Six Degrees of Crazy

I always thought that the road from then to now is the most interesting of all trips. Every so often, something crazy gets in the way. It's crazy!

Then again, maybe this is how we grow up.


1st degree of crazy: If you don't get what you want, throw tantrums.

This is what brats are made of. And it starts with the innocent demand for milk during the phase in our lives when can hardly talk. Some grow out of it. Unfortunately, some don't. I'd like to believe I have--at least for the past 4 years, I have. Hihi. Crazy.


2nd degree of crazy: I must be adopted.

Too much TV made me this crazy. ...crazy enough to consider the "adopted theory" when everyone, including me, can see that I look exactly like my mom--that is, mommy less 23 years.


3rd degree of crazy: I feel different; I must be crazy.

This happens when hypochondria haunts one's psychology. Adolescence is that tough, I really thought I was crazy.


4th degree of crazy: Life is just sooo friggin' sad.

The perfect cure? Allow me to go a bit spiritual... COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS! And my present mantra on this goes: "Life is soo friggin' sad to someone who wants to stay soo friggin sad. For all it's worth, I'd rather be happy."


5th degree of crazy: I miss the people who matter to me...so much it's driving me crazy!

At some point you just go wild and find yourself in front the building of your college in the middle of the night yelling with all your might how much you wish you were home whereas the reason why you were far from home was because you initially wanted to run away from home. Crazy. Really.


6th degree of crazy: At the brink of happiness, you find a loophole. And so, cloud nine crumbles. But instead of running for your life, you stay.

This is perhaps the craziest crazy yet. The crazy I have yet to overcome. Crazy, isn't it?

sg times three

This time, I wanted to be with the girls so very badly...to hug them and just spend time with them. There is something refreshing about them. Their presence seems to be telling me that the future is worth looking forward to--this is a big thing especially for a self-confessed repressed pessimist like myself.

Nowadays, they are my dose of happy...the dose of happy that matter. Because other than my two nieces I have my shoes. (Now you get the picture?)

* * *

The first trip to SG was all about finding out what's out there for me. The trip ended up where it should have started, the search for me, for what I really wanted me to be.

The 2nd SG trip was better. It was to spend time with my brothers and sister, and maybe with our special angel up there, too.

SG for the third time around is about looking forward. And finding a more meaningful reason to smile when, well, life gets lonely.

Klub-glub

It's June 1.

The time of the year when I go dramatically existential is nigh.

Once again, I will have to convince myself that I haven't been wasting space for the past, er, 31 years.

Two confessions

There are two things that I will confess to which will probably put my career in jeopardy--the present one and the what-could-be-my-future career:

1. I am no longer the "hawk-eye" I used to be. Worse, I am the thing hawk-eyes look out for. With that, I am saying I am beginning to carelessly, if not mindlessly, miss and mix-up my letters and words. And for a writer, this is never a good thing.

2. I have undoubtedly grown dumb. I can lament for my brain cells that died because of sleep deprivation but it won't bring back my poor neurons. For that I feel like my IQ is at a constant drop.

It seems that nature is punishing me for taking my humanity for granted, for taking the abuse of my own body too far.

Now, I cannot help but wonder if it really is all worth it.

And this shitty situation I'm in, the feeling that I have deteriorated, validates my personal quote to my so-called relationship, the relationship that keeps me preoccupied 90% of the time, the relationship that has taken over my life...

"I love you but you are not good for me."

How I survived Leukemia

Everything about me was normal when I was born. And everything stayed the same as I grew up. I think.

For that, I consider myself lucky. But not lucky enough to be spared from a disease I did not dread until it became a reality.

Not knowing is a nightmare. It is like trudging a dark and dank surreal world. But the diagnosis is worse. It is the unanticipated pull back to earth spiced up with painful lashing, one after the other—one whip for every complication that is leukemia.

I remember hiding and crying. Asking questions that begin with “why.” Questions with no definite answers. Answers that come along when most of your fears and worries are over.

I am not much thankful that it is over, nor for the fact that I survived it. It’s just how it is because it is how it’s supposed to be. And I had no control over it.

I cannot say that I am less troubled now. Because I often catch myself worrying. Wondering what will happen next—if the trouble and the trauma is the worst I will ever have to deal with in life. Even I know that it is too early to tell. To say that the worst is over.

Sometimes I feel defeated. Because part of me died the day the battle ended. It is compulsory to live just so I will not lose altogether. I find much consolation in living the best way I can. If only to express that I learned something, that I got something good out of which is undoubtedly bad.

Some people, perhaps they will have a hard time understanding how a thing like this can change people like me. How something probably as abstract as leukemia could affect a person forever. I will be happy for them if they live their lives never finding out. I pray that they never find out.

I never had leukemia but I did suffer from it.

I lost a loved one because of it—my brother who always expressed his will to live. A brother who could have been a great somebody if he were given a longer lease on life. A brother who made me believe that there is heaven because after all he’s gone through, he deserved heaven.

Losing him, the process and the end in itself, was suffering.

I didn’t have to be on the verge of dying to survive leukemia.

I go on with my life but things will never be the same again. No simple bleeding or body pain will ever go unnoticed. I will forever think that I may be a carrier of the faulty gene which when triggered, can lead to the same thing that killed my 13-year-old brother.

I survived leukemia. But a good person I know and loved, didn’t. He suffered so badly, he didn’t make it.

Often times I live in fear. Sometimes, sorrow.

I guess, this is how I survived—scarred and scared.

This is how I live.

Ano ang "P" sa P.E.?

If I were any worse at P.E. perhaps I wouldn't be able to answer this question.

There are sporty people, flexible individuals, and the physically fit. And then there's me.

As much as I enjoyed playing dodge ball and kickball in my younger years, the fear of spraining an ankle or breaking a bone always lurked at the back of my mind, preventing me to, well, be at the top of my game. Then volleyball happened. And just when I proved to NOT suck at it, I had to undergo surgery (at my wrist), get well and lose the volleyball momentum.

I consider it excruciating every year, when we have to undergo that thing called "Philippine Physical Fitness Test" (PPFT). I can define flexibility, agility, endurance, strength and the likes but my body most definitely cannot define them. Not at all. Especially since I am one who can NEVER do decent sit-ups, nor crunches. Really I can't. So you can just imagine how embarrassing it was to record "1" or "2" under number of sit-ups every time I had to take the darn test!

And this happened when I was at the perfect weight for my height and, if it matters, age.

I guess, P.E. and I were just not meant to be.

Swimming was better though. I found out that I am capable of learning and doing three out of the four strokes in our curriculum. And I passed the quarter for successfully pulling off a few laps in our school's junior olympic-size pool.

The dances were awful. Be it folk dance or ballroom, I was a mess. And I cannot even muster memorizing the proper counting for "Carinosa" or the "Itik-itik" or "Binhi". Perhaps the "step-hop-hop", "hop-step-step" didn't appeal to my brain cells, or my muscles for that matter.

Chickenpox once saved me from gymnastics class. I didn't have to force myself to do splits or head stands or other stunts. But I will be eternally reminded of our pyramid-building efforts for it was then that I broke a bone, or probably it was dislocated. I don't know for sure. I was too afraid to see a doctor. I just relied on good ol' self-healing! As it turns out, I'm no wolverine. I can still feel the broken, if not dislocated bone, until now.

I would have enjoyed softball if we played more of it. I probably will never be the best softball player in class but I did hit a few balls with my bat. Few is better than none. And although it took a lot of guts to say hello to a flying ball, I knew how to catch using a stinky mitt. I thank my reflexes for that.

College offered me more freedom in exploring what P.E. can do for me. I took Tai-chi and aced it. I guess, I did well at imagining the ball of energy moving around my body while "painting the rainbow", "stroking the peacock's tail" and what-have-you. It helped that there were no impossible bending involved. Thus, me sailing through tai-chi.

I wasn't bad at table tennis and bowling either. Perhaps table tennis is the one clear edge I have over Jessica Zafra. I passed my class with a whopping "line of uno!". I remember I never made a strike in bowling (we played with duck pins). But I did spare several spares. Not bad for a beginner.

For a long time I haven't done anything PE-ish. Other than a few games of badminton with my family in the past; and, if it counts, my short-lived stint at Fitness First. And by "short-lived", I mean 5 to 7 visits out of my 3-month membership with them. Let's just say, Fitness First and I just didn't work out.

I can hardly believe I will ever consider joining yoga classes. Of course, I'm not good at it. It's about bending and reaching for-oh, I don't know. But even though I laugh my way to yoga class, I do appreciate the calm I get while doing the tree pose - which, thank god, I can do!

Now you see, "Ano ang 'P' sa 'P.E.'?" is a challenge for me, too.

Right, Chuck?

Missing you, Nichi!

I opened my eyes this morning and I remembered the sound of Nichi's laugh.

And I recalled how he'd stick Ferrero Rocher stickers on our remote control every time he gets a hold of the chocolate candy. I'd reprimand him for it.

But look who's got the sticker now?