I forced myself to get out of the house, like totally. I forced myself to leave the house without Lia because I was stagnating at home and I did not feel like doing anything at all and I needed some inspiration or perhaps I needed to force myself to do something, anything, just so I can force myself to do the things I actually need to do.
Ahhh, so many things to do, so little concentration. There is enough time, there must be, the problem lies in my concentration. The ability to be efficient with whatever time I have in my hands. Sometimes I’ve got so many things in my mind, so many things I want to do yet I cannot find it in me to actually do it, that I end up just lingering in Facebook, or Twitter or Multiply, or forever checking my mail while the clock ticks away, and then I find myself at the end of the day with nothing to show for.
So today, I forced myself to bring myself to the nearest, most accessible, least energy required Starbucks and I’m now sitting at a table outside, typing away a blog that perhaps will not make sense in the end but will at least give me something to show for, and will provide an avenue for my fleeting, raucous thoughts.
I’m sitting here thinking to myself that I cannot afford this coffee I am drinking, thinking about my lifestyle and the lifestyles of other people and thinking that everything is all a matter of choice. Sometimes it appears I have a lot of money, for someone who doesn’t have a real job, with purchases such as this and that, and travel to so and so places, but as I’m sitting here, listening to unfamiliar wonderful music emanating from this coffee shop’s loudspeakers, I think about the last time I bought myself a pair of jeans, a pair of petty I just-bought-myself-this-pair-out-of-whim shoes, the last time I had a facial or how often I have been to a salon for a mani-pedi or a hair treatment, and the answer was its been a long time or few and far between. I live my life simply, as simple as I can and I like to think I work hard enough for any purchases or anything I ever get for myself.
I need this, this sitting in a coffee shop, this being surrounded by people who are busy with their lives, their voices drowning in the sounds of the cars, trucks and motorcycles trying to get to where they have to be. I need this energy.
It’s good to do actual work, is what I am now thinking, even if it’s not a real occupation. To be paid for something, which hopefully for your work and not just be paid for the expenses you incur in trying to do that work, like getting to the office and feeding yourself. When I got the jobs I just recently got, I became more conscious of my expenses. I started taking jeepneys and tricycles in my efforts to avoid my salary from being negative in the long run, avoiding taking expensive taxi rides and realizing that I was more sosyal when I didn’t have actual work, simply because I never went anywhere without taking a cab or being driven to and fro.
All these thoughts I realize just now are just superficial to my actual concern, just something that I tell myself or others that what is actually bothering me, eventhough it is not. Buried deep within all these work-related, inspiration-related, time and money-related concerns is the fact that I am unhappy about my parents.
That they will always be the self-absorbed individuals they have always been. I cannot force them to like kids or be loving parents or grandparents. I cannot force them to be interested in my family life or my daughter or stories about my daughter and how she is or what she can now do or what is her newest-acquired skill. I am not even going to try to be objective. I am just going to say things according to what I know and what I have experienced or what I have seen. I am not going to try to see where they are coming from or what they are going through. I am just going to say things are they are.
I have never been my mother’s favorite daughter or even favorite child and I will never be. I will never be liked or loved like I want to or even hoped for. My sister told me once, you will understand when you become a mother yourself. Your relationship with our mother will change when you have a daughter of your own and sincerely, I had hoped I would, for the betterment of everyone but almost a year later, I see that nothing has changed. When this cancer thing came out, I cried and cried but deep inside I had hoped something would change for the better â€“ but many months later, I realize that that change was only temporary. You would think some things would be difficult enough to effect some change on some things, attitute or perhaps, perspective. Today I mourn the fact that I was wrong.
My daughter is sweet, yes she is; but she is because I shower her with all the love I ever have and can give. I am not a stay-at-home mom because we can afford it or because it is convenient, but because I want to love my daughter in the most possible way I can.
What has really happened, maybe you will ask. I do not feel their presence even if they are in my house. I used to force my presence every time I was in their house, and force them to show me I am loved, by the simplest things like preparing a bed or a room for me. Why do they visit even when they do not really want to? It’s because it’s requried. Doing the kid’s rounds is imperative, as my sister, bless her heart, had insisted.
But what am I supposed to feel when the moment she comes through the door all she ever talks about are the people who aren’t there? My niece this and my nephew that. I have nothing against being told about how my nephew and my niece are doing, I love being told stories about them because I do not get to see them often enough, but what about my daughter? What about asking how mine is? It hurt me deeply, more deeply than I had expected, so deep that I was taken aback myself by the amount of hurt I felt, when as I was telling them about how my child is, who was then sleeping already in the bedroom upstairs despite her insistence to entertain her visitors, was put to bed simply because her father was concerned that she might make a fool of herself by trying too har d, my mother turned around and requested that the volume of the tv be turned up. She had wanted to listen to some woman’s story about how she went to jail for something she did not do. I stopped talking, got up from the sofa and went upstairs, too dumbfounded to say anything else and did my best to stop my tears. I am an offended daughter, I am a more offended mother.
I am hurt. Nothing has changed. Nothing at all. Perhaps I have never been as good a daughter as I was expected to be, but this is how things are. I was raised by maids and nannies. I never really saw my mother when I was growing up. She had her work, her masters studies, then her law studies, then her bar exams, then all her travels. She expected us to excel in our studies, was envious of cousins who were graduating at the top of their classes, and yet I never had any help with my homework or my projects. I am not being objective. My memories might be clouded with hurt as is always the case in situations like this.
This is my sole point of view and this is just how I see things as they are. There are no excuses. There are no clarifications.
I will continue to be a good mother in the capacity I can and I will continue to live my life hounded by a deep desire to be unlike the mother I have known. This is me today, maybe tomorrow I will be different but today, this is me, hurting and crying and lost. This is my story.