Friday, April 3, 2015

That third person

Cheating. An occurrence that (usually) signifies the end of a relationship, or at least the degrading of one. There are instances where guys cheat and no one ever finds out. And then there are instances where they cheat and all hell broke loose.

I've been there. Never cheated on anyone, but I've been cheated on. Once, twice, who's counting anymore? It sucks, of course, to know that that someone who you trusted was able to disregard you enough to be with someone else while texting you, saying hey, I love you. It sucks even more because no one seems to care about that broken heart. When he ended up being with her, you'd smile and convince yourself that they're a better fit when deep down, inside, you're dying, sinking.

But that's never the end. You move on. Whatever he did will no longer hurt you, and you sincerely wish them the best, though you'd much rather not have to face him in class every day.

Sometimes... sometimes things don't end. Sometimes he did it to you, and then he apologized, and you'll take him back. And this is where the perception splits. The guy thinks that since he's forgiven, that the girl should mention nothing about the past, or distrust him in any way. For the girl... it's a bit more complicated than that. Every "I love yous" brings doubt to her mind, flashbacks to the hurt he caused, the deep, dark memories that seems to haunt her every move. She loves him, she truly do. But it's always hard to move on. Maybe, after a year, or two, when he's finally able to prove himself... Maybe then she'll be able to let go.

I've also been that third person. Once, twice, thrice... Let's not go there. To all those people who think that I've no guilt, that's not true. The first time it happened, I did it because I was lonely, because he was there, because there was nothing more to it other than companionship and having someone by my side. The second time it happened with someone else, I did it because I love him. When things happen I choose to not think about the other half. The person who I'm inflicting pain upon. It works, for a while. Then I hear things. They broke up. It's a relieve when it's an amicable break up, to know that I was the third person in a relationship that is almost in shambles. But it's never nice when the girl would go on a rant about (you) without knowing who she's talking about.

I'll admit it. All those times, I was a selfish bitch. I chose to put myself over others. I chose to think that although she didn't deserve it, I'm giving her a glimpse of who that person she's with is. She might have never known about my existence, but I definitely knew about hers. And I consciously decided to ignore her presence in his life. I would love to apologize, but I know that they'd much rather me not.

Now that I'm with the person who cheated with me, it's like a backslap in the face. I can't seem to fully grasp the concept of trusting him. You know the saying, "if he cheated on his girlfriend with you, he will definitely cheat on you"? That scares me. It scares me to death knowing that one day, karma will come and bitch slap me in the face, leaving me breathless, broken, scarred, all over again. And instinctively, I'm shying away. Away from the relationship, slowly sheltering myself, for fear of getting hurt.

Karma's a bitch, and I'm about to get caught in its war.

Sunday, March 8, 2015

They sit there with their pints of beer, him at his third round of Asahi, her still at her first round of Paulaner. She never knew how to drink, how to gather her thoughts well once the alcohol starts kicking in. Not drinking is a way for her to stay safe, to be the sane one between them. Ironically, three years ago she would drink pints after pints, just to keep up with him, impress him, be in his state of mind.

Months of not seeing each other led to this awkward moment where none of them knew what to say, what to do. They knew nothing of what's happening in each others lives. Is he happy? Is he healthy? His decision to disconnect from the outside world meant that if he didn't call today, she'd never know what's happening, if he's alive, if he's injured, dead. When she got the call to meet up she was surprised. Wasn't he 12 hours away, away from her?

She saw him first. That wavy hair with a color that she could never describe. The way he leans on his car door when he waits for someone. The way he scratches his eyebrow. So nothing's changed. "D. How are you?" He turned around. A hug here, a peck on the cheek there. They decided on what to eat, him, as usual, letting her make the decision.

"You gained a bit of weight," he said. She smirked, punched him in the arm. "So, you drive now? I heard you moved houses." She nodded. "Too bad they don't sell the pulled beef rib sandwich that you like anymore." So he still remembers. "I'm not hungry. I'll just steal your fries, and your salad." He raised an eyebrow to that sentence. The eyebrow that's scarred because of something he never wanted to tell her about. "Salad, really? So they're right. You've changed." Have she?

"You still haven't told me. How are you, D?" And that's when she noticed. Those eyes. The ever-changing eyes that she used to be mesmerized about. It's different somehow. Hollow, much, much emptier than what it was before. She looked at him again. He's much skinnier. Has he not recovered from that overdose they told her about? He's coughing. Is he sick, or is it just a result of smoking too much?

"I'm living." "Just living?" "Just living." "Are you happy?" "No." "Have you found someone?" "Do you think any girl in their right mind would want to be with someone who don't have the ability to love them, someone who don't even want anything in his life? "How's life, seriously?" "Like I said, I'm living. I'm breathing, still alive. Drifting day by day, one no different than the other." "Why?" "Because."

Their meal was uneventful. Filled with silence, apart from the occasional comment on the food, on the changes of the area, on their friends.

And now here they are, sitting at the bar. This place is filled with memories. Them drinking, eating, laughing, talking. What happened? What changed? "What happened to us, D?" "You changed." "I know." She looked at him, and a tear fell out of her eyes. He lifted his hand, and for a moment, he hesitated. It's as if he's scared that whatever he's going to do will bring them back to times they know they can no longer have back.

"This might be the last time I'm doing this." He wiped off her tear with his thumb, and smeared it on her nose. She looked into his eyes, and in that brief moment, it's as if nothing is wrong between them, as if the fights never happened, as if they were back to that place last year when they both decided to let everything go and just be. But this isn't. Things are no longer the way it used to be. She can't do this. Not again.

She stood up. "Where are you going?" "I'm sorry." She walked away. If this wasn't a place so public (though, strangely, it's quite empty for a Saturday night), she would've ran. He chased after her. "Where are you going?"
"I can't do this anymore, D."
"What can't you do? What have you and haven't you been doing?"
"I can't sit there and act like everything is okay between us when it's not."
"I never said that things are okay."
"But I want things to be okay. I want us to be the way we were. Remember that time when we danced in the rain and you promised me that you'll always be there to do it with me, over and over again? What happened to that promise? You left, D. You walked out, on me, on your friends. You left me all alone regretting me saying what I said, doing what I did. You left me to pick up the broken person you left behind, and I bled. I'm still bleeding, every day."
"I'm sorry."
"No you're not. You're not sorry. Did you know how worried I was when you left? Did you know how I felt when everyone else knew where you were but I didn't? Did you know how I felt when they told me you OD-ed and left me hanging after that, not knowing if you survived or died? There you are saying that that might be the last time you're wiping my tears. What do you mean by that? Are you planning to harm yourself?"
"I'm sorry."
"Don't give me that. Tell me the truth. What are you planning to do after we said our goodbyes today? If what we had before this meant something to you, please tell me what's in your mind. Talk to me, D. Just for one last time."
"I lost the fight."

Friday, March 6, 2015

Me and you

"I was fortunately in my mid 20s when I arrived at this moment. The very minute my wife said "I do" I stopped caring what anyone else in the world thinks.

I'm lucky that my wife is just as silly and as weird as I am. For instance the occasional duel for who makes dinner with nerf guns. We go see anything that's under $40 for the two of us. (For example, sumo wrestling or professional bull riding)

We have a lot of fun together. And I wouldn't give it up for anything in the world."

I read this in an AskReddit thread some time ago, and wrote it down because of how I felt when I read it. "THIS. This is what I want between me and my boyfriend."

I'm not a perfect person. I have so, so many downs, more so than my ups are. I have tantrums equivalent to that of a 4-year-old. I lack responsibility in certain aspects of my life. I am lazy, I am a procrastinator, I sometimes hate everyone (and everything) around me. Sometimes I go crazy, sometimes I am just sad, sometimes I am not even there.

I don't want to be showered with the numerous expensive gifts that other people shower their girlfriends with. I don't want to be pampered with a luxurious dinner that I'd feel so awkward eating the appetite is all gone. I don't want a large bouquet of roses, or a new phone, or an expensive getaway to places I've never been to.

All I want is plain, pure, honest love. And apparently, in this world, that's too much to ask for. I want someone to love me, bruises and all. I want someone to be able to not care what the world thinks about us as long as we're together. I want someone who's willing enough, comfortable enough to spend the rest of their lives at our own pace.

Someone who wants the same things I want in life, someone who wants to spend time the same way I want to. I want someone who won't easily give up on me. Who would be able to give me a definite answer when I ask him to. Who would have me pop up randomly in their mind and cause them to smile even though they're busy and tired at work.

I want someone who is always excited to see me. I want someone who, knowing the secret wanderlust in me, make plans once in a while to bring me to places, creating new memories for ourselves. Someone who's able to drag me out of the house despite my cries of wanting to immerse in my depression and sleep/cry/cuddle.

Is this not achievable? Am I asking too much? Is this why him and I fight so much, all the time? Is this why now, as I'm waiting for an answer for him, my heart is sinking, further and further, dreading that the answer is not what I want it to be? Is this why I'm sobbing my hearts out? Why I feel like I'm ruining his life so much just by being myself?

I wish I could tell him all this in person. But alas, I've always been one who never ever show her emotions to people face to face. I find it easier to be crying behind my screen, fingers shivering, struggling to type out words that haunts my thoughts. Hoping he'd read this and understand what I'm asking for. What I want.

Mr. Anonymous, are you someone who is there for me, and wants me to be there for you too? Or are you just someone who's simply there?

Your mum reads my blog.
Don't hesitate to let me fall.

Thursday, March 5, 2015

Guardian angels.

*I wrote this last year, and because I didn't really understood what was said to me, I didn't manage to end it then. Now that I've gotten an insight to what he was saying, I decided to finish it now.*


{There are people who appear in your life for a split moment, disappearing soon after, making (or not making) an impact in your life. And then there are people who will always be there, like the silent guardian angels that they are. Watching over you, making sure you never fall, cleaning up your bruises if you ever do.

D's one of them. He promised me the comfort of knowing that he'll always be there. That he'll come if I wanted him to, he'll run to me when I need him to. He'll always be here for me. If I ask him to be. If I ever change my mind about the decision I made to not follow him overseas, he'll come back, take my hand, and together, we'll run away, start over.

Two months ago, he asked me to go with him. To run away, to leave this place, to start anew. To take his hand, allow him to me, allow myself to love him. I declined his offer. Not because I didn't want to. Trust me, I was tempted to leave this place and go on an adventure, meet new people, see new places, experience new things. But my heart didn't belong to him. How can I drop everything I have for someone who I love so dearly, but not am in love with? Deep down, I knew that my heart belonged to someone else, and no matter where I run to, nothing will help.

I asked him to not leave. There's so many opportunities here for him, so much to see still.

"If it was (him) who asked you to go, you would've went with no hesitation, wouldn't you?" I didn't even have to reply to that. Because he knew. He knew who had my heart. He knew who he lost to. That dark soul who managed to engulf mine and let me mask myself with feigned laughter, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes and countless tears.

"It's unfortunate for you and me he's so lucky."}

Your mum reads my blog.
Come to me.

Monday, February 16, 2015

If I knew.

If you knew that that time you said goodbye to someone and agreed to not see each other anymore is really the last time, would you still have gone on with the hard headed decision to go live what you think is a better, fuller life without him? Or would you have tried to make things work? Would you have appreciated his fucked up, weed-craving soul more? Would you have loved the familiar pat-turned-knuckle on your head?

I wouldn't know, really. Maybe if I didn't choose to walk away life would've been different. I wouldn't be where I am now, with who I am. This is life. It's filled with inconsistencies, mysteries, doubts, what-ifs. I don't regret being at this point of my life right now. I've been asked if I'm truly happy, and the answer is yes, yes I am.

All I know is not leaving would mean me being stuck there, in a cycle of depression and self-harm amidst people who is just like me. I've been there for years, ever since I got to know them, and as much as there were moments that I loved, I knew that those moments are few and far between. I was in denial. They were the only friends that I ever truly had, who I think really understood me for the person that I am. I think a big part of me never wanted to let go because walking away means putting down everything that I have, starting anew, and I wasn't prepared for it.

Then one day I just realized it. They were sleeping, and I was awake. I've been awake for so many nights, looking at all these people, thinking to myself how we got to where we are. And I knew. I couldn't do this anymore. These few years I've spent thinking that no matter what I've these people to fall back into, and instead, I've been falling into a dark abyss none of them wanted me to leave from. As ironic as it may sound, I felt a beckoning to leave, to not do this anymore.

And that's what it took. I left. Walked away. And with me no longer around, they left too. And with that, the memories that we had. The times we spent together talking like there's no tomorrow. The times where I cried and they were pissed off that I'm allowing other people the power of making me cry. The times where we went on secret road trips to places that even now I'm yearning to go, over and over again. The sunsets and sunrises that we spent staring at, bottles of beers in our hands, wishing that these days would last longer.

I miss them, I really do. But sometimes people just grow in different directions, and there's no way these branches of road could weave back into one without causing much disruptions.

Your mum reads my blog.

Sunday, February 15, 2015


I've been having nightmares. Lots and lots of them. Sometimes I remember them, so detailed, so clearly that I could remember every person, every word, every action, every feeling that I felt in the dream. Sometimes I wake up in cold sweats, breaths heavy, heart racing, and yet the only thing that I could remember is the faint memory of being afraid.

I don't know... maybe I'm just stressed out from work, and that stress is translated into my dreams. Sometimes I dream about messing up at work, doing the wrong things, getting scolded. I guess that's just me stressing myself out too much just cause I want to be perfect.

Or maybe I'm just being paranoid. I dream of my boyfriend leaving me, I dreamed about my friend and I arguing, I dreamed about my ex, I dreamed about so many people, acquaintances, strangers... Sometimes they aren't nightmares, but it feels so real that it's just impossible for my mind to grasp the full meaning of the dream.

And then sometimes the dreams are just plain horrible. Ghosts, monsters, dying, getting hurt. It's funny how on days like these where I'm getting happier, more content, but my mind seems to hate it and torture me in my dreams because my consciousness wouldn't let it overpower me during the day.

Because I'm having all these nightmares, I get tired even throughout the day. It's as if I can never get enough sleep. I wake up feeling just a bit refreshed. Hahaha. I feel so old now. Unlike the me that I was a year ago. Oh well. It's a part of growing up, I guess.

Your mum reads my blog.

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Two months in.

It's now the second week of February. And here I am, typing.

It's like a rut, this whole blogging thing. I abandon my blog for months, and I no longer know where to start. Do I talk about what have happened during the past months that I went AWOL? Though I'm pretty sure no one really cares to know. Or do I just start all over, start writing, noting down thoughts, experiences?

When I first started writing, it was a way to spend my time. I won't lie, I'd hoped to be a famous blogger, paid to write advertorials while doing what I love and inspire people around me at the same time. And then this blog turned into a personal diary, one that not a lot of people read anymore, but those who mattered to me still read it and they were able to understand me even better through my writing than my words.

Well, eventually that personal diary turned into an ammunition of some sort. People, criticizing my life, the way I live it, the darkness in me, the light I try to shine on everyone else. Accusations of being fake popped up, from my ex, from my university mates, from acquaintances... I never said that I'm perfect; heck, I know I'm not. And I am the things that I write; I won't deny it. But does that justify the blatant criticism, the smirk, the pretense of understanding me?

I've had bouts of silence throughout my blogging years. Silence because somehow, me trying to inspire people backfired and ended up with people judging me. Even so, I've also had people come up to me and ask if I'm okay, and for that, I'm truly grateful. I've had people email me, telling me that I helped them, that my writing elevated the pain, and because of that, I continued writing.

Toxic thoughts, irrational views, senseless rants, I sometimes feel like this is what it turning to be all about, you know? And I loved it. I loved writing toxic, irrational, senseless stuffs. Heck, this post is turning out to be one.

I can't deny it though, there's always an itch to write. I'd wake up in the middle of the night with this yearning to write, but, the truth is, nowadays a pen and paper seems to be easier to reach than a laptop and typing. Maybe, just maybe I'd go back to trying to revive this blog. Now that I'm no longer in that self-loathing phrase, maybe the uninspired side in my writing is changing.

Until I write again.

Your mum reads my blog.
Or does she?