ejaydoeshisbest

[ejaydoeshisbest]

Maybe we’re just two old women taking care of each other.

I’m sorry I get exasperated with you.

It’s not just about your temper. It’s about me. It’s about the frustration I have with myself, and how I end up taking it out on you. Yes, you get on my nerves. Yes, you complain. Yes, you lash out. But I should know better. I shouldn’t let my emotions get the better of me. At least, not as frequently as this. Because no one wins when I do.

Instead, I hurt all of us more. I hurt you. I hurt the people around us. And then I hate myself for it. I feel icky and guilty. I like to think you’re still strong, still capable. But there’s no denying that you’re regressing to a baby. And maybe it helps to think of you as that: someone who doesn’t know any better. Someone who’s trying their best in a body that doesn’t cooperate. And like a grown adult with nothing to prove—and nothing to his name—I should be the one adjusting to your tantrums.

But it's so difficult.

Because I have so much on my plate. I'm juggling housework, academic requirements, taking care of you, and trying to take care of myself. And on top of that, the constant, gnawing pressure to make money to support us.

I had just recovered from a mental and physical illness that left me a husk of who I once was. Normal sicknesses usually last three days. At most, two weeks. I used to manage school during my asthmatic years, provided I had a nebulizer and inhaler. But this? This wiped out two whole years of my life. Two years I spent like a ghost, moaning and groaning inside this house.

Two years of youth—gone. Withered.

It was traumatic, what happened. And I still feel the effects. I still fear: Will my body ever be the same again? Or is this it? Will I decline this early, just like you?

I hate that I haven't amounted to anything. I fear I’ll never get the chance to prove myself—not even to myself. These are the boulders on my head. The sand in my brain. Worries. Debts. Fears. The constant, suffocating fear of money. Of worthlessness. Two years of unemployment, lola. Two years of draining resources from people older than me. The shame still stings like a giant wasp, its barb still lodged in my chest, pumping venom.

So, no. I can’t handle my emotions well. Not with all of this going on. And I get scared that I’m too weak to carry your emotions on top of mine. That makes me angry at myself.

To take care of you, I have to pretend that life is fine. Even when it’s not.

It takes a ton of positive self-talk to convince myself that I am capable and strong, but every day I’m teetering on the edge. I drag myself back from the precipice. Barely. And I just want to work on my own thing. I just want to make it work—for me. I want time to myself.

But instead, I have to keep navigating your fiery temper. A temper that only worsens when I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet, and you’re already complaining, already raising your voice—even when I’m doing my best to take care of you. Ang bigat na nga ng dinadala ko, pinabibigat mo pa. And maybe I am putting my blame on you—blaming you for my problems, for my regrets, for the pain I carry.

You're not making it easy for us.

Sometimes, at my lowest, I hate that I’m the one who’s stuck with you. All your children and all of my cousins are abroad, building their lives. And here I am. In this deteriorating, exhausting country. It angers me most that you had every opportunity to join them abroad, to enjoy healthcare and comfort. And yet you chose to stay. You stayed in the country of your birth, stubbornly, and left us—me—to worry about you here.

People would kill for the opportunities you walked away from. And I’m the one who has to deal with your stubbornness, your fiery moods, your pain, your anger. I wish I could tell you that I’m doing my best to be kind to myself. And yet, here you are, fighting me.

But when my frustrations cool, I feel ashamed. I will always be angry at your choices, but at the end of it all, all I can do is understand. All I must do is not challenge your outbursts, no matter how frequent. Your default setting now seems to be irritation. You’d rather be alone than be fussed over.

You are diabetic. You have arthritis. You live with chronic pain every day. What was easy a few years ago now feels impossible. When Lolo was still alive, you traveled freely, like the city was just next door. You didn’t care about the bumpy jeep rides or the heat. Now you can barely walk inside your own home. Every trip to the marketplace is a pilgrimage. You feel like there is sharp glass in your joints each time you take a step.

I hate that you feel old. I hate that you feel helpless. I hate that your body no longer does what you ask of it. And I should be more sensitive to that pain. After all, I’ve had my own version of it. So when I look at the sky at sunset, I try to remember this: maybe we’re just two old women taking care of each other.

Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

My grandmother has suddenly forgotten where her suki is, in the wet marketplace one morning.

My grandmother has suddenly forgotten where her suki is, in the wet marketplace one morning--a period in the day where the mind is said to be at its freshest. I stare at her, my heart falters. I quietly lead her down what used to be a familiar path. She stares at the stalls as if she's seeing them for the first time. People greet her as we pass them, and she smiles, and then she taps me on the shoulder and asks what their names were again. I should be glad that she still recognizes them.

She is beginning to unbutton her clothes. It isn't because of the heat. Her fingers continue to fidget even with the AC turned on. She is beginning to miss some of the words in my sentences, and she is catching strings of conversations I don't hear.

She walks slower. Slower than her usual. I notice it. I'm afraid the smallest pebble will trip her. I watch the ground, the road ahead, the reckless drivers who choose to forget that a pedestrian lane means they should slow down.

She is beginning to forget the names of the crops she uses for cooking, ever since she knew how to cook, a young girl in her province. She stares at the eggplant in her right hand, the tomato on the other. I count the change for her. I push her wallet deeper in her bag. It is a good thing she has many guard dogs about. Defenseless, she is not.

Years of preparing what it would look like does not lessen the hurt one feels as they witness the undesirable parts of aging to the people they love. Let time be kind to her, to all of us. I beg of you.

[ejaydoeshisbest]

To be born with some privilege in a third-world country is a miracle.

Thought #1 To be born with some privilege in a third-world country is a miracle. Not a day has passed since I was not aware of that. Yes, I complain. I bitch and moan about my chronic pain. Yes, I’m deformed and dramatic about it—but I still whisper gratitude each time I eat. There is food on my table. I have more than most. Every good thing that comes knocking feels like a divine favor.

Thought #2 At 30, I’m stepping forward, stepping back, standing still, stumbling, flying, thriving—all within the same day. I feel fragile and invincible, afraid and bold. I now have access to the things I once only dreamed of… yet I hesitate to touch them. I’ve learned I can cause order. I can cause chaos. I recognize my impact on others, and the weight that comes with growing older. I matter. And I don’t. That strange duality humbles me—sometimes enough to surrender to a higher power, other times to the crushing weight of simply existing.

Thought #3 Airplanes are glorious machines slicing through thick clouds. They remind me that there’s a life in motion somewhere else. I lift my arms again, pretending to soar. Some afternoons, I fold paper planes, casting them into the wind like spores from a mushroom. Maybe one tiny part of me will land in a place I’ve never been and make something of itself. Maybe one will grow where I couldn’t.

Thought #4 Some days, I feel like a potted plant, content to simply be, watching the world turn while dawn and dusk play across my leaves. Some days, I feel stranded, stuck tending to the fruits of someone else’s labor. I have made something of myself, I guess, but I feel like it still is not enough, and I acknowledge that that kind of thinking is stupid. I look up at the sky, see a plane cutting through the clouds, and I raise my arms. I pretend to fly, to flee, to uproot myself and take root in foreign soil, grazing in greener pastures far from here.

Thought # 5 By this point in my life, I’ve worn many suits to fool myself and others into thinking I’ve got my shit together, to camouflage my competency. I’ve juggled too many hats. My closet overflows with these disguises. The pile is suffocating the version of me I’ve buried beneath it all. It is time for a decluttering.

Thought #6 Sometimes I find myself sipping black coffee in a cafe, typing words on a computer that somehow earns money. Look at me, doing adult things in adult clothes with adult accessories and adult responsibilities. But when I look in the mirror, I see a boy in grown-up clothes holding a Pokéball full of childhood dreams. I feel trapped in the knot of all my intertwining decisions leading to different paths. I am getting older without committing to one. I still dance in my underwear when no one’s watching. I imagine myself in tall grass by a mountain lake, watching dragonflies dance and duel. I think I’ll still be that boy at 50. Please let me still be that boy even at 50.

Thought #7 The bad parts of me have worsened. I try to keep them in check. The good parts I reserve for myself and for the few I trust and adore. I’ve made peace with putting myself first. Call it selfishness. I call it self-preservation. No shame in that. I’ve finally gotten good at being good to myself.

Thought #8 One thing has stayed the same throughout all the mess and motion: I feel my best when I’m alone.

Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

He thinks he’d rather be poor but free to roam the world as he pleases than be stuck as a corporate wage slave.

She holds the tiny bottle of serum up where the spotlights make it shine, and the crowd cheers as if it were the elixir of the gods. Her skin is flawless and luminous. Her fingers, dainty.

The man rolls his eyes in the dark. He holds the camera steady just as the confetti falls, angling for the perfect shot of the pretty hand holding the expensive-looking thing.

Product launches always drained him. By mid-afternoon, he was already depleted. The noise turned him deaf; the shouting dulled his senses.

He thinks of things that would be a better use of his time—none of them cost a dime.

He’d rather be poor but free, roaming the world as he pleases, than trapped in this corporate circus. Fanfare, parties, ridicule, and the pretentious, nonsensical bullshittery of making money in the modern age.

He sighs. Alas, remain he must. It’s too late now, anyway. Dreams are for the hopeful, the healthy, the young. Reality crushes him beneath a pile of bills, debt, and healthcare.

The multi-colored lights hit his face and arms—a rainbow cast upon the grayness of his monotonous life. Four years of university... for this.

He wants to rip the smiles off every pretentious influencer and wannabe minor celebrity on stage. He scoffs at their scripted words, their hollow handshakes. He resists groaning at the motivational speakers and their “grind-set” gospel. He rolls his eyes at the “star employees” boasting about their wealth through grit and gut.

“Scam,” he wants to shout. “Pyramid schemes! MLMs!”

He recoils at the thought of the article he has to write next—to convince people this overpriced serum from a shady MLM company will cure their deepest insecurities. That this tiny bottle is the holy grail—capable of erasing acne scars and wrinkles, capable of making them finally feel beautiful. Conventionally attractive. Acceptable. According to warped standards built in a metropolitan jungle where everyone preens and pouts and plucks themselves for validation.

He hates the buzzwords he’s expected to use: “Holistic.” “The new you.” “Glow-up.”

He hates the idea that self-care now means exfoliating yourself into conformity.

He wants to wipe away the excess moisture from this silly, wasteful, multi-step skincare ritual. He feels sick knowing he, too, is part of this machine.

He misses warm breezes. Crops. A cozy place to call home. Furry ears to scratch during lazy afternoons. Those things made sense.

He throws his head back, the stereo pounding through his skull. He exhales, slow and tired, then looks back into the camera’s viewfinder—to capture a glowing image of the has-been starlet who snapped at him in the elevator earlier.

Later, back in the prison of his office cubicle, his fingers curl atop the keyboard as he forces himself to make her look like a darling saint in the middle of a scandal.

Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

Autism in a Bookstore

Recently, I encountered a teenager with special needs inside Fully Booked at TriNoma mall. I was quietly scanning the back of a book, feeling the comfortable quiet of a bookstore when an outburst made me almost drop it to the ground.

I saw an overweight teen walk past my aisle, almost pushing people out of the way as he charged toward the comic section. I won't sugarcoat it—he looked like a walking medical issue. His heavy steps slightly shook the ground. I thought he was a spoiled rich kid prancing around in the metro before I realized he was on the spectrum. His initial outburst made it sound like he was Daddy's arrogant little boy. But it was obvious afterward that he was on the spectrum.

The teen stayed in the bookstore for more than half an hour. He was unruly, shouting obscenities and narrating his innermost thoughts for the crowd to hear. None of that was his fault, of course. My main concern was determining if the staff had experience dealing with this situation. Already, one staff's reaction was to mockingly mimic the autistic person's shouts and movements. Others were staring, unsure of how to proceed. The lady guard had a stern, irritated look that made me think she was going to throw him from the store. Others chuckled and pointed. I sighed inwardly: simple-minded Filipinos love to laugh at a spectacle.

I understood where she was coming from, though. To some of them, the autistic person was causing a scene. From the moment he entered, he was speaking loudly, unaware of how his volume affected those around him. I tried to diffuse the situation somehow by frowning at the man who mocked the teen's disability, so that other staff members would see it was not a laughing matter, and to continue back to my book as if there was no disturbance. Thankfully, other customers chose the same tactic and went back to their shopping or reading, and those who could not stomach the disruptive noise chose to leave. To be fair, the words coming from his mouth were hurtful and taboo--words that you dare not say in public for fear of being labeled as "baliw".

My other concern was that the autistic person didn’t seem to have a guardian with him. I stepped outside to check if someone was watching over him but found no one. When I went back inside, I was glad to find some of the staff gradually adjusted their approach. There was that, at least. They spoke to him in softer tones and ensured that he wouldn’t damage any books.

Throughout the situation, I felt a mix of emotions—shock, irritation, discomfort, and concern. I couldn’t help but wonder: What if someone who lacked understanding decided to harm him? Did he have access to proper therapy and support? And even if he did, was it enough? AND WHERE THE F WAS HIS GUARDIAN?!

This experience made me reflect on a deeper issue: the lack of awareness and resources in the Philippines for individuals with autism, especially those on the more severe end of the spectrum. Many people express sympathy for autistic children who are quiet or easy to care for, but what about individuals like him—those who are loud, impulsive, and unpredictable? When they grow up and are no longer "cute," will society still extend the same compassion?

This moment was a reminder of how crucial education and proper support are for individuals with special needs. It also highlights the need for greater understanding and empathy from all of us. Facing these realities isn’t easy, but talking about them is the first step toward ensuring that people like him receive the care and acceptance they deserve in our community.

[ejaydoeshisbest]

Immediate Thoughts on the Movie "Hayop Ka" (You Animal) on Netflix.

Overall Impression I did not like it. While I loved the animation and found some of the dialogue funny, the story is cliché. “Hayop Ka,” directed by Avid Liongoren and produced by Rocketsheep Studio and Spring Films, unfolds like an overdone romantic-comedy/dramedy reminiscent of 80s–early 2000s Philippine cinema. The film features a toxic love triangle involving our dissatisfied, working-class protagonist Nympha (a common, but sexy, street cat), her macho mongrel boyfriend Roger (a janitor), and the high-society charmer Iñigo Villanueva (drawn as a Siberian Husky, perhaps to emphasize his foreign lineage).

Plot and Themes The basic premise: perfume-selling kitty Nimfa Dimaano must choose between her macho boyfriend Roger and the bourgeoisie business dog Iñigo. It immediately struck me as being overdone, overcooked, and overused, echoing the same tired narratives I’ve seen since childhood. Although the modern animation helped update the presentation and may have saved it from harsh reviews on Google and Rotten Tomatoes, I’m still unclear about the film’s deeper message. It appears to be a satirical portrayal of modern Philippine society, highlighting how the working class navigates poverty and oppression while clinging to dreams—often through the mundane rituals of sex and beef stew—all wrapped in a cartoonish, 90s movie vibe. Ultimately, the film leaves me wondering: are we all just animals acting on base instinct and primal desire, or are we depicted as such because we’re all fundamentally flawed? Or is it just a movie for horny adults with nothing much to do on a Saturday?

Humor and Sexuality The humor was somewhat entertaining, and I did chuckle at the sex jokes throughout the movie, especially during the pivotal shower scene where Nympha and Iñigo gave in to desire, even shouting lists of food items to replace their body parts. The thing is, the film relies heavily on dirty jokes and sexual innuendos. I’m glad there was at least some plot to keep it from becoming merely an adult, lewd spectacle. It’s clear that the film intends to showcase the evolving, open-minded sexuality of Pinoys.

Characters and Their Arcs Every major character is driven by desire, whether personal or carnal, from the protagonist to the aristocratic villains. While I appreciate their flaws, I wish the story made them more sympathetic and three-dimensional. Unfortunately, the moments meant to add depth instead lean on outdated, overused tropes.

For example, Nympha is depicted as a common street cat struggling to provide for her family back in the province. She is caring for her sibling and aging mother, while her little sister is pregnant at a young age. This portrayal left a bitter aftertaste, with the only redeeming factor being the stunning animation and art style. In the end, she becomes pregnant with Roger's baby and decides to go through the pregnancy without his support.

I also expected Nympha to rise above her station as she faced consequences—to learn her lesson, stand strong, and either find a man worthy of her or become an independent, badass woman. Instead, the ending credits hint at her pairing with a simple, ugly frog named Jerry, whom she met earlier as Inigo's chauffeur. Granted, Jerry is much nicer than both male leads: he is honest and hardworking, qualities that far surpass those of Inigo and Roger. Meanwhile, Roger ends up living with her ex-best friend, Jhermelyn, (more on her later), happily dodging child support, and Iñigo, despite being comically launched from his office building when he proposed a throuple with Nympha and another upper-class girl, remains a rich, charming asshole who scoffs at the poor.

Nympha’s ex-best friend, Jhermelyn—a rabbit who openly displayed her desire for Roger early on—settles for being a backup option for Roger when he and Nympha break up, and is unashamed when Nympha discovers their relationship when she seeks her comfort in tough times.

In the end, both Nympha and her early-pregnant sister seem to perpetuate the cycle of poverty. While one might imagine that Nympha ending up with Jerry could signal a healthy, stable relationship, it instead feels like a rushed nod to the classic Pinoy humor trope of the beautiful girl falling for the ugly guy, with no real development or romance established beyond him simply being present at their usual beef stew shop.

As for Inigo Villanueva, his subplot deserved more exploration. Scenes hint at his impatience with common people and his willingness to trample over them—taking their land for building projects, for example. I wish he had experienced a fall from grace, had his ego been knocked down, or even learned from his misdeeds. Instead, his fate was played purely for laughs.

A brief scene that stuck with me was when Nympha called the radio DJ near the end. The DJ tore into her character, voicing exactly what the audience would have shouted. It reminded me of those late-night college calls to radio hosts for advice. Missed the way they cut through all the caller's bullshit and called out their lies.

Voice Acting I did not like Angelica Pangilinan’s voice as Nympha, though her personality and quirky edge did shine through at times. On the other hand, I appreciated Robin Padilla as Roger, whose rough, deep-voiced bad boy persona fit perfectly. Sam Milby also delivered a fitting performance as Iñigo, embodying the super-rich, playboy archetype.

Conclusion In summary, while the animation and art style were commendable, the clichéd plot, overused tropes, and unsatisfying character arcs left me disappointed. I know I'd like to add more. But work and coffee calls.

[ejaydoeshisbest]

My grandmother is as tough as nails.

My grandmother is as tough as nails, as the saying goes. It feels like no force on earth will stop her indomitable spirit. I wish I had that in me. The kind of fighting spirit that takes a beating before it quits. If she ever quits. The kind that defies the limits that nature imposes upon her. Her joints are as stiff as winter-touched poles. Her bones creak and crack like glass. Yet she insists on continuing her daily battles; the weeds must be pulled, and her gardens must thrive. Her hands—joints bulging, fingers coarse—pick stones, unclog canals, and cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner. My grandmother is ancient but insists on carrying on even with diabetes and arthritis. She will defy the odds age has given her; her tiny, crooked, bent self waddling along her property. She does this, I know, to feel useful; for her family to see that she is all right and still functioning, even as we all can plainly see that her strength is failing. We applaud her, but we are not fooled. She does this because to be a burden for her children would be unthinkable. We don’t want to treat her as an invalid, but we also do not want her to hurt herself. Even as the cruel fog descends to distort her memories, even as it obscures her judgment and rationale most days, the love for her family urges her to always move. Like a shark refusing to stop, because to stop would be the end of her, she fears. I want to be like her. Even as every step feels like climbing a mountain, I want to always find the resolve to move and act. I want to be the kind of person who forces themselves to walk and care for their garden, and cook chicken and fish for their grandchildren—this timeless recipe that flings me back to a time when I was smaller and bonier than I am now, with scruffy knees and dirt-encrusted fingernails. I want to believe that I still could do things. I want to shut the toxic voice in my head and ignore the limitations my body is warning me about and charge through. Because it isn’t about me anymore: it’s about what good I can do for the people I love. I wish the skies would smile on me like they do for her. I want them to bless me too. I would love to be unflinching in the throes of pain, to carry on like a soldier, to keep giving, and to keep sacrificing for my family. Let me be strong like Lolo was and how tough my Lola is. Let me honor them through that.

Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

Memento mori—remember, you will die.

Year-end reflections. Part 5. Ninth. Memento mori—remember, you will die. Life is finite, so savor each moment fully. Embrace every emotion, but don't cling to either sadness or joy. One breeds despair, the other toxic positivity. Balance is key. You don’t know which day is going to be your last. Youth makes you feel like you’ve got all the time in the world. You feel invincible—until you don’t. You might be 28 when sudden mental and physical illness strikes. You don’t know when everything you worked hard for will be taken away. Count your blessings, whether that be beauty, health, or wealth. You’ve heard stories of people who were fit and healthy developing a simple cough that turned into pneumonia, wiping out their health and emergency fund. Gone in an instant after years of toil. Your old high school teacher is fighting breast cancer. Several more are treating tumors. A cousin’s coworker died of meningitis, thinking it was just a stress-induced headache. An uncle had a stroke. These people were once as strong as trees, as radiant as flowers. Some have decayed. Others are trying to face the sun, still, despite their withering stems. Treasure every moment. Life is good one day, then dark the next. How quickly storm clouds block out the summer sun. Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

Life is unpredictable and unfair: accept it.

Year-end reflections. Part 4. Eigth: Life is unpredictable and unfair: accept it. Use your youth and current assets to enjoy and appreciate your life without being a hedonist. People are built differently. Some people get to be born beautiful. Some people come out of the womb deformed. Some get disfigured later in life. But everyone experiences pain. Ejay, accept your deformity with grace and compassion. Get comfortable with the daily, constant pain, because that is what your life is and what your life will continue to be. When you are 40 or 50, there is a probability that you will look like the crooked man in that old nursery rhyme. You have got to stop feeling insecure and daydreaming of another life. You knew this would happen as soon as your saw that curve on your pre-teen body. You knew that that the years will twist that small hump. Back then, you could hide your deformity and pretend it didn’t exist. Not anymore. Stare at your worsening scoliosis, and prepare yourself for the pain that comes in every waking hour of every single day. Your right shoulder will always be higher, your head will always be off-center, and your chest will continue to be uneven. That is what you will see in every mirror and every photograph. Accept it. Live your life the best way you know how as you twist into a pretzel. But hey, keep working out, and when people stare at you in the gym because of your obvious deformities, just smile back. Be polite. Assume they are just curious. Very rarely do people express disgust about a condition. Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

2020 - 2023 felt like your missing years, blipped out of existence.

Year-end reflections. Part 3. Seventh: Time Flies, Ejay. 2020 - 2023 felt like your missing years, blipped out of existence. Which is why you feel like 27. But you’re not. You are 30. Still young, sure, but not as young as your twenties. You see it in the mirror: the lines behind your eyes. Your back feels stiff as you climb out of bed in the morning. You’re losing strength, stamina, and speed. At the gym, younger men with smooth skin and taut muscles sprint about like gazelles in the wilderness. They recover faster, run longer, and seem invincible. Naramdaman mong tumatanda ka na dahil tumatanda na din ang mga tao sa paligid mo. Si Aling Gina sa karinderya ang bagal na kumilos. Nagkakamali pa minsan sa bigay ng order, nagkakamali sa panukli. You hope no one tries to take advantage of her. Kailangan mong ilakas boses mo dahil hindi na rin siya nakakarinig ng maayos, at kailangan na ng salamin para mamukhaan ka. At kahit walang pagbabago sa sarap ng luto niya, kita naman na siya ay tumatanda na rin. Your oldest nephew and nieces have begun to eneter college when last you remembered, they were in grade school with missing teeth. You also remember the neighbor’s kid being 14 years old last time you've seen him met. He is 22. You thought the last time you mest was a week ago. Ejay. Use your remaining strength to endure a bit of stress for a more secure future. Direct your energy to more meaningful and fulfilling goals before it’s too late. Before you realize that your strength is failing. Words: Ejay Diwas.

[ejaydoeshisbest]

Try to Be Kind in a Cruel World

Year-end reflections Part 2. Fourth: Try to Be Kind in a Cruel World It’s hard, I know. Especially when you struggle to be kind to yourself. But try anyway. Be kind, but be smart about it. Don’t let kindness turn you into a doormat for others to trample on. Be kind, but not a self-sacrificing martyr. Don’t be a fool. And when the time comes, know when to bear your fangs. Be kind, because slowly you are turning into a sour suplado. Fifth: Pain is Not Equal We all struggle and feel pain, but no two people experience it in the same way. It may be similar, like how a common cold catches, but pain is never equal and deeply personal. Sympathy is a superpower. Empathy could bleed you dry if you are not careful with boundaries. Sixth: Some Friends Come; Some Friends Go; Some Friends Return. You’ve been someone’s closest ally, just as you’ve lost your own. You’d never thought you’d lose one of your core best friends since childhood. But clearly one of you grew up while the other… remained a sick sorry mess of wasted potential. You cut off fair-weather friends offering empty promises of checking in. They offered uplifting words that rang hollow, and compassion that disappeared when you needed it most. They didn’t answer your calls and dropped you when you needed them. So, you returned the same cold energy. You cut out the man you once called a brother because his toxicity had no place in the life you’re building. But, hey, a silver lining: you reunited with people who align with your goals. They have changed, and so have you. Funny how paths diverge and meet again, depending on where life takes you. Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

It’s up to you to save yourself. No one will do it for you.

So, Ejay. Year-end reflections time. Part 1. Basically, these past two years were when you have learned and felt the weight of some cliché and common life advice. It’s up to you to save yourself. No one will do it for you. That is the first and most important lesson you’ve learned and will bring with you for the rest of your life. Other people may help you, but at the end of the day, it is up to you to dust yourself off and pick yourself up from the ground. You are responsible for yourself. Never ever completely rely on others. Remember the strength and stubborn independence of your youth. People have their own shit to deal with, their own crosses to bear. Do not add to their burden. If others offer you a helping hand, take it, but do not drag them down into your sorrows. If they insist on walking beside you on your most difficult times, have the decency to not abuse their strength and kindness. Take no more than what is offered. Do not be a leech. Side note: kung kinumusta ka ng tao na hindi mo naman ganon ka-close, say a simple “okay lang”. Because most of them don’t really care. Or they want some drama to break the monotonous boredom in their lives. Or they feel better to see you miserable. Second. Unresolved trauma and burnout tarnish your past and ruin your future. They will take from you the good days ahead. They corrupt your body from the inside out. Some of the sinister ones are silent. I imagine them as snakes—these silent traumas about to happen—sneaking into your system behind words of resilience and confidence; words like “kaya ko pa iyan, sige lang” and “wala ito, basic lang ito”. Words to justify abuse. Words that mask the pain. Words to fool yourself that everything is fine. Before you realize you need to stop for a second and breathe, you feel unnaturally exhausted. The snake’s venom had polluted you slowly without you noticing. Push through some pain, Ejay. Endure. Resilience builds character. But learn when to push your limits and when to rest. Try to pick your battles. I’m glad that you know when to say no to things. Keep doing that. Peace over novelty. Serenity and contentment over achievements. Third. I wish you used social media as a journal / photo dump long ago. Does wonders to quiet the mind and stop your insecurities from triggering. Post, then immediately log out without interacting with anyone and scrolling down. Maybe have a random day in a week for a quick peek at your friends’ current post. Doing this frees your phone gallery. Saves some actual journal pages, too. Use it the way it was first intended: as a free way to contact anyone you miss, not to seek updates from people you aren’t interested in. Or, frankly do not give a fuck about. Plus, it gives this bright burst of joy when you spontaneously reunite with an old friend or schoolmate in a public setting. I kind of like the feeling of reuniting with someone I lost touch with years ago. I want them to be a mystery to me. Also, good job in reudicng your Facebook friends from 1,100 to almost 500. Fourth. TRY to be kind in a cruel world. If not that, know when to bear your fangs. I know it’s hard, especially when you aren’t kind to yourself. You have to try, still. Be kind, but be smart abut it, too. Do not be a doormat for people to walk all over on. Be kind, but don’t be a self-sacrificing martyr. Do not be a fool. Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

Let me tell you what it feels like to return to your old self.

Let me tell you what it feels like to return to your old self: it’s like a rushing current of springwater from the mountains cleaned the gunk and muck out of the canals of your brain. It's like discovering a stack of vintage Pokémon cards you forgot you hid on a loose floorboard of your porch. It's like opening a bag of pleasant afternoon winds, like sitting down on a comfy chair and realizing someone has warmed it up for you. You smile at your reflection even though you look older: lines now pull your eyes and lips, but you do not care. Because you are smiling. You do not care about your dry skin and your many pimples; the red and black spots on your face and back and chest. All that matters is that you have limbs to work with. Ten fingers. Ten toes, too. It feels like sliding on gleaming floors—marble tiled floors that you swept and mopped. It feels like wiping the grime off windowpanes, like dusting off the shelves of your character. You discover your spine—that you have one after all. And you straighten it. And you walk as if your strides have purpose, that your path is clear. It feels like holding a guitar for the first time and strumming a few clumsy notes. It feels like swimming in rich hot chocolate when the wind threatens to blow the tin roof. Returning to yourself feels like the laughter you left years ago has returned to your throat, vibrating your atoms and your cells, kicking it alive. Your heart beats like… like when you skip stones on the surface of a spring-cooled pond. You have an urge to tear the curtains and wrap them around your neck like a scarf and flap them about like a fruit-bat searching for mangoes. It’s like wearing your pajamas when you were small and springy. Back when your teeth were loose. Back when bones mended easily. Back when your mother and father were giants. It feels like the ghosts of your past have revealed themselves to be familiar figures in the mist. They have blood and are warm and have been calling your name all this time. They want to pull you back with them, in a charming cottage with a garden full of crops and herbs. Returning to your old self feels like the sun hit you just right and all the world is fluffy and thorned. It is like getting familiar with yourself all over again, reacquainting with your dreams and insights. It is like reading your old journals, delighting over the strength of your spirit and the eagerness of your youth. You balk and you cringe and you touch the words with your fingertips and bring it on your bottom lip to taste. In some ways you have never grown, because when you lost yourself, you froze. Like someone hit the pause button only on your life. Trapped in an icy, misty limbo. And now that you’ve returned in this waking world, you want to start again at the age when you stopped trying. I don’t know if you have returned for good. But while you’re here, better make the most out of each good day. Welcome back. I have missed you. Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

I am six again.

I am six again. Holding my grandmother’s hand. Off to the marketplace. Breakfast at Jollibee, first. A vacant seat for lolo. My Lola will never allow me to get hungry. Never. She spoons me her creamy macaroni soup. “Akong bahala sa iyo, apo ko.” She’s been saying that since I was six. Since I was born.

She guides me inside the wet marketplace. Smell of raw meat circulating. Blood and marrow and bits of entrail sliding down the drains. So very familiar. Calls of “Suki, bili na kayo” reverberate.

My grandmother chooses the greenest vegetables, the ripest avocado. She balances each crop in her hand; judging, scrutinizing their quality with nothing but sight and instinct. She doesn’t see well anymore, save for picking the best ingredients to cook with. For her grandkids to grow strong and spry.

The fish flop about, dead-eyed, mouth and gills opening like shelves of an aparador. She waits for the life to leave it. When the bangus had stilled, my Lola points and tells her kumare to de-scale and de-bone. Then she grabs my shoulders and spins me around to face people: “This is my grandson,” she tells everyone she meets. “Look out for him. He takes care of me.” A blush at the inaccuracy of her words. All her family cares for her. All of us. I carry all three grocery bags. I support her as she walks. Just like I did when I was six.

The marketplace has not changed. The sky is blue. The sun is golden. The November wind is cool. We stop at Dunkin's for coffee and two whole butternuts. I wait as she replenishes herself, glad for her appetite. We buy her more grounded coffee at the drugstore. Decaf. Along with her maintenance meds. The ones for creaky joints and blood sugar. My Lola still buys me sweets like I am still six.

Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

Skincare Struggles in Your 20s: Why It’s Okay to Choose Simplicity Over Perfection

Thoughts about skincare. Journaled when I was in my early to mid-twenties.

I’m sick of using skincare.

No, that’s not accurate. I am sick of not seeing much improvement after rounds of skincare. Years—I’ve been doing this for years—only to be disappointed each time I look in the mirror and see the same number of blackheads and small, itchy bumps ruining my face. I’m sick of convincing myself each morning that it’s getting better when it’s not—it’s just not getting worse. Which is good, I guess.

To clarify, I’ve been using drugstore products. Neutrogena and other stuff. When I finally went to a dermatologist, my jaw dropped. Ain’t no way I am spending that kind of money for clear skin. That kind of money could cover a samgyupsal promo five times a month. That kind of money could fill a small bookshelf with the works of my favorite novelists. That kind of money could repair the many leaking faucets and broken tiles in our house. That kind of money could pay for a round trip to the beaches of Cebu.

I could use that money for actual health concerns, like complete bloodwork or therapy for my scoliosis. Or for my furbaby’s vet. I could use it for protein powder and creatine and nicer clothes. I could use it to treat my friends and family.

Besides, I am not a freaking influencer. It is not my job to look and stay pretty. Why am I trying so hard?

I’m not saying one shouldn’t invest in one’s appearance, of course. Pretty privilege is real. Charm and swagger can get you what you want in a shallow society that prizes beauty. But I’m going to make sure I do the bare minimum, because the effort isn’t worth it in my life. I am a couch potato who works remotely. I don’t need to see people. Even when I do, people aren’t there for my looks, anyway. I am not going to go to great lengths to maintain this.

Doesn’t mean I won’t stop feeling envious, though. I’d be lying through my teeth if I said looking at acne-free people didn’t make me want to claw at their flawless faces. Especially when both of our faces share a mirror. My eyes zip from their spotless complexion to my rough, dry one. But the momentary insecurity soon fades. They go their own way, and I go mine. I read books and write and do my work, and I forget it all. I pet my dog. I’ll be fine. I look in the mirror and shrug at the red, angry bumps I see there. I’m doing all I can to fight it.

I’ll buy the cheapest drugstore brands and stick to what works best. I’ll happily accept whatever soaps my relatives throw my way. But I’m not going to go to great lengths to improve this complexion.

I suppose I just want my old, unproblematic skin back. The one I had in high school and half of college. The kind of skin that remained clear even as I overate sugar and milk and stayed up way too late binge-watching or cramming for an exam. But I have to accept that this is my reality now.

It’s one less thing to worry about, too, especially with my constant struggles with scoliosis and other health concerns. Bumps and rough patches on my skin seem so trivial. If it worsens, I’ll reconsider a dermatologist. But until it causes me actual physical harm, I’ll just apply the most basic facial wash or bar soap, slather on sunscreen, and hope for the best.

Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

The Fragility of Life: Lessons from Some Stroke Survivors' Journey and the Value of Living Fully

Just a month ago, a mother of four kept pace with her youngest. Running and giggling in their garden. Before the stroke. Now she requires her youngest to feed her soft food through a tube. She can never move her mouth again. She can never chew or speak or do anything on her own. She needs her youngest to be brave. Braver beyond her years. The mother lies in the sunlight and I wonder if she feels that warmth. She is surrounded by the dogs she adopted and plants she tended. She is a plant herself, waiting to be watered. Her blooming roses and orchids and curling aloe veras reach for her. The irony.

If only the sunlight and water could sustain her; make her bloom again, growing roots to replace her damaged nerves and lifeless veins.

My heart breaks, my mind worries, each time I encounter stroke survivors, one hand curled and useless, one leg dragging the other. Others hold canes. Others are bound in wheelchairs, pushed by tired, patient carers. It is alarmingly concerning that I will always see one whenever I go outside, whether at malls, cafes, or parks. Double that alarming concern when they are relatively young, clearly-fit people. If that doesn’t confront your mortality and health, I don’t know what will.

Three stroke survivors in our street—in our street—alone. That is three people too many to my liking. One elderly. One middle-aged. One was that mother of four.

She worked tirelessly in a stressful environment to provide for her growing family. 10 hours a day. Maybe six times a week. It was probably the stress. Maybe it was poor diet and nutrition. She didn’t have time to cook healthy meals for herself, you see. Maybe it was genetics. Maybe it was the uncertainties of life spitting on her face. Whatever it was, a double stroke struck her down.

She went back to work after her first attack. Because what choice did she have? She’s got mouths to feed. This is the Philippines. Healthcare is reserved for the rich and privileged. Even then, it shits on the people at the far end of the line. Her second stroke reduced her to a vegetable not even three weeks after the first. She lies permanently bedridden, no hope of recovery.

I say stroke survivor, but not really. She is only waiting. They all are. The rest of her family crowds around her, all somber faces and gentle tones, like how one croons to an infant. Because that is what she is again. The children’s faces dim, no longer youthful. There is only pain behind their fixed smiles. And sorrow. And confusion. And bargaining. And anger. They ride their bikes at sunset when the world is cooler. Their bikes lay abandoned in their garage.

She was the worst case I’ve personally seen. It was hard to look, to digest that reality. Prior to her, the stroke survivors I’d seen still had some independence. At least they can still move. I remember the young fit girl in the therapy room at the hospital where they assessed my scoliosis curvature. The nurses patiently helped her walk as I did my stretches. I remember the professional dude at Starbucks with the jet-black slicked-back hair, managing to do his job. He uses his other stable hand to hold the phone on the side of his face where his lips can still move as he limps to claim his coffee.

Sometimes, the woman’s children recoil, unable to face the reality that their once-strong, enduring mother lies in diapers with a tube in her throat. To their eyes, she can bend the world to her will. She mends their clothes and heals their bruises with nothing but a kiss. My heart goes out to them. And I wish I was strong. So, so strong. So very strong that if any one of my family feels frail, I’d send them my strength so that none of us have to go through that tragedy. It is time to change her diaper. The people brace for the smell. The air turns foul. I thought I saw a tear slide down her cheek.

That is what I fear.

To suddenly be useless when most of my life I strived to become useful. To completely trust and rely on others to live–If you could call that living–when most of my younger years I yearned for independence. To be a dead-weight breathing, shitting doll, unable to sit or stand or hold anything without help. To be pitied. To be taken care of at an early stage of one’s life. To be still as the world turns.

For your mind to not even have the strength to form thoughts that once passed through your mouth with ease, your tongue unable to hold the weight of your words. Unable to say thank you and I’m sorry and I love you. There are only your eyes. You hope that people understand what you want to convey.

And the irony and tragedy of it all. You could work all your life, slave away under a corporate tyrant’s rule to earn a decent wage. You could even be smart about it. You could start a business or cult. You could deposit a hefty sum on your savings, your emergency fund, your insurance. But when it happens, it all goes poof.

It takes only for a tragedy of that magnitude to wipe away years of toil and tears and sacrifice instantly. To have no money as the mounting bills pile up. Savings turn to debts. Debts that you leave to your innocent family. You could work yourself to the bone, like she did, in a toxic workplace, for it to all mean nothing.

I stay away from people because I can be selfish and self-serving. But I also stay away so that they don’t waste their energy worrying about me. I cannot bear for people I love to care for me.

And people try to be positive, convincing themselves it won’t happen to them because they eat well and stay active and generally take care of themselves. It won’t happen, they think. Until it does: to them or the people they love. No one is guaranteed anything in this world. All that is guaranteed is the unexpected.

Thoughts go to my grandmother. Every morning, without fail, I hear her raking. Walistingting scraping the concrete, sweeping dried leaves. I push the possibility away of not hearing her raking anymore. If she would go, I pray she goes peacefully in her sleep, and in not that in that awful state. I wish the last thing she feels and sees is her husband’s embrace as she leaves.

I asked the woman’s caretaker once, how they managed to remain strong. I should have expected the answer, of course. Without hesitation, he enthusiastically pumps his fists in the air, pointing his finger at the sky. The Lord is with them. The Lord holds them close. I bite the words about to spill out. Why didn’t the Lord spare her the stroke and the heartbreaking aftermath? But the Lord is mysterious as they say. I did not return his smile. I leave him to his steadfast faith.

I am reminded to appreciate the breaths going in an dout of my lungs. I am reminded to break the limits my mind imposes and use my body and skills while I still can. While I still am young-ish. While I still can use my fingers and toes. I need to write. I need to say whatever it is I want to say. You, too. Use all your skills and talents and privilege and charm before something robs you of them. Treasure every moment. Live in it. Have fun without being reckless.

I do not regret cutting people out of my life. And I usually don’t reconnect. But whatever relationship I have remaining, and whatever relationship I build moving forward, I am reminded to keep and cherish them. I am reminded to not take shit at work and to avoid unnecessary stress. I am reminded to not take life too seriously. I am reminded to laugh freely even when everything seems dismal. I am reminded to live.

Words: Ejay Diwas

[ejaydoeshisbest]

When Pakikisama Turns Toxic: Bullying and Conformity in Filipino Families

Introduction: What is "Pakikisama"?

Pakikisama is a Filipino value about getting along with others and keeping peace, especially in families and social groups. While it can promote unity, it can also become harmful when it pressures people to hide their true selves in order to fit in. This pressure to conform can lead to feelings of loneliness, stress, and frustration, especially when one is constantly expected to meet others' expectations.

Personal Experience: Cousins, Bullying, and Isolation

Growing up, I was often at odds with the expectations set by my louder, more rambunctious cousins and extended family. As an introvert who valued quiet moments over chaotic gatherings, I found myself singled out. The living room would fill with noise: laughter like peals of lightning, like the roar of wind. My aunts thrilled and cackled. My uncles howled and growled. I would wince, wishing I could block out the noise with cotton. I would lock myself in my room, and unknowingly, this sealed my fate. My preference for solitude and personal hobbies led to being labeled “may sariling mundo” (living in my own world) and “killjoy.”

This nonconformity sparked bullying and isolation, driven by the pakikisama culture, which pressured me to fit into their mold. My parents, echoing the pressure of pakikisama, once threatened to take away my toys and gaming consoles if I didn’t engage with my cousins. This guilt-tripping reinforced the toxic idea that I needed to mirror others to belong. Worse, it made me feel that I was the problem. Not being able to jive with them made me feel there was constantly something defective in me.

As an adult, the effects of those experiences linger. I no longer speak to those cousins, a reflection of how toxic pakikisama can damage relationships over time and stifle individuality. The pressure to conform left lasting scars, highlighting the impact of this cultural norm on personal identity and family connections. The saying “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” came to mind.

The Pressure of Conformity in Filipino Families

In many Filipino families, there’s strong pressure to fit in and act alike, making it difficult for individuals to show their true selves. Pakikisama, when taken to extremes, means following strict, often unspoken rules about behavior, appearance, and speech, leaving little room for individuality. 

For me, this pressure came with constant insults aimed at my perceived softness and flamboyance. My cousins would tease me, hinting that I was gay, and made me feel as though my very existence was wrong. Of course, they were right. Everyone knew it. But I was supposed to be a good Catholic boy and homosexuality was a sin, right? I felt so ashamed whenever they teased me, especially after months of training and convincing myself that I was straight. And to make it stop, I was expected to laugh along, pretending the remarks didn’t cut deep.

The argument was that this would “toughen me up,” but inside, I learned to hide my resentment. If anything, I developed a skill to mask my grudges. This was a tool that proved useful to this day, in dealing with group dynamics and the corporate world. However, this wasn’t pakikisama; it was forced tolerance. The pressure to conform often pushes people to participate in harmful behaviors, such as gossiping or bullying, just to avoid being singled out or alienated.

Bullying Within the Family: The Role of Cousins

I thought family was meant to be a place of safety, somewhere to find comfort when school bullies made life hard. But when my family gathered, the bullying didn’t stop—it was just an extension of what I faced at school. I became the easy target, the “other,” simply for not fitting in. My mother, who always sided with her sisters and their children, would let them continue, even giving me disapproving looks when I voiced my complaints. In her eyes, maybe I needed this treatment; after all, she grew up in the same environment and believed it would help me fit in. I pitied her. At home, she was gentle and caring, but in front of her family, she shifted to meet their expectations.

Cousins often lead the charge to enforce group behavior, masking their actions as “teasing” or “joking,” as if it were an initiation ritual. What starts off light can quickly spiral into bullying. When I tried to defend myself or showed that it hurt, I was branded “too sensitive” or “weak.” This kind of response makes people think that showing emotion or standing apart from the group is wrong, resulting in deeper isolation and frustration.

Emotional Impact: Feeling Isolated and "Othered"

Being labeled an outcast or "may sariling mundo" carries a deep emotional burden. As a child becoming a teenager, it meant that my individuality was not welcome. It felt like my thoughts and words were worthless unless they aligned with the group. To be taken seriously and have a voice that mattered, I felt the need to prove myself to them.

Conforming to pakikisama stops people from being true to themselves and makes them feel disconnected from their families. This mindset pushes individuals into isolation, damaging relationships and making them believe their uniqueness is something to hide. The more I tried to step back from the group, the more I felt out of place, intensifying the emotional struggle.

Why It's Toxic: Pakikisama as a Tool for Control

At its core, pakikisama can turn toxic when it becomes a tool for control. Instead of fostering true harmony where everyone feels valued and included, it suppresses individuality and pressures people to act according to the main group's standards. It’s disheartening to see this dynamic play out, where individuals are reduced to mere reflections of one another.

This negative side of pakikisama turns family life into a source of stress and caused me to feel resentment, especially impacting my relationship with my mother. When everyone is forced to conform just for the sake of fitting in—repeating the same phrases and laughing along even when it isn’t genuine—real connections are lost, making it much harder to build relationships founded on mutual respect.

Breaking the Cycle: How to Move Forward

In college, I reached a breaking point. I realized I didn’t need anyone’s approval to know my worth. What had pakikisama ever done for them? While they stayed stuck in old patterns, I was in university, exploring my talents, and doing something meaningful with my life. I surrounded myself with high-quality people who weren’t just there for shallow banter or forced laughter at parties.

Breaking free from toxic pakikisama means setting boundaries with family and promoting open, honest communication. I stopped attending family gatherings and, in doing so, found peace and happiness. Now, I spend my time with friends who value self-expression and respect each other’s uniqueness, without the pressure to conform.

Family relationships improve when individuals feel safe to be themselves, without fear of judgment or exclusion. But for me, they’re like sheep blindly following the same path, and I refuse to be part of that. I will not force those I care about to like the same things I do.

Conclusion: Healing and Redefining Relationships

Healing from toxic pakikisama requires recognizing how it has impacted our identity and relationships. The key to healing is breaking free from the pressure to conform and instead focusing on creating real, honest connections. When we value and respect each individual’s uniqueness, it leads to stronger, healthier relationships. 

By moving past the toxic dynamics of conformity, families can build bonds based on love, acceptance, and mutual respect—where everyone feels valued and free to express their true selves. Healing comes from embracing authenticity and understanding that true connection is found in embracing our differences.

Words: Ejay Diwas