How to move on

I just thought that reading my own thoughts would help me get over my depression. Here are some of them and please tell me if they are of help to you or not.

1. Get back to work mode and try as much as possible to keep yourself busy.
2. Start helping your mom with the household chores on weekends.
3. Forget your boyfriend and never fall in love with another guy again.
4. Start refocusing your life and determine whether meeting a girl this time around is a possibility.
5. Always remember that life is beautiful after all, so never ever attempt at committing suicide again.
6. Try to set one goal at a time; achieve something for yourself for motivation.
7. Pray and go to church.

Just some thoughts running in my head now. There could be more though.

The Resurrection

Coming back soon. So many things to share and to talk about. Two monhts of indifference shall be several years of recovery.

Foraging For Food Before The Duck Hunt

The days faded and I had not gone home. The weeks flourished so swiftly and it witnessed the growing desperation that had been dwelling on my execrable self. I was such a loser and I let it. There were times I would go to sleep with other friends who had eloped from their homes with the disturbing thoughts of my father. He was still a habitual drunkard then and it scared me to death thinking that anytime he might just storm in Kuya M’s ( a friend and the owner of the house where I found temporary shelter and consolation) house and forcibly drag me to get back home. Nothing of that sort happened though and I took it to signify that my parents must have understood my rebellious behavior.

I was deeply hurt and the longer I stayed at Kuya M’s, the more brooding the future got envisioned in me. I wasn’t hopeless but I acted I was. My frailty gave in to the thrills my youth could offer. I started sucking in on cigarettes more than I had used to and got more exposed to the different tastes of inebriants.

In some occasions, I’d get surprised to see some of my classmates paying me a visit or two. I’d hear them asking where I was in the village and my neighbors who knew me would direct them at Kuya M’s. They’d always convince me to go back to school and that there was enough time I could still catch up by taking special exams. They were also witness of my jeremiads but they didn’t get the reciprocation they’d wanted from me. I’d tell them how the recent event in my life had ripped off the zeal and passion I once had wrought and feared I’d never step back in college again.

The life at I had at Kuya M's was not a bed of roses. Living without their parents somehow taught us to depend on each other and find means for survival. It was a give and take relationship for a certain period of time. There were days we had to support ourselves foraging for food around the village. There were open neighbors’ yards with sweet potato tops and openly wide lattice of chayote. We’d furtively scour promising targets for our next meal and sheepishly deal with the hostile looks of some neighbors. A lot of them though were generous and understanding enough to let go of our notoriety. Mostly, we’d fare on some chayote tops mixed with a small can of sardines for days. We intermittently fared on these edible greens and though jobless as we were, we miraculously survived for several weeks.

I was on the verge of giving up realizing that my pride might have worsened my situation. I thought I was ready to go back home.

Caught -The conclusion of the previous post

The man in his twenty's was wearing a pair of blue denim pants and a blue, checked short-sleeved polo shirt. His sight oozed a certain charm in his facade, a virile man at the height of almost 6 feet. He held a Manila envelope and laid it on the table as he took a seat. He turned his head and gave a quick look around. He pulled out a neatly folded hanky as perspiration was pouring down his face.

It was extremely hot in the lunchroom as it was getting more crowded. He wiped his sweat, fixed his tousled shirt and surveyed the room just like a first-timer. He saw me glaring at him but he didn't bother. At first, it didn't strike me that this guy was a good object for this animal lust in me. (At least for my eyes and wildest imagination.)

I think I had forgotten my craving of the daily gossips and the hunger marching in my stomach earlier was put to a halt. His well-built muscle in the arms and his luscious derriere which I prioritized to peek at when he stood craning his neck to look for a more convenient spot, thrilled the hormones in me. I looked at him again, this time sizing up the contour of his face and the complexion of his body. He's got a well-toned skin judging on his arms alone. And though he displayed a bit of a chubby face, his shaved head proved befitting to compensate for that. He's definitely not my ideal type of man but he could be my daylight fantasy.

In the middle of my woolgathering, he suddenly rose and loped towards the counter. He caught me reading him so I had to pretend I was reading the newspaper. His second look was certainly meaningful. He figured I was gay especially when one of Ate Liza's servers started calling me "Sis." While reading, I couldn't avoid leering at him as he got back to his seat. I got the feeling that he was still looking at me wanting to give me that straight-in-the-eyes confrontation, as if he wanted to ask me something perhaps, "Do you like me? Why are you staring at me like that?" The simple thought of that aroused the weakness in me. Handsome men are my weakness.

A well of blood started to gather around my face. I was blushing and he knew I had been looking at him all the while. I couldn't look straight at him anymore, I stooped lower, closer to the newspaper which I actually wasn't reading at all because I was reading him. While avoiding any eye contact that could worsen my humiliation, my mind kept trying to envision a guy near the entrance wearing a blue polo shirt. I lifted the paper gradually upward 'til it was covering my face. More than twenty minutes had gone without looking at his direction, I was able to gather my strength, my face still tinted with the mark of embarrassment.

When the flurry of activity in the cafeteria had lessened, I braved my eyes to finally throw a glimpse at his direction, if he was still there. To my relief, he was gone and I saw a scrawny guy wearing a blue scruffy shirt instead from the printing press who took on his seat there. I went to Ate Liza and asked about this guy who momentarily satisfied my fantasy. "He has gone. He didn't find what he wanted to eat so he left right away." "WHAT?!"

I am Igorot and am Proud of it

I come from a not-very-remote village in Baguio City, Philippines. It is about five kilometers away from the town proper. We hail jeepneys to go to town. If we can afford it, we flag down taxi cabs instead. The taxi drivers in my hometown are very dedicated and unlike most taxi-drivers here in Manila where I am currently working, they are not opportunists nor do they take advantage of their passengers. In Manila, cab drivers don't give your change back. They give alibis such as they have no more spare coins. If you are billed 90 pesos and you hand over a hundred, there's no point of standing by the taxi's door expecting the driver to give you your change. That reminds me of my Korean boss who is now back in Korea. When he was here in the Philippines and when tired, he would rarely drive his own car to and fro his condominium unit somewhere in Ortigas. He would end up borrowing fifty pesos from me on some ocassions because of fear of losing his change when he hands in over bigger bills. He definitely had had some bad experiences with the cab drivers in this capital city of the Philippines.

My village is where most natives like the Igorots thrive and have their sanctuaries there. (These days though, the natives there have been outnumbered by the invasion of people from the lowlands and from Manila. The small city which was originally created by the Americans many years back was intended to accommodate only roughly around twenty five thousand people. These days, people there could be estimated at around half a million.)

I have an Ibaloi blood though my mom is from Leyte-an Island in the Visayan Region. My country the Philippines is an archipelago consisting of more than 7,000 islands. It is further sub-divided into three major group of islands, Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao. So my dad is from Luzon and my mom is from Visayas.

Going back to my hometown, it is a small city with denuded mountains of pine trees. It is still holds its title though as the "Summer Capital of the Philippines'' because of its cold weather which tourists really get attracted to all year out. Oh and I miss that small city of simple life. I miss the rainy days where I could stroll down Session Road and drop in some singing rooms and coffee shops, savoring the cool weather under thick jackets and sweat shirts.