As this entry was being written, my poor little dog, Pico, paced around my room. He was obviously disturbed by the loud noises from outside as 2018 slowly faded away.
Pico’s actions made me think that, in a way, welcoming the unknown may be overwhelming.
In the last eleven months, thirty days, and twenty two hours, my life had been filled with victories and utter failures that it can’t be described as either awesome or terrible. It’s more of a “meh.” Although in hindsight, there were times of spiritual dryness, self doubt, and periods of depression that it seemed like Satan’s wet dream.
Much to his dismay, there were always little miracles that saved me when I least expected it. Some would call it fate, but I call it Divine Providence.
Quite frankly, I don’t feel confident with the year ahead. At least, not if I face it alone. You see, as much as I try to be self sufficient, there will always come a time when I would need to depend on someone to increase my chances of succeeding.
Right now, I am pretty sure that I have some problems in 2018 that will carry over to 2019. These problems are the explosions that get louder and louder in my head. However, it is also these same problems that excite me in a weird way.
Why? Because I am fearful yet somewhat excited to be branded by these battle scars, each having an awesome story (of triumph, hopefully). I will stumble, I will fall, and I am afraid. Though it should be noted that successful results are not just dependent on the implementation of well formed plans.
We can all be crumpled and worn out pieces of paper that are actually winning lottery tickets – we just need recognize our value and put ourselves out there despite all the turmoil and explosions of our adult life.
These explosions of fear can be strong, but remember, they are only fleeting.
Just charge head on! Trust me on this, bud. You’re not alone. You got this! <3
PS. I wrapped Pico with his blanket like a burrito. Now he’s calmer ;)
Many years ago, I found three healthy kittens that were a few weeks old abandoned by their mother in our garden. Two of them were already walking, but one had deformed hind legs and only crawled. Even if they were strays, I still fed them every day like I did with my other pets.
One day, they just disappeared.
I figured that maybe their mother took them back or perhaps they wandered off somewhere around the garden. I never really bothered knowing what happened and just continued about my business as a typical kindergartner – digging around the garden pretending to be a paleontologist looking for fossils.
Several months passed, as I was busy looking for fat beetle larvae that I usually found squirming around loose soil, something exciting came up. I found some lizard bones that were partially unearthed. A tail bone to be precise.
I was ecstatic! Little old Jake squealed with delight!
I then remembered the things I saw on discovery channel wherein paleontologists used brushes in cleaning the bones then moved to other sites to excavate more fossils. I brushed the little tail bone and noticed that some parts were brownish in color.
I went back to the “fossil site” I found to see if I would find other bones. Much to my dismay, the bones were incomplete. However, I did find four other pieces:
A broken mandible, a vertebral ring, and two very small pieces of crooked tibial bones.
In haste, I went away and left the bones on our terrace terribly distraught
It couldn’t be them. There were only four pieces, and there should’ve been more. Out of curiosity, I went to that same spot where I found the bones and realized that it was near the place where the kittens were. I rummaged through the dried leaves and loose earth desperately looking for the others wishing I was wrong.
What I looked for were hidden in plain sight; they were dark brown. Possibly brought about by the mixture of dirt and dried blood.
I saw a small pile of bones but I dared not touch. It was them. Deep down in my heart I knew it was them.
I never gave them shelter or any water. Just leftover snacks. I was oblivious to their needs. But they just stayed there in that spot, rain or shine. Waiting for me or their mother who never came. I don’t know. Quite frankly, it didn’t matter at that point.
I was teary eyed as I remembered their high pitched meows. What I did for them when they were still alive was not enough. I just buried the bones and wished I did more. Their cries for food or for attention remained with me as they lay silent.
This story is probably the main reason why I always took in stray kittens whenever I would find them inside trashcans or near canals. In so doing, maybe the three kittens would have forgiven the six-year-old Jake. Maybe they would have stopped crying. They must be tired from all that crying.
At least, I know for sure that their lives meant something because of all those I would save in the future because of them. .
It has been more than a year since the one I used to love fell from grace. Yet despite that fact, it took a while before I opened up what transpired near the end of our relationship. I protected her name not because of love for her, but because I did not want to break her mother’s heart who had been so gracious to me.
It was around 3 am in the first week of July 2017. She called out of the blue and started joking with me for some strange reason which further developed into hypothetical questions. The long list of what ifs she bombarded me with after waking me up made me anxious.
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“What if I tell you I cheated?”
“What if I tell you I slept with him. Not just once, but many times. Would you still love me?”
I replied, “You’re joking, right?”
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After I said that, a deep silence ensued. My sleepy eyes widened. My heart sank. I opened my mouth to tell her a witty and funny reply, but no words came out. What came out of me were clear nasal discharge and warm tears that moistened my face that cold and dry morning.
At that brief moment when I had my realization, all our happy memories came crashing down on me. With each one being accompanied by anger and despair. How the heck was I supposed to handle that? With grace? With what was left of my dignity? I felt like I was dying. I felt like vomiting. There was nothing that could be said or done that could have prepared me.
I was naive.
I was in denial that our relationship had been dead long before this happened.
I believed in promises. I believed in unconditional love. I believed in so many things. But she slapped me with, “…but he’s here.” It utterly destroyed me.
I desperately tried to bargain. She told me that she really did love me but just couldn’t manage the distance… and that I loved her better than the other guy… and that I was more understanding than the other guy… and that she would choose me in a heartbeat IF I WAS THERE.
Welp. There goes unconditional love. I actually thought distance meant nothing to those truly in love. Well, to me it was nothing.
Out of sheer desperation in the coming months, I was the one asking her to come back and I still sacrificed for her.
Looking back, I am sure that my definition of love through sacrifices and selflessness wasn’t wrong. But during those moments that I was begging, I wasn’t sure if the way I defined love was what it was really about.
I even tried dating other women months after the unceremonious break-up. They were witty and good looking, mind you. But the gaping hole was there and nothing filled that void back then. I left it that way. I became paranoid. I even questioned myself if I was worth the effort.
I made wrong decisions and pushed other people away in the process of mending my sanity.
Even my current girlfriend knew how broken I was. I was never alone, but it really didn’t matter to me. It was only after careful introspection, prayers, and patience of the people around me, that I was able to overcome that ordeal.
I had to make peace with the fact that I had to undergo that painful process in order for me to mature and be free from the emotional baggage of clinging to the past. It’s pretty much what Buddha taught about detachment and letting go in order to be free from pain. Yup, true story, bro.
We have to understand that happiness isn’t something that other people give; it is something we create and share as we see fit. Happiness is not about holding on tightly with what we think is ours; it is about opening our hands, appreciating what remains, and letting go of what needs to go.
Moving on is an arduous journey but it starts from knowing not what we want but what we truly deserve and ultimately trusting the process. .
(I’m glad I did. Shout out to my slightly terrifying girlfriend for journeying with me and not giving up on me despite how pathetic and hopeless I was hahaha! I love you, Malonie )
Working in the medical field, I was told many times that what I had was not just a career but a calling.
But you know, after a while, all the stress gets to you and there are times that you start to question if the path you’re currently taking is the best one to take. I always told people who sought my counsel that our purpose in life is something that gradually unfolds. Some faster than others. Mine was definitely on hold.
After living for almost three decades, I learned that Jon Snow and I had a lot in common aside from good looks – we both knew nothing. Others will say that there is always room for growth and I can always learn from my mistakes; it’s just that a mistake on my part may cost someone’s life. Crap.
Anyway, last October, I was in my pediatric rotation. One day I went to clinicals depressed and thinking how incompetent I was for failing a big exam we had. It’s because it could actually cost me my stay in the program if I fail my final exam. I was looking at the little kids with melancholy and despair. Some kids who were busy crying actually stopped after seeing my face. Maybe they weren’t expecting someone to be sadder than they were.
One little boy approached me, took my hands, and put it on his face. The nurse practitioner told me that the little boy had autism and did not like people, let alone approaching them. What the boy did meant something. Perhaps it was Divine Intervention telling me not to give up on my calling. Or it can be that he just randomly did it. Who knows?
I still learned from that simple act from the little boy that, perhaps, shortcomings do not dictate what we can do. Perhaps there may be hope. There will always be a calling. A call for excellence. A call to take action. Whatever the call may be, I will try my best to answer.
black mambas probably have my least favorite faces because an animal that venomous should not be making a face like it’s thinking of a joke that it’s the only one in on
The name's Achilles.
