true at all! It’s always the one you relate to the most that you end up with. And I know you and her aren’t dating yet (that’d be the end of me), but the fact that both of you have spent some memorable times together just
slaps me with reality – that pining for you is stupid and fruitless. Think about it: all we’ve ever really shared are awkward hi’s and hello’s, moments that I consider unforgettable but also cringe-worthy. Reality slapped me so hard it’s impossible not to wake up from this blissful make-believe. It stings like a bitch.
I am in love with you. I love you, and despite what the odds are showing me, what those photos are telling me, what those posts mean, what your friends say about you two having “sparks”, I’m not giving up on this. I know it’s stupid, and crying over this will make me look more stupid, and telling you about it will be the most retarded thing ever, but I love you enough to continue loving you even if it hurts. I love you enough to succumb to the pain until I become so numb. I love you enough to accept each blow to my heart, like the shitty masochistic that I am.
I actually don’t know why I’m doing this to myself – and why I’m doing this to you, although indirectly. I could’ve forgotten you, moved on and liked someone else. I could’ve asked myself, “Why do I still love you despite our differences and our not-so-brilliant fate?” And I could’ve answered. But I’m lovesick, and in the end, it’s always you. For almost four years, it has
always been you. I’ve tried so hard to cease this yearning: for a few months, I scrutinized you and made up this guy in my mind that was such a douchebag, made up someone I’d never like. And it pained me. But all of those proved futile. I
cannot stop myself from loving you. Even though you have these qualities I don’t like, the things I love most about you overshadow those that I don’t. It seems like I’ll always find a way to love you, even from a distance, even if you haven’t any idea about it, even if I know someone else might’ve already taken dibs to your heart.
This may sound ridiculous and this metaphor won’t be your most favorite thing, but you know, you’re like a
wound. You’re like a wound that throbs in pain every time too much force is put into it. You’re a wound that heals in time and becomes a scab. You become a scab that I can’t ignore. And doctors say not to pick on scabs or it’ll become a scar. But I’m a stubborn child, so I pick on this scab that is you. I peel the crust off; it hurts. Once I peeled at the wrong time and the wound bled. I opened the wound and the process of healing starts all over again. And in time, it becomes a scar. Because of my stubbornness, this once harmless wound left a scar, a permanent mark on my skin that would forever remind me of the pain and the stupidity. But you know what? I’ve always believed that I’m not a flawless person. I am no porcelain; I am scarred in and out.
You are one of my scars, a scar I cherish instead of hate. No matter what happens, no matter what you do, no matter who you end up with, you will eternally be imprinted on me. I love you enough to let you leave a mark on my life.
I just hope that someday, you’ll allow me to leave a mark on your life, too.
Maybe one day I’ll forget about you and forget about this, but until then, I love you.
P.S.: Happy birthday.
Family Affairs
For the whole month of April I lived in Naga City. For one whole month I lived with my grandmother. For thirty days I lived with my father – and his second family.
What is awkward.
To be honest, in the end, it didn’t feel too awkward. I didn’t feel very weird to the point that I’d like to evaporate already. Of course there was tension – there will
always be tension. Of course, eye contact was very limited and conversations were kept to a minimum. Everything was normal, but not the cozy kind of normal. Instead, it was
civil, like a platonic working relationship, like what you’d have with someone who used to be your best friend but had a scene with and now you’re trying to patch things up again. The relationship is there, but you know that what you have right now will never equal to what you had before all hell broke loose.
At first, yes, I didn’t know what to say or how to act around them. The moment I came in, you could just feel the weird air settle in and create this invisible barrier separating me from the stepmother and stepsiblings. What was more painful was that even with my father, I felt the tension. I separated myself from my
parent. What a
twisted thing to do. For the first couple of days, I avoided them. I couldn’t handle family awkwardness so I dodged them, kept my distance as much a possible, holed up in my grandmother’s room till I rot, read more than what was necessary, plugged my earphones on like the outsider that I was.
But as time progressed, I was able to be my normal self around them. I could walk inside the house without looking at the ground the whole way. They included me in meal conversations, in which I was able to respond without stammering or embarrassing myself by spouting water from my nose. It was okay; everything was fine.
The biggest revelation to me in my one month stay with the second family was this: I discovered a lot of things that made me understand why, why my father chose them instead of us, why they’re still whole and intact despite all the negativity they get from my grandmother, why they are still a picture of a happy family despite everything. I also learned to like them. I realized that they’re not as bad as what they tell you in movies and novels. The stepmother isn’t always so evil; the stepsiblings won’t always take your precious toy and claim it as theirs. This is the real world, not Cinderella’s. Maybe that’s why I learned to like them: because I finally had the chance to get to
know them better, to counter the ideas I had of them before that, to be honest, weren’t very promising. And most importantly, I was lucky to have one month with them for me to learn how to forgive.
Growing up without a father and a complete set of parents was hard. Back when I was younger, I couldn’t even talk about it, didn’t say that my parents are separated and I’m living only with my mother and brother, that our table lacks one leg. Why? Because it was
embarrassing. Being friends with kids who come from a complete and blissful family made me feel sad. School activities that required the participation of the whole family was torture. I looked at them and then I looked at myself, and I compared, and I only felt
pity. But when I grew older and experienced things and met new people, I realized that my life isn’t so bad, that others have it worse, that I’m lucky to have a parent and not totally an orphan. I learned to be grateful for and cherish what I have.
So now I’m talking about it because I feel proud that my mom is able to raise me and my brother well. I’m now talking about it because I already know why my father chose his second family. I’m now opening up because I already forgave and learned to accept.
I didn’t know why it took me so long to forgive – it’s one of the best feelings to ever exist in the human psyche. It feels like a burden has been relieved off your shoulders. The heart feels lighter; smiling doesn’t feel too forced. I accepted the reality that my father will never come back to us, that my family will never be complete again, that we just have to continue getting used to the table missing a leg. I learned that my father is better off with his second partner/wife, because I saw, in my stay, that he’s happier with her. They fit together perfectly; they complement each other; they make each other laugh. They are happy together. And maybe another reason why I learned to accept this is that I already know my parents – I imagine them together and can’t come up with that scene where both of them are happy. I can’t imagine them together; they’d be like two pieces of a puzzle that just wouldn’t connect together, that they’re pieces that belong to two
different puzzles, that forcing them together is both painful and impossible.
I am happy for my father. I am happy for my stepmother and my stepsiblings because they are able to find happiness in this world. I am happy for my mother because she has my brother and I and we’re too awesome to handle. I am happy for myself because I forgave and now have fresh perspectives in life.
Life is wonderful. It is imperfect, but it’s still wonderful.
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Scarred
May 14, 2014, 10:59 PM
Great Love,
I am writing to and about you now because I am so torn and don’t know what to feel about you, about this and about everything anymore. I am writing to and about you again because I want you to know what I feel and think right now, even if you won’t ever read this. And I miss you. A lot. And I love you so much this epic yearning brings tears to my eyes every fucking time.
I am so jealous right now. And so confused. I learned that this particular female friend you have is somewhat romantically linked to you – and the silly thing is, all this time I felt threatened by a
different girl! I knew it – I knew she has a special place in your heart. I already had a hunch about it but I refused to believe. She is so pretty – even
I would have a liking for her. And would you look at that: you and her share a lot of interests, like your love for technology and concerts. How can I compete with that? I have no interest with technology or gadgets or anything that requires numbers and mechanisms, and I’d probably die in a packed concert, especially in a mosh pit. It is a pity. I should’ve known that you and I barely share the same interests. Yes, we both like Paramore and
Harry Potter, but who doesn’t? Yes, we both listen to The Summer Set and Parachute, but that’s because I recommended them to you! If I didn’t you’d live your whole life not knowing about their awesomeness.
I should’ve known better. We are
not compatible. The thing they say about magnets and how opposites attract is more or less an utter
bullshit. Not true at all! It’s always the one you relate to the most that you end up with. And I know you and her aren’t dating yet (that’d be the end of me), but the fact that both of you have spent some memorable times together just
slaps me with reality – that pining for you is stupid and fruitless. Think about it: all we’ve ever really shared are awkward hi’s and hello’s, moments that I consider unforgettable but also cringe-worthy. Reality slapped me so hard it’s impossible not to wake up from this blissful make-believe. It stings like a bitch.
I am in love with you. I love you, and despite what the odds are showing me, what those photos are telling me, what those posts mean, what your friends say about you two having “sparks”, I’m not giving up on this. I know it’s stupid, and crying over this will make me look more stupid, and telling you about it will be the most retarded thing ever, but I love you enough to continue loving you even if it hurts. I love you enough to succumb to the pain until I become so numb. I love you enough to accept each blow to my heart, like the shitty masochistic that I am.
I actually don’t know why I’m doing this to myself – and why I’m doing this to you, although indirectly. I could’ve forgotten you, moved on and liked someone else. I could’ve asked myself, “Why do I still love you despite our differences and our not-so-brilliant fate?” And I could’ve answered. But I’m lovesick, and in the end, it’s always you. For almost four years, it has
always been you. I’ve tried so hard to cease this yearning: for a few months, I scrutinized you and made up this guy in my mind that was such a douchebag, made up someone I’d never like. And it pained me. But all of those proved futile. I
cannot stop myself from loving you. Even though you have these qualities I don’t like, the things I love most about you overshadow those that I don’t. It seems like I’ll always find a way to love you, even from a distance, even if you haven’t any idea about it, even if I know someone else might’ve already taken dibs to your heart.
This may sound ridiculous and this metaphor won’t be your most favorite thing, but you know, you’re like a
wound. You’re like a wound that throbs in pain every time too much force is put into it. You’re a wound that heals in time and becomes a scab. You become a scab that I can’t ignore. And doctors say not to pick on scabs or it’ll become a scar. But I’m a stubborn child, so I pick on this scab that is you. I peel the crust off; it hurts. Once I peeled at the wrong time and the wound bled. I opened the wound and the process of healing starts all over again. And in time, it becomes a scar. Because of my stubbornness, this once harmless wound left a scar, a permanent mark on my skin that would forever remind me of the pain and the stupidity. But you know what? I’ve always believed that I’m not a flawless person. I am no porcelain; I am scarred in and out.
You are one of my scars, a scar I cherish instead of hate. No matter what happens, no matter what you do, no matter who you end up with, you will eternally be imprinted on me. I love you enough to let you leave a mark on my life.
I just hope that someday, you’ll allow me to leave a mark on your life, too.
Maybe one day I’ll forget about you and forget about this, but until then, I love you.
P.S.: Happy birthday.
Family Affairs
For the whole month of April I lived in Naga City. For one whole month I lived with my grandmother. For thirty days I lived with my father – and his second family.
What is awkward.
To be honest, in the end, it didn’t feel too awkward. I didn’t feel very weird to the point that I’d like to evaporate already. Of course there was tension – there will
always be tension. Of course, eye contact was very limited and conversations were kept to a minimum. Everything was normal, but not the cozy kind of normal. Instead, it was
civil, like a platonic working relationship, like what you’d have with someone who used to be your best friend but had a scene with and now you’re trying to patch things up again. The relationship is there, but you know that what you have right now will never equal to what you had before all hell broke loose.
At first, yes, I didn’t know what to say or how to act around them. The moment I came in, you could just feel the weird air settle in and create this invisible barrier separating me from the stepmother and stepsiblings. What was more painful was that even with my father, I felt the tension. I separated myself from my
parent. What a
twisted thing to do. For the first couple of days, I avoided them. I couldn’t handle family awkwardness so I dodged them, kept my distance as much a possible, holed up in my grandmother’s room till I rot, read more than what was necessary, plugged my earphones on like the outsider that I was.
But as time progressed, I was able to be my normal self around them. I could walk inside the house without looking at the ground the whole way. They included me in meal conversations, in which I was able to respond without stammering or embarrassing myself by spouting water from my nose. It was okay; everything was fine.
The biggest revelation to me in my one month stay with the second family was this: I discovered a lot of things that made me understand why, why my father chose them instead of us, why they’re still whole and intact despite all the negativity they get from my grandmother, why they are still a picture of a happy family despite everything. I also learned to like them. I realized that they’re not as bad as what they tell you in movies and novels. The stepmother isn’t always so evil; the stepsiblings won’t always take your precious toy and claim it as theirs. This is the real world, not Cinderella’s. Maybe that’s why I learned to like them: because I finally had the chance to get to
know them better, to counter the ideas I had of them before that, to be honest, weren’t very promising. And most importantly, I was lucky to have one month with them for me to learn how to forgive.
Growing up without a father and a complete set of parents was hard. Back when I was younger, I couldn’t even talk about it, didn’t say that my parents are separated and I’m living only with my mother and brother, that our table lacks one leg. Why? Because it was
embarrassing. Being friends with kids who come from a complete and blissful family made me feel sad. School activities that required the participation of the whole family was torture. I looked at them and then I looked at myself, and I compared, and I only felt
pity. But when I grew older and experienced things and met new people, I realized that my life isn’t so bad, that others have it worse, that I’m lucky to have a parent and not totally an orphan. I learned to be grateful for and cherish what I have.
So now I’m talking about it because I feel proud that my mom is able to raise me and my brother well. I’m now talking about it because I already know why my father chose his second family. I’m now opening up because I already forgave and learned to accept.
I didn’t know why it took me so long to forgive – it’s one of the best feelings to ever exist in the human psyche. It feels like a burden has been relieved off your shoulders. The heart feels lighter; smiling doesn’t feel too forced. I accepted the reality that my father will never come back to us, that my family will never be complete again, that we just have to continue getting used to the table missing a leg. I learned that my father is better off with his second partner/wife, because I saw, in my stay, that he’s happier with her. They fit together perfectly; they complement each other; they make each other laugh. They are happy together. And maybe another reason why I learned to accept this is that I already know my parents – I imagine them together and can’t come up with that scene where both of them are happy. I can’t imagine them together; they’d be like two pieces of a puzzle that just wouldn’t connect together, that they’re pieces that belong to two
different puzzles, that forcing them together is both painful and impossible.
I am happy for my father. I am happy for my stepmother and my stepsiblings because they are able to find happiness in this world. I am happy for my mother because she has my brother and I and we’re too awesome to handle. I am happy for myself because I forgave and now have fresh perspectives in life.
Life is wonderful. It is imperfect, but it’s still wonderful.
← older / top / newer →
a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
