forlornputato

[forlornputato]

Growing up, I looked up to my mom as my hero. While she hurt me in many ways, she also did her best to raise me and my two brothers, despite never having a reliable partner.

I witnessed how she worked tirelessly—more than 12 hours a day, seven days a week���just to feed us and provide for us. When I was a kid, we didn’t have much. But I don’t remember ever having to beg for school bags, shiny shoes, brand-new clothes, or even her time. She would go out of her way and spend her salary, sometimes going into debt, just to send me and my brothers to school. From a young age, I understood the sacrifices she made for us, and for the longest time, I was truly thankful.

Everything slowly shifted when I became a teenager. When my dad got the opportunity to work overseas and started bringing in a lot of money to the household, our lives changed. I want to say for the better. But stay with me as I unpack everything, trying to make sense of these now confusing feelings I have for her.

Part I - The start of something confusing

My mom grew up in poverty. She spent most of her adult life working and living paycheck to paycheck. Looking back, I think this helps explain the out-of-proportion spending habits she developed when my dad was working abroad. Combine that with the fact that she’s really generous and a people pleaser, and it’s a recipe for financial trouble.

I was too young to understand what was really going on, but I remember her taking us shopping whenever my dad sent money home. She would buy appliances we didn’t really need but that provided entertainment. She bought tons of food and snacks and always hosted people. She would buy fancy plates and display them in the kitchen cabinet. We would go to malls, buy clothes, and watch movies—things we hadn’t experienced when my dad was unemployed. She was a good mom and really made that house happy!

But I also remember her borrowing money every month from a cousin. She would go over their monthly budget and then struggle to keep food on the table for the rest of the month. We had money, but in a way, we never really escaped that poverty-type lifestyle. In her defense, it wasn’t until I moved out at 25 that I truly realized how extremely difficult it is to keep a household of four financially afloat.

This was when I started noticing the abuses from my mom. They were so subtle and always justified that for years after the abuse, I still found ways to make excuses for her. I remember whenever money was tight, she would get easily annoyed with my brothers and me. She would throw things at my brother, lock us outside when we missed curfew, insult us, and compare us to my cousins. Granted, we were never perfect kids, but we were still just children.

I used to love singing—whether in the living room, while frying hotdogs, or taking a shower. But that stopped because she would constantly criticize me in front of others. She would laugh at me for always being out of tune, and I remember hearing the cracks in my voice as she said, “I’m just telling the truth.”

My mom was kind and fun when we had everything. But as soon as money issues crept in, my brothers and I felt like we had to walk on eggshells because one misstep could change her mood—and we would pay the price.

Part II - Confusion and my defenses

I guess I was always the rebellious kid. I remember thinking I had to defend myself—unlike my brother, who would just stay quiet—that it wasn’t right for her to say whatever she wants just because she has the authority in the household. So, I would speak up. I would defend myself and say my piece. But whenever I did, she would slap me and pull my hair. One time, she slapped me with her slippers and pulled my hair so hard that I remember crying from the pain. She would also discourage me from reading books, even threatening to hurt me if she caught me staying up late to read. But I would always protest. After all, she never explained things to me gently. I was a teenager, confused and overwhelmed by all these hormones.

There was always confusion on my part. I hated her, but I also loved her. She supported me in school, always cooked for my friends when they came over, and bought me brand-new bags and jewelry. She never questioned me or stopped me from going out overnight with my friends or going on school trips. She hurt me physically and verbally, but she also provided for me. Clearly, I was the problem. I really thought I was. I even started believing that I should probably stop defending myself whenever she lashed out at me because maybe she wouldn’t hurt me if I was just the respectful daughter she needed me to be. This was the mindset I adopted throughout my teenage years.

Part III - Where's my dad in all of these?

Now, fast forward to when my dad took his vacation and came home the second time since working abroad. We all knew about his struggle with drug abuse. In a way, that work opportunity served as his rehab. Years spent on an isolated island in New Zealand meant he got better and fought his demons. But, as you’re probably guessing, love is always sweeter the second time around—and so is addiction. And, that second vacation became his chance to get another taste of the same addiction he had fought so hard to overcome.

I think that when that vacation was over, he made up his mind to go back to his employer but only to personally submit his resignation; partly because his addiction is once again calling him. Before making this decision, though, he spent a lot of time talking to my mom. Back then, he had the mental maturity and sobriety to think carefully before deciding. So, even though his mind was made up, part of him also wanted to make sure we had enough savings before he retired home.

What he didn’t know was that we had nothing. He would send a certain amount of money to my mom, instructing her to put it in a savings account. But he didn’t know that my mom had already used up all that money. Looking back, I don’t know why my mom didn’t come clean. We knew my dad missed the drugs, but she also knew that the “savings” was what was bravely pushing him to come home. If she had just been honest, my dad would have never come back home—at least not that year. Yet she waited until my father officially submitted his resignation, came back home, and spent a few more months here before finally being honest. Maybe she was scared, I don’t know. But personally, I think that’s what broke my dad. Can you imagine spending almost a decade working your ass off, away from your family, braving loneliness, adjusting to a culture that’s not yours—all so you could save up—then hearing years later that there’s no money left?

When my father returned home, that’s when all hell broke loose. My dad’s addiction worsened. They would always fight, triggering and antagonizing each other. By then, you could clearly see the dangerous effects of their trauma bonding.

Part IV - Now we deal with the consequences

I made the decision to stop school and start working at 18. At first, it was mainly for selfish reasons—I didn’t want to have to ask them for money. But eventually, that changed. As the eldest daughter, the responsibility of helping them financially fell on me. It wasn’t a sudden appointment, though. It was years of slow, steady guilt until I finally surrendered to that responsibility.

It started with small bills—water, electricity, a little bit of food. Over the years, my refusals were met with, “But I worked hard so I could send you to school. It’s your time to repay us.” I thought it was the right thing to do. I had to step up because, after all, they sacrificed so much for me.

Yet it was never enough. I’m not a perfect daughter by any stretch, I know that. I had a mental breakdown for God's sake! They helped me recover. They were there and didn’t leave me. I had about three months off before going back to work. Since they were so kind to me when I was incapacitated, I thought it was only right to provide for them. This is when it all started: me assuming the full responsibility of providing for the entire household and sending my brother to school because I had to repay their kindness and compassion. In my defense, I thought it was only temporary.

I started living paycheck to paycheck. Always borrowing money from friends and relatives so I can get by. I wanted so much for myself but I can’t be selfish, not when they need me the most.

I worked my ass off until I found the best job for me: flexible and high paying. I was on top of my game, I send my brother to school, supported my parents financially, paying their bills, buying them things they want and need. I moved out but I never turned my back on them. You would think it’s enough.

Not quite. Though I was physically far away, I was always called to intervene in my parents’ fights. My dad would verbally abuse my mom and lock her out of the house. She wouldn’t fight back or stand her ground. Instead, she’d ask her friends to host her, sometimes even staying the night outside. And I would be called to talk to my dad. At first, I did. I believed that maybe if I was just kind and calm, he would change. But pretty soon, I realized he wouldn’t—that no amount of calmness or kindness could heal him. So, I begged my mom to find an apartment for her and my brother. She refused, for whatever reason. And so began the years of trying to understand her and her constant refusal to remove herself from a situation that was clearly bad for all of us.

Part V - What else can I give?

When I made the decision to move out, I was plagued with guilt. I made a life for myself—a comfortable one, for that matter—while I left them in a house where nothing grew but curses, screams, tears, and heartbreak. For what felt like forever, I would look in the mirror and hate myself. I thought I was selfish. I thought I didn’t deserve a good life because my mom and little brother were suffering from my dad’s addiction.

Yet I never understood why my mom wouldn’t accept my offer to rent an apartment for her—somewhere my dad couldn’t find her. This confusion quickly turned into frustration. Before I knew it, resentment had built up. It’s one thing to give my youth working for them; it’s another to be emotionally and mentally dragged down into a mess she clearly refuses to avoid.

I remember trying so hard to be compassionate. Maybe she wasn’t leaving my father because she was trauma bonded to him. Maybe the years of abuse she endured from my dad made her develop Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe she felt like she owed it to him to stay in that relationship, no matter how abusive, because that’s what her church taught. Maybe she felt she owed it to him to stay, otherwise the guilt of spending all that money years ago would eat her alive. But all these excuses started to make less and less sense because whenever my dad was sober, she would antagonize him. She’d get mad at him for the smallest things—the way he ate, the way he talked—and verbally abuse him. He would feel so small and just shut up until his drug withdrawal kicked in. Then he’d scream and insult my mom again. And she’d feel small and shut down, spending nights outside. Repeat. This is when it finally kicked, both of them are abusive to each other. None is the victim.

So, I sat down with her, trying to make sense of her decision. She told me it was a promise she made to her dad: “No marriage can be broken, and since it’s my decision to marry him, it’s my responsibility to stay with him.” I was so confused. Because she kept her promise for that marriage but ignored all the other motherly commitments she took on when she had us. It's like watching your mom choose herself and her husband over her kids.

I was so confused because she said I would never understand. She said her kids—us—would go on and live our lives, but it would be my dad who would take care of her. My dad does take care of her—only when he’s sober! And that’s maybe half a day every two weeks. The rest of the time, she suffers through all the insults and screams. Clearly, that isn’t a partner you can rely on.

What made me even more confused was that whenever I became honest and told her how much I hated my father, she would come to his defense. She would bring up the time when my dad went to New Zealand and provided for us. She’d say I wouldn’t be where I am right now without him (and her). It’s like I don’t have the right to defend myself because my dad sent me to school. It’s as if I should just let him continue wishing for my financial downfall and not be angry that my own dad wishes me ill—just because, at one point, he was a great provider.

Part VI - How can I heal from this?

Every once in a while, she would say she’s proud of me. She says I’m blessed because I’m a good provider and daughter. She wears that fact like a badge of honor, something to brag about to her friends. She says my life is good because I am generous. It always felt wrong. For one, these words made me feel like I’m only worthy of her praise because of what I bring to the table. Then it started feeling like my life is only good because they worked hard to send me to school, which in turn gave me great job opportunities. It sounded true but felt wrong. Isn’t it because I worked hard that I have a good life? Isn’t it because I’m good at my job that I have the privilege to lift myself—and them—out of poverty? It felt wrong, but it didn’t change the fact that I believed them—that I have a good life only because I provide for them.

Writing this feels like waking up from a spell, a haze. I have all these confusing feelings I don’t know how to sort. There’s a big black hole inside me that I don’t know how to fill.

What woke me up was the betrayal. About a month ago, my mom was diagnosed with kidney disease. It’s progressing, and I know she’s afraid. I’m afraid too. I don’t want to lose her. But she refuses to go to the hospital, refuses to listen to doctors, and is 100% refusing dialysis—a treatment that could save her. I feel like I have no choice but to support her in whatever decision she makes, even though, personally, I think it will kill her.

I stopped visiting her because whenever I try, I get unexplained anxiety and panic attacks. I don’t want to see my dad. I don’t want to see how messy our house has become. I can’t explain this to her because I know she wouldn’t understand.

In the midst of her stress and sickness, she said things that added to the resentment that my soul keeps revisiting. She told me I’m not a good daughter because I refuse to visit her. She said she gets nothing from me but empty words. She said that to the person literally providing for their everyday needs. I was mad and confused because I felt like they made me a cash cow. But I held my tongue.

I was mad, sure, but I eventually found myself excusing her. She’s just afraid; it’s the stress talking.

Then I realized she doesn’t listen to me or to anyone. She wants to stay with my dad, even if it means being constantly locked out of the house like a wet puppy. She wants traditional herbal medication, even if it means dying faster. She wants to stay with my dad, even if it means being insulted and screamed at every day.

But I want her to live. I don't want to add to her stress. She's walking all over me and I'm keeping my mouth shut. Here I am, telling myself, convincing myself it’s the stress talking. That it’s her fear making her emotional. That I should just be understanding.

But I have been—for years. They don’t have to explain themselves to me when they hurt me. I do that for them. Yet I’m still the one who’s wrong.

I feel like I’ve given everything I could. But it’s never enough. If I miss a request from them, suddenly I’m an unreliable provider. I don’t understand. Do they want me to stop living my life and carry all of them emotionally, financially, and physically?

Part VII - I have found my answer, which leads to more questions

Now it makes sense why my worth has always been tied to what I can provide. When your value as a family member is measured by your money, it’s hard to believe people can love you just the way you are. I always wondered why I chase validation. It’s clear now—like waking up from a spell or a haze—you start to question your worth when you are MADE to feel worthless without a contribution. And no amount of praise when you have everything to give can erase that.

My mom used to criticize me—the way I dress, the way I sing, the way I talk. When I had the bravery to ask her why, she told me, “The world is tough. I’m telling you the truth to harden you. The world will be harsh to you. Let me do it so you won’t be surprised out there.”

But Mom, I know that. The world is harsh. People can be cruel. I know that. But you’re my mom. You’re supposed to be the first person I turn to when I’m met with cruelty. You’re supposed to be the first person to show me compassion and kindness when the world throws criticisms at me. It’s painful because the world is not harsh to me—but you were, and continue to be, to this day.

But hey, maybe she’s coming from a place of love and concern. Maybe, just maybe, if I had become the good daughter they needed me to be, I wouldn’t have experienced all this hurt from them.

[forlornputato]

Dear Anak,

The truth is, I have no idea what to do with my life. I know what I want, but I don't have the means to start or the financial freedom to brave my fears.

Most of the time, I feel like a little kid. I feel like I shouldn't be worrying about whether to have a kid or buy a house. These are the dilemmas of the adults! But the reality is, I had to grow up fast. I have a father who refuses to work, a sick mom, a brother in college, and a lifestyle so grand you might think I'm a millionaire (please don't be like me)!

I don't have my shit together contrary to what the photos I post on my social media accounts show. I have a car, a girlfriend (your mommah), an apartment we share with a housemate, anxiety, depression, and a dream. But that's pretty much it.

Dear anak, if you're reading this from the future, I want you to know that your mommy was once a child (I still feel one honestly). I don't have a lot. No safety net, no wealthy parents to clean up after my mess. I don't have the luxury to screw things up because I can't afford second chances. But I have ambitions, and resiliency. I am stubborn. I get scared. ALWAYS. But I go after the things I want until I get them. I am good at what I do in my job. I have a kind heart, and a curious mind. I get scared. ALWAYS. But I do things anyway.

I just turned 29 and I still feel lost. My mind is struggling to keep up with my age. I feel like I'm still 22, like I just took a nap and woke up suddenly as this almost-30-year-old woman who has to make decisions about her future.

I want to have you. I really do! I don't know you yet. Your soon-to-be atoms are probably in a plant somewhere out there, helping with its photosynthesis but I feel like I’m already connected to you. Am I crazy? Oh god please don't think of me as a crazy person. Anyway, I hope you get what I'm trying to say here. I really want you. I want to meet you and kiss you and hug you and just love you with all my heart. But is it okay if I take my sweet time, if your momma and I take our sweet time?

My mom was a decent parent to me, but she made a lot of mistakes in her life, mistakes she passed on to me. And I didn't want that happening to me, and to you. I want you to have a chance in life. I want you to have the freedom to be the person that you want to be without worrying whether your money is enough to support yourself and my medications. I don't want you to have to choose between living your life and taking care of me and your momma. I don't want us to hold you back. I want you to be free, to be kind, to be adventurous, to be curious, to be brave, to go out there and experience what it's like to just…be.

I'm going to work on myself before having you. Because that's what you deserve. Parents who are emotionally, financially, spiritually, and physically ready. We'll meet soon.

Hope the photosynthesis is going well!

[forlornputato]

Happy Mom's Day!

This feels like more than a stab directly aimed at my heart. This feels like the betrayal of a lifetime. I feel like all my life, I've been lied to.

I grew up hating my father so much. His abuse gripped me, suffocating me throughout what seemed like my entire existence.

I remember being so confused. His actions made me mad, his addiction made me angry, like an animal lashing out. Yet, on the rare occasions when he was sober, I could feel the arms of hope slowly making its way to my heart, promising something better. I remember always wondering, always hopeful, always so innocent .... "Maybe this time, it's real. Maybe this time, he'll learn. Maybe this time, he'll change." Only he didn't. He doesn't. It's a vicious, never-ending cycle that made me want to rip my heart out of my chest. I remember praying and begging God to give me a switch so I could just turn off my love for him. After all, every hurt in my bones is an echo of every love I'm giving. God wasn't listening. God has never listened. And so I blamed my father! I screamed, I puked, I acted out, I cut myself, I lost myself. I blame my father. I scream, I puke, I act out, I cut myself, I lose myself. Until eventually, I freed myself from the curse of this love I had for him. I walked out the door one night and never returned. No one, not even my father, will ever have the power to hurt me that way again.

The entire world was mine, all mine, for the first time. I walked through it with a heart beginning to mend. I went to therapy with a positive disposition about my own recovery. For the first time, I felt hopeful. Slowly, very slowly, I was learning what it means to be healed.

But not quite. It wasn't entirely peaceful. Each night, a violent nudge would awaken me. Whenever my mind was generous enough to give me sleep, my body would jolt me awake, screaming, "Not yet! You have your mom to take care of. You are the eldest daughter in an Asian household."

And so, I took it upon myself to shoulder a responsibility so huge that one might think I was a teenage mom. As if I was the one who brought kids into the world without financial security. Remember, I am the eldest daughter in an Asian household.

I struggled to find the balance between supporting a family and pursuing my own dreams. So, I took a gamble. In exchange for a treasure trove filled with gold and money, I sacrificed myself. Because for those without privileges, letting capitalism abuse you is often the necessary sacrifice to put food on the table. I worked hard until I forgot what it feels like to be hungry. I worked hard until I had enough money to send my brother to school. I worked hard until I could afford anything my mom wanted. I worked so hard that I forgot how to dream. I was a machine, but I didn't care. I was stripped of my essence, but I didn't care. I have money. I got them. I got this.

Only I don't. Because when I cut off the only person who was hurting me back then—my dad—I wasn't very clear about my boundaries. I failed to make it clear that I no longer wanted him in my life. Gradually, without my realizing it, my mom was rebuilding the bridges I had burned to ashes. And before I knew it, I found myself halfway across that very same bridge. Again.

There goes the little hope. Again. There goes the little gentle whisper. Again. "Maybe he'll change. Maybe he'll learn. Maybe it's not too late." "Maybe he just needs his daughter to reconnect with him. Maybe I should be thanking my mom for this bridge."

For the millionth time, over and over and over again, I was proven wrong. But today, the pain disappeared so fast I didn't even have the chance to recognize it was gone. I didn't blame him. I didn't scream, didn't vomit, didn't act out, didn't harm myself, I didn't lose myself. Instead, I simply removed myself from his life, free of guilt, curses, sleepless nights, and love. I did it before, what's stopping me from doing it again?

My mom: she needed saving.

And so I spent years trying to make sense of her decisions and of her actions. I was so frustrated, so hurt, so betrayed. Because if you have the option to leave a household, a relationship that does nothing but hurt you, why wouldn't you?

She can't give me any answer. So I made one. "Do you know what Stockholm syndrome is? You should see my mom. " "Do you know what years of abuse does to someone? You should see my mom." "Do you know how hard it is to leave an abusive relationship? You should see my mom."

I defended her to myself, "She's your mom." I defended her to my heart, "Remember when she took care of you?" I defended her to my mind, "She's a victim, too. It's not that easy to stop a cycle."

And so very slowly, I channeled all my anger into actions driven by a desire to understand her. "Ma, usap tayo. Bakit hindi mo maiwan si papa?"

And very slowly, I saw how she defended her to herself. "Diba lalong lumalala ang mga kagaya niya kapag iniiwan? Nakakaawa." I saw how she defended her to her heart. "Naging mabuting asawa at tatay naman siya kaya ka nga nakapag aral ka/kayo." I saw how she defended her to her mind. "Wala eh, ito na ang bunga ng mga mali kong decision."

I was pleading. "But I can save you." I was begging. "Please, alis ka na. Hahanapan kita bahay, bibilihan kita ng gamit." I was hurting. "Please ma, nahihirapan na kasi ako."

And time and time and time again, I have witnessed how my parents chose their unhealthy relationship patterns over themselves. Over and over again, I've seen how my parents choose each other over us, over me, their daughter.

I thought maybe I was blaming the wrong person my entire life. Abuse is abuse. But if you have the power and the means to choose yourself, why would you allow the abuse to continue for so long? Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should also blame the person who tolerates it? Maybe. I don't know.

And here I am, 29 years of existing, 29 years of letting them hurt me, only now mustering the courage to draw my boundaries. Burning the bridge didn't work. Here's a wall. Sitting with them and calmly talking didn't work. Here's my silence. Years of trying so hard to understand what it feels like for them to be trapped your whole life in an addiction and an abusive relationship didn't work. Here's my goodbye.

I am the eldest daughter in an Asian household. It hurts so much that I can't do anything to save them. But maybe this is no longer my fight.

I am the eldest daughter in an Asian household. It hurts so much to see them hurting each other. But maybe I already did my best and now is the time to accept the cold hard fact that I cannot do anything anymore because everything now is their choice, not mine.

Because maybe, just maybe, maybe it's not my responsibility to re-parent my parents. Because what would you do for someone who refused to be helped? Nothing. Just make peace with the fact that sometimes, loving people means doing it from a distance.

I am the eldest daughter in an Asian household. And for the first time, the world is mine.

[forlornputato]

Kierkegaard & Whatever It Is I Lost

"The biggest danger that you can face in this life is losing."

I spent a week racking my brain, trying to figure out what exactly it was that I had lost. Stephen West simplified it with an example of losing something like your phone. You could easily go half a day without realizing it's gone. Now, when your muscle memory kicks in and you instinctively reach for your phone, only to find it missing, you immediately recognize what you've lost.

Now, compare that scenario to losing something like your principles. It's not a sudden, drastic change, I'm pretty sure. It gradually happens over time, influenced by your experiences, environment, and the people around you. But here's the thing, months or even years may pass before you even notice that you have lost your morals. And that's only if you're fortunate enough to be aware of what you've lost. After all, some people live their entire lives not knowing they have lost something.

I have to hand it to Kierkegaard. When you find yourself losing your sense of identity, you will likely also find yourself grappling with a lack of direction.

And so I began to ask myself, "What is it that I have lost?" If I never truly knew who I was, how can I even begin to answer this? And why am I so determined to come up with something?

What am I worth? I would say it depends on the situation I find myself in. If I am merely surviving, I would estimate around 10,000 pesos. If I am thriving, I would raise it to 120,000. That's it! That's one answer I've been looking for!

I have always placed a monetary value on my worth as an individual. I might even disregard my morals and principles just to "get by." I have come to realize that my self-perception is directly influenced by my income, the level of financial support I provide to my family, and the extent to which I can give back to others.

But in a capitalist world, money is finite. Or I could potentially lose my job due to layoffs or accidents. I lack control over numerous factors that could potentially affect my employment. This reality is deeply unsettling and instills a profound sense of fear in me. Whenever I think of this uncertainty, I find myself spiraling into a state of overwhelming insignificance. And that's because my worth has always been about my money.

So sit with me as I find something valuable in my existence. Surely there are a few I can discover.

My worth is in the multitude of lessons that others have learned from me. I have hurt people but I also have loved them.

My worth lies within every tear I've shed, reminding me of my capacity to love.

My worth lies in the joy that illuminates the eyes of the people I love whenever they see me, and my soul deeply understanding that my existence alone is enough for them.

My worth lies in every idea I learn and bravely challenge, knowing that one day my voice will echo through history.

My worth lies in the single seed I nurtured and brought to life when I was 12, and how, for all eternity, its presence will linger in the air we all breathe.

My worth resides in the influence I had on a girl who ultimately chose to pursue an education in teaching, just like the 2016 me.

My worth is found in every laugh I bring to Leanne, whether it's during dinner, breakfast, or bedtime.

My worth lies in the newfound lesson my mom has learned from me about boundaries.

My worth is found in the countless moments of success and silence that I share with my friends.

My worth can be found in the moments when I gaze at the empty wall of my room and talk to Einstein, Jesus, Aristotle, Kierkegaard, and Blaise Pascal.

My worth is defined by the immense strength and bravery it requires for me to remain steadfast in the face of suffering.

I am here. I am living. And I think that alone is enough for now.

Sir, Kierkegaard sir, I don't think I have lost myself. Oh, disregard that. I actually think I did lose hundreds of parts of myself. But, when I consider what I can gain just by confronting your idea, that very bravery alone reassures me that whatever it is that I will lose, will eventually come back to me in one form or another.

[forlornputato]

Pivot! Pivot! Pivot!

Back when I started watching The Good Place, I remember wanting to learn more. That's when my curiosity peaked. I remember the eagerness of wanting to learn more about philosophy when Chidi helped Jason & Eleanor. It mostly stemmed from wanting to be a good person; I was sort of thinking how amazing my life would be if I just know how to be a good person.

I then started questioning my motive. Why do I want to be seen as someone good? Is this some sort of moral desert? Do I want to be good for the sole purpose of being known as someone good? Or do I believe, with all my life, that being a good person is a moral responsibility?

That's when I knew what I wanted to do - learn! I started with "What We Owe To Each Other," but I couldn't even understand the first paragraph. For context, I never had a formal education, and I remember thinking, "Maybe philosophy is something you learn inside a class?" I gotta be honest, that bummed me. I don't have enough money to send me to school. What good would it do if I could quench my thirst to learn but can't provide for my basic needs?

And so, the months of looking for resources online began - anything, really - that could help me answer the questions flooding my mind. I looked for essays, blog posts, YouTube channels, Reddit threads, forums, movies, and series. I noticed that these materials have one thing in common and the same thing that was such a blockage to my ever so curious mind: they take these big philosophical ideas, dissect them but in the process of explaining, use words that my little brain just can't grasp on its own. No offense to them, really. But it made me think, maybe I'm just not their target audience. I mean, I've read a few articles where I thought, "I get the general idea, but man, they made it way more complicated than it needed to be!"

I then stumbled upon a book that proved to be a tremendous help: The Pig That Wants to Be Eaten by Julian Baggini. The clear presentation of ideas in this book was what made the crucial difference for me. It prevented me from giving up out of sheer frustration and instead motivated me to persist in my search. Finally, I began to understand the basic principles, mainly, what it takes to be a good person.

But I wanted more. What good is knowledge if I can't apply it? And how can I apply it if I don't know the right questions to ask myself.

Finally, and I do mean finally, with a big sigh and a huge hooray, I have found Philosophize This! by Stephen West, and let me tell you, my life will never be the same!

Stephen West has this rare exceptional ability and intelligence to tackle complex concepts, breaking them down into smaller, digestible pieces. He adeptly uses the simplest of language, making it accessible even to individuals with limited understanding, like myself! Additionally, he consistently poses thought-provoking questions, encouraging listeners to reflect on the knowledge gained from each episode. To add to this already delightful experience, West provides the most relatable and straightforward examples, making the content even more realistic and comprehensible! I am inlove!

And so, every morning, I eagerly anticipate hearing him say, "Thank you for wanting to know more today than you did yesterday, and I hope you enjoy the show." Can you believe it? This man, this stranger who is likely thousands of miles away from me, this person whom I have never met and probably never will, is actually grateful that I am learning from what he's saying? I hope the universe bless his beautiful heart forever and always.

Yet, there is still something missing, something I couldn't quite put my finger on until last night when I spent time talking with my girlfriend and our housemate. We got to talking about our childhood and what made us the people we are now. I told her about my one and only hobby: learning. That's when she asked, "What do you do about it?" Right?? I mean, Right? So here's Stephen West helping me understand a piece of knowledge in this vast universe, but what do I do about it? I know it made me happy. I know it satisfied me. But what do I do about this newfound information passed on to me? They say knowledge is power. But I started to realize, power is only power if you know how to use it, if you actually use it.

And here's when I will make a pivotal shift in this blog. I don't intend to make it famous. On the contrary, I want this space to be my own, something personal, something I can always claim.

I am tired of being a sorry person. I am tired of talking about my depression and silent battles. I want to be someone who learns every single day. And so, moving forward, I will take whatever information is gifted to me, write about it, and relate it to my life.

And maybe, just maybe, I'd find who I really am.

The Pig That Wants To Be Eaten

Philosophize This!

Michael Schur

[forlornputato]

"Address the letters, to the holes in my butterfly wings"

I miss Dana & Janssen.

Dana has a smile that could light up the world and a humor that would make you cry from laughing. Yet at times when you need someone to be there with you and sit with the silence, she has no problem embracing just that.

She likes her hair and her make-up. She likes her tiny dresses and shorts and tank tops. She likes to be pretty and I think she's beautiful even without those.

She has a home that welcomes everyone she considers her friend. True it's scary, but her family will make you feel the warmth and love you could be missing from your own house. I like their bathtub because we didn't have one growing up. I like their big house that echoes both love and grief and honestly, what's the difference?

I like our little talks about boys and how she fell for the wrong guy. But she has the strength and independence that will make you see she doesn't really need anyone because she got herself.

Dana has a smile that could light up the world and a beauty that would make you feel lucky she is your friend. And I wish I hadn't messed that up.

Janssen has eyes that sparkle and a glow that would make you feel all the warmth in this world.

She likes her hair as is and I wish I could tell her how amazing that is. In a world where everyone wants to be everyone, embracing who you truly are is a gem rare as a painite.

She has a home that welcomes everyone she considers her friend, and her grandma's recipe, divine! I like her bed and how we used to spend hours talking and watching movies on it.

She taught me why lotion is important, or why Kim Kardashian is actually a cool person. Her stories took me to Japan and she bakes the most delicious coffee-based cake!

Janssen has eyes that sparkle and a beauty that would make you feel lucky she is your friend. And I wish I hadn't messed that up.

I miss Paeng and Fernan.

Paeng is both gentle and firm. He taught me resiliency and how to love while you still have the time.

Paeng sees the world differently. He can put his thoughts into words easily and he's not sorry for doing so. He's brave but considerate. He's fearless but gentle.

Paeng has a wisdom that might one day change the world, and the strength to be vulnerable but still stand on what he believes in. Being with him would make you feel lucky he is your friend. And I wish I hadn't messed that up.

Fernan is silent and mysterious. But once you get to know him, he's one of the funniest and coolest people you'll ever know.

He taught me curiosity and influenced how I approach my work. He's analytical and honest.

He never minds being the butt of the jokes sometimes. Sure he would retaliate by tickling you to death. But when you need someone to talk to about life and existence, he is understanding and curious.

I like his questions, and honestly I think he taught me the curiosity that I have these days.

Being with him would make you feel lucky he is your friend. And I wish I hadn't messed that up.

I wish I hadn't messed it all up.

[forlornputato]

Calilayan Cove - Unisan, Quezon

Leanne & I with Jam at Calilayan Cove.

This could be one of the most calming, beautiful, relaxing, and affordable beaches I ever went to.

You will be captured by its beauty lalo na sa sunset at gabi kasi napaka calm ng dagat. It's one of the places na marerecommend ko talagang worth it puntahan specially if you want to have a moment of David Thoreau's 2 years in isolation and wanna reflect on life's purpose in general.

We went swimming isang gabi tapos may optical illusion yung edge ng dagat at bundok or land. Parang nothing is real but me and the moment I was allowed to exist. Paulit ulit kong sinasabi sa sarili ko na I am happy that I lived through this moment. Hindi ko alam anong purpose ko, or bakit ko ginagawa yung mga bagay na nag ssnatch away ng time ko pero back there, I was alive.

Ang pinaka realization ko this time - life is like the waves. It takes away as quickly as it gives. Pero whatever it gets back, it makes sure to return in some form or another. I will always come short. I don't always know what to do, don't always have my life together. But as long as I am allowed to live, I'll do my best to be happy and love the people I love.

[forlornputato]

Something has clicked, shifted, like an unfathomable force that completely changed the person I used to be.

It started with stories of murders and mysteries, every night whispering in my ears. Like some sort of a lullaby sending me to sleep. It eventually changed to people gently talking to me, guiding me into visualizing what I've always wanted. Alas, the voices shifted into something more complex, difficult to understand at times but nonetheless gave me tons of what I deemed to be helpful information. I started knowing who Blaise Pascal was, arguing with myself what is the real ship of Theseus. Everything, finally, was peaceful. Or so I thought.

One day, someone pointed out to me "People find it hard to sleep at night because falling asleep requires peace."

All at once, I saw in vivid detail everything that had taken place in this invisible thread that connects me to the universe - my mom falling so hard with my dad, the two of them deciding to get married, having us, me falling in love with a girl back when I was 18, navigating life without someone guiding me, losing friends, betraying people. Everything was bleak. Everything was painful. Everything IS painful.

My nights were never peaceful. It never was, not even for once. I mastered the art of blurring the noises of my history, closing my eyes, and convincing myself everything was falling into its rightful place finally.

Call it ignorance, call it acting my zodiac sign, call it indifference. I have just been so good at blurring the noises but they never left me, not even for once.

"You manipulate people. That's what you do to keep them"

"You lie. That's what you do to save your ass."

"You aren't grateful you exist. You have always hated it. Carrying a responsibility to keep a household standing gave you nothing but anger."

"You are not capable of loving anyone who you can't take advantage of. "

"You want the attention but go crazy and drag people when it becomes too much."

"You didn't change, you just bought a fancy mirror."

"You don't find the good in people. You just convinced yourself you are kind. Because kind is better. Kind is always better."

"You are not capable of loving someone. "

"You, you are a monster"

And so what do I do? I blur them. It doesn't matter if it's to cover with a story of someone who was killed. It doesn't matter if it's a hum to help me realize my goals. It doesn't matter if it's someone explaining why Simone Weil is a rockstar. It doesn't matter. I blur them. I blur them all because kind is always better. Kind is always better.

[forlornputato]

For a few days now, I couldn't help but think that maybe it's very human to want to experience - things, emotion, pain, happiness, and all the complexities that come with being alive.

No, I'm not romanticizing grief. Even I can't imagine going through that. But I've noticed that this world is starting to feel like a whole machinery & sooner or later, all of us at some point will feel numb, like some kind of a cog trained to keep the wheel rolling.

Societal problems & injustices never give anyone any rest. People have this innate need & want to survive. But what happens when the world we live in is no longer conducive even for survival? We get devoid of experience. We go numb. And so maybe, perhaps we then start to feel this creeping burning desire to want to feel. And it doesn't matter if it's misery or loneliness. Could it be that pain is better than nothing at all?

[forlornputato]

My thoughts often drift to those I have loved and lost, to the ones I will never know and those I can no longer speak to. Visions of them dance in my head like a vivid dream, and I cling to these moments before they fade away from my memory, like a whispered caress from the breeze of a cold night. 

I almost always make the same jokes. Walk and talk the same way. But if we are both standing side by side facing the mirror, I bet you also couldn't recognize me. Time taught me honesty and grace. What it selfishly took away from me when you were around, I brought back to life. Yet, like a majestic piece of an enormous puzzle, you're no longer here to witness my bloom. A filmy, beaming piece of a memory, you are.

I wish you exist in stars, planets, or galaxies far far away, yet to be discovered, yet to be seen. When the day comes that I finally have the means to do so, I'll look up, in the past, in the stars, in the universe, and see you happy. I'll use stardust to write to you "Would you like to go out with me?" Happily, I know you'll say yes. And together, without the pain and shame and guilt, we'll paint the memories back, in the stars, in other galaxies, in the past. I know it deep within my heart, your love will come back to me, in whatever shape and form the universe deemed to be the finest, most beautiful.

[forlornputato]

One year wiser, Vanessa. One year wiser.

I know time can only move forward. But it isn't the case in my mind. Within my memory, I find myself rolling back and forth, being tossed in different directions, running up down left right, seems like a Jeremy Bearimy.

I don't want it to stop. For the first time in what feels like forever, I don't want to stop living. But comes with the epiphany is a question. At which point will the I find the answer? Maybe there isn't one.

If the journey doesn't really end, at which point will I find the strength in my conviction? If I really have one. At which point will I see more than what the mirror tells me? "You are always your past. You are always what you did."

Tell me, if we are in Jeremy Bearimy, at which point will I stand my ground and offer compassion to the demons chasing after me? Or maybe there isn't one. Maybe, in moments where I feel like I am fighting something evil, I am actually just meeting the versions of me I couldn't remember. Perhaps from my past, perhaps from my future. Could it be that somewhere between a vertical line and a tiny minuscule point, comes a rare moment, a magical crossroad, where I meet... all of me?

Isn't this a wonderful thought? To know that just like an eclipse, I will always have the time in this loop to meet my beloved, caress my own skin, touch my own screams, silence my own anger and love every version of me?

[forlornputato]

And if I'm going to burn, I'd like to burn all of me. Every stained piece, every clothing I chose, every crevice, every fiber, every lie, every facade.

I'd like to shred every inch of my skin that this pain continue to touch. If it wants me to bleed, then it can aim for the softest part of myself that I didn't know existed. If it wants to kill me, I'd like to just stand still and let it.

If the pain will bring ruins to the tallest walls I built, then I'd want what I buried to be exhumed, too. Every bone and every scream for justice, I'd like the whole town to hear.

If this pain becomes an abuser, I'd want to strip myself naked. I'd want to lie motionless and stiffle a plead. Every inch of disgust and helplessness, I'd like everyone to see.

I'd like to shred every inch of my existence that this pain continues to touch. If it wants me dead, then it can aim for the coldest part of myself that I didn't know existed. If it wants to kill me, I'd sit still and let it.

Because if I am going to burn, I'd like to burn all of me. Every stained piece, every clothing I chose, every crevice, every fiber, every lie, every facade. If I'm going to burn, I'll burn all of me and I'll never look back.

[forlornputato]

Oh god, there are moments I want to stop talking about my depression. Like stop in the middle of my thoughts and just forget about it. Like if I just ignore it and pretend I don't hear anything, it'd magically disappear. Like replace the mental image of my bloody wrist with something as sunny as Lorde's sun salutations. Like if I just extend my arms for the ray of sunlight to reach them, my depression would magically disappear. Like replace the ragged and angry reflection of myself in the mirror with something as beautiful and peaceful as Eleanor and Chidi's ocean waves. Like if I just force myself to think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts, my depression would magically disappear. Like replace my overbearing mental sufferings with something as light as the wind blowing outside my window. Like if I can just change myself, in my entirety, my depression would magically disappear. If only I can stop talking about my depression. But my mind LOVES making pretend. And it's one hell of a deal closer. Like if I just repeatedly tell myself I matter, maybe I will matter. Oh god, I want to stop talking about my depression. Like stop here. In the middle of my ever wandering thoughts. Stop right here. Fuck, I am tired. Stop. Stop. Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts.

[forlornputato]

Anger is said to speak the same language as love. But I know better.

Hatred can have its roots only in bitterness and spite. Some hatred takes the shape of curses & cries and it doesn't beg anyone to call it love.

There's no love in abuse. There's no love in begging. There's no love in midnight runs trying to make sense of who you've become.

There is no love in threats or desperation. There's no love in getting your heart broken from discovering thousands of secret conversations kept just below every "I miss you."

No, there's no love in spending countless nights in your solitary room, alone, wishing that the emptiness soon becomes a reason.

There's no love in manipulation. There is no love in loneliness, bathed in the cries of 3 am sky, asking the convenience store to give you just a bit of shelter.

There's no love in betrayal and cheating. There's no love in going back to make love with someone you've already killed.

Apathy won't work in all circumstances. There are days when forgiveness will not heal what time cannot. So what remains is the anger that recognizes the wrong.

What they say is true. You grieve sometimes because of love.

Love in a form of grief, I discovered, is not always the reflection of the person who violated you. In some cases, the love that echoes in your grief is the love you have for yourself, only for yourself.

Hatred is a heavy thing. But, so was your innocence and love being snatched away.

Anger and love don't always speak the same language. Your peace was shattered, your faith was shaken. You carry all the burden of terrible things they did to you. Sometimes, that's just what the anger is all about. And you are free to feel them.

[forlornputato]

гладиолус

In the quiet of the night, I can't stop thinking about you.

Days pass, laughter breaks, hysterics grow and I still find myself looking for you. Every goddamn day.

But you are not here anymore.

What happens to people when they die will always be a mystery. What happened to you though is simple: life.

I look at the pictures of your parents, of your sisters. They are living their lives. They look so happy. I can only imagine how hard it must be for them to hold together the pieces of what crumbled in your home when you died and still smile in pictures. How painful it is for them to see your memories floating everywhere, but with you nowhere to be found.

Maybe it's all a facade. Maybe every night, what I don't get to witness is their grief-stricken trance, reaching to the side of the bed where you used to sleep only to be touched by emptiness. But maybe that's love in a shape of hope and living.

You loved them so much I know you'd want them to be happy. And they are, they really are. But everytime I look at them, my heart screams in pain. My heart breaks for you. Because it doesn't make any sense. You should be here, to witness their happy. You should be here, to witness their growth. You should be here. You should be with them. But you're not. You're not. Because life happened to you.

[forlornputato]

I guess we gonna pay for it.

Every truth we owe to people.

Every debt in the shape of a heart ache.

Every vile desire we set free.

Every trembling moment of fear & thrill.

All of them, slowly, making shrill cries for the people we once tossed. For the bodies we buried in shallow graves marked with headstones now making love and peace with poison ivy.

I guess we gonna pay for it.

Every piercing cry for every pound of mud.

Every love and hope snatched from such gentle eyes.

Every ill-intentioned stroke and talk.

Every wicked smile upon the anguished soul.

All of them, patiently, will creep back up, unbeknownst to the living. Curses and pleading and guilt until we're driven mad.

Oh good lord, we're gonna pay for it, aren't we?

[forlornputato]

The Ship of Theseus

This thought experiment beautifully laid out a nagging idea about our identity. To put it simply, our real identity is not a factual matter. You are no longer the person you were 2 years ago. Your thought process and beliefs might have changed over time. Although it’s best to remember that this doesn't undermine the fact that your memories and the things you were once make the individual that you are now. Therefore, isn't it safe to say that when it comes to identity, there can never be a factual certainty especially if it is to be viewed by someone living outside your experience?

Here's something to ponder: if no one can give an accurate definition of who we really are, sometimes not even ourselves, doesn't it show that we really don't know people, regardless of the intimacy we share with them? And if this is the case to people close to our heart, shouldn't we think more that way to people we truly don’t know? Is dropping all judgments we have about someone a more ethical way to do?

There might be times when you are inclined to think you know someone simply because you’re a witness to how they behave. You might find yourself wanting to feed the curiosity of knowing why people act the way they do. Thus, the judgments. But since identity is as puzzling as the ship of Theseus, maybe we can start accepting the fact that personality is multi-faceted that our judgements, no matter how sound they may seem, can't encapsulate a profound identity of any person.