I just finished the latest season of The Crown and was fascinated at the cinematically portrayed opulence of the royalty. Imagine having someone just to watch the swans, monitor the glassware and guide you through the sands. But there was one thing that particularly stirred something in me, Project London Bridge – planning the funeral.

I told A about it and although I already have a book of plans, things and activities I want done during and after my death, I still asked her to set aside time so we can do my funeral planning.

But I wasn’t going to be content at just planning to plan, today’s story worthy moment is me going to the funeral parlor to look at the plans and packages they have. I went in the guise of making an inquiry for someone. Although they were in the business of death, I didn’t want to look the person who sold embalming services, caskets and hearses in the eye and say “Oh no, it’s for me. I’m the client.” I’m the one to get embalmed, lain down on the casket and ride the hearse to the tune of my chosen Billy Joel song.

So it starts with making the call, dialing the number of a bunch of strangers to pick me up from wherever I expired. I have no preference on the location of my last breath but having it outside the home is too much exposure and would logistically be a problem for A, but having it at home is too dreary for the ones I’ll leave behind. They would probably throw my bed out or donate it to charity since no one in my family would dare sleep on a death bed.

Next is the prepping, which includes the embalming and makeup. I’ve already asked A to put falsies on me and make sure my make up is on point. I also want to make sure that my own cruelty free products are used. I took great effort to use only vegan and cruelty free products while living, why would I stop doing it in death. I also want to make sure no one uses my stuff anymore. Though I’m sure again, that no one would dare.

I’ve also chosen my last outfit. It will be a Filipiniana dress made of native fabric that will scream quiet elegance. I have preference on the chapel for viewing too, it’s what Miggy used. And I’m pre-booking the flowers. No somber white petals for me, I want spring bouquets and pretty little greens. My friends would roll their eyes but since I’ve never cared for convention while alive, why should I care when I’m dead.

I have a list of the practical stuff and will leave numbers and contacts with A. She will be distraught but I’m hoping appreciative of how I tried to make it easier for her by leaving her guidelines and prioritized tasks. I don’t want to grow old and prolong meeting up with Miggy. A knows this so it’s only prudent that we prepare for the inevitable.

I need to vent. The past few weeks was a fucking shit show. This horrible project with horrible people is horrible. Nobody wants to be in it except the horrible people thriving in horribility.

This horribility compounded my extreme need to immediately leave the horrible organization which of course led to job hunting anxiety, loss of income panic and how can I get in desperation, which in itself earns a separate entry in this vent journal.

This journal, which is constantly remembered but have never elicited as much as a pffft of a drive to get updated. Until today…

Today is a journey that started on March 28 when in the middle of a meeting in the horrible project a Pile of Bones (POB) came knocking on my door asking me to take it to the hospital. POB introduced itself as my brother and refused the Php200++ I gave him to get him to leave me alone.

Alone is what I felt because POB’s mother refused to help and told me to just let it die. She has been consistent in this and to this day does not lift a finger to help and denies any responsibility to her spawn. So what do I do? I run to the good guy, the brother who has reason left in his being and who was smart enough to keep as much distance to his crappy family as he possibly can. I ran to him for help, I say how difficult the situation is for me. I say I know I need to be a good Christian and I need to fulfill my obligations to my father but I’m so conflicted because I cannot forgive POB for what he did to Miggy.

My Miggy who I wasn’t able to protect from demons like POB who roam this world. My Miggy who even asked me while he was still alive “bakit mo pa kasi tinutulungan yan?” My response then was because he is my brother. My insensitivity to my own son’s pain causes this boulder of grief that I carry and brings me so much remorse and pain until now.

Now my everyday consists of going to Mercury Drug several times a day, sometimes twice even before 8:00 am. Now my everyday is getting lists of things to do for POB, buy for POB, get for POB, bring to POB. POB, who not just depletes my bank account and patience but also sucks the life and energy from me because of his unceasing demands. POB, the demon who molested my son.

He was wearing Miggy’s boxers today.

Miggy’s passing didn’t make me want to turn back to writing. It was this. This destruction of everything I believed in.

2019 started with the most devastating event in my life. Miggy, my son, my first born, died so suddenly. His death destroyed me and left me in constant soul wrenching pain. My grief is so great that life didn’t matter. But days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, no matter how long you pause.

I lived what was left of my life. Until more than a year later on October 30th…when fate decided to give me another kick in the gut. I pause to light a cigarette, one of the bad habits I picked up in the last four years. Four years of lies and deceit.

I’ve always thought something was missing from your humanity because you didn’t get to experience having a child. Your impatience and impulsiveness came from not having to deal with the helplessness of a little human. You trivialize issues because you lack the compassion and understanding of the reason why things happen. You thinking that a child making a fuss can be so easily solved by picking them up and telling them to be quiet. So myopic.

Imagine my surprise to find out you do have a child, a biological one. Born in Mongolia with a woman you chose to leave. My entire body went cold and my world collapsed when I saw that you were still communicating with an ex. But that wasn’t the blow, it was that you had a child with her. It was that you chose to ignore the child. It was that you didn’t lack the humanity, it was you choosing not to act humanly. It was years of lying about wanting a child. It was years of blaming me for not having one because I wasn’t in the right tick box.

You said acknowledging that child and making her part of your life was going to make it too complicated. You said not telling me was a risk you needed to take because you’d lose me. You said my jealous rages would only be fueled by the knowledge. But you chose to live your life without her even before you met me. And in the four years…you chose to lie to me.

I had no problem believing you. Was I too naive? Or would the knowledge that while you demanded abject devotion and honesty you did not give it back, too hurtful?

In the end I knew Normin was not at fault, in the end I chalked it up to a life you had before me. In the end, I accepted it. Hook, line and sinker.

I’ve always told you that what happened in your life before I even knew you existed didn’t matter. It hurts a bit when you talk about how wonderful Marie is, but that was at a time when I didn’t know you. I couldn’t begrudge you that. But her presence in your life and the guilt you suffer from leaving her had always affected how you treated me. For four years and seven months, I was never introduced to your family. It’s because she is still there. She is and always will be Mrs. Marie Donnelly Hoffman.

You complained about my family a lot, saying how rude my mother and brother was to you. At least you got a reaction. I wasn’t even allowed near your family, not even by phone, by camera, by word association. It was an enormous red flag I chose to ignore. Until the third year when I just had to say something because again, you were mouthing off about my family. And what did I get? “Well if you wanted to be introduced to my family, you should have asked for it!” There was never an intention.

I would have spent a lifetime with you otherwise, even without marriage, even without meeting your family but within minutes of finding out about your child, I see this.

If I was hurt by the lies of Mongolia, I was destroyed by the betrayal of Thailand. Everything I knew about the past four years was shattered.

The lies.

You told me you loved me and wanted to spend the rest of your life with me. You called me your wife, that I was the love of your life. You told me forever…

Love didn’t stand a chance.

But I stayed. I stayed even if the pain was killing me. I stayed because I love you.

I love you and I tried to understand. I tried to make it work but your words to her haunted me. I couldn’t shake off the betrayal. You said 4 weeks should be enough, it wasn’t. I couldn’t look at you the same way.

When I finally left on the 23rd, I thought I’ve said everything that needed to be said. But words still pour out of me. Christmas wasn’t ruined because I left, Christmas was ruined when you chose to start something with her even when you knew it could destroy us. And it did.

I’ve always loved music, always will. And reading, books are a passion, a luxury nowadays. I sit here in the local mall, listening to the Lyric maestro playing song after song while reading my illegally downloaded copy of the Handmaid’s Tale, and I am my happiest.

I smile, knowing people walking by think I’m a weirdo. I can sit like this forever, listening to music, reading a book, feeding my soul.

I don’t need a luxurious hotel room with a beachfront view nor a fancy coffee shop trying to drown a hot mug of coffee with a fancy name, all I need is music and a good book. This is me, content.

I don’t see the people around me, all I hear is the tinkling of the keys and the melody out of that grand piano floating to me. I forget everything and get lost in the words and notes that surround me. This is the life.

Sometimes the maestro is accompanied by a merry group of singers, old men and women who share a love of music. You hear it in their voices, like there’s nothing between them and the songs. I love it. I would stand and sway to their voices and it would be heaven.

My soul enriched, my hunger fed. I move on to the reality of chores that need doing and items that need to be bought. ‘Til next time.

 

There’s always something good about being first. You get bragging rights from the uniqueness and there is no competition nor comparison to anyone (until the bigger and better Mark 2 arrives). Very few things can beat the feeling of “No one else has done it yet”. And even better, the feeling of “In your face, I did it first!”.

In the Diversity and Inclusion space, there are a lot of things that can be done that no one has done yet. IBM being one of the first to implement an equal employment policy, it would be no surprise that we pioneer other initiatives of similar importance. And by we I mean the several of us idealistic, flower-bearing, butterfly-releasing advocates of diversity.

But nothing has made me happier since Peru than the Cross BRG community – IMA, HANDS, EAGLE and MultiGen. That community has lifted my spirits a few hours a week enough to get me to today. Without those locos, I would’ve been on Prozac by now.

We prepared for the first ever Diversity Week in a frenzy. I remember kinda bragging about it to the Country HR Lead only to be told it was her idea. Awkward…

To those of us with deeply rooted advocacies, this is not out of the ordinary. It’s part of the job as members of the BRG community. To us, it’s just doing what should be done. We needed numbers, we needed like-minded folks, we needed a louder voice. We wanted the world to know about us.

I volunteered to PM the project, for lack of anything to do, for the need to be useful but basically to leave a legacy. I knew I was on my way out.

Squeezing time from our roles and activities, we managed to plan and prepare a week long list of activities, design themes, send out communications and invites and even get a video from the CGM. Donny was a rock star! Ace was a machine! Alpha is consistently dependable! We were doing it and WOW!

But not everything was rosy, EJ was busy and had to be chased. We couldn’t release our comms on time, and HANDS was gone. You’d get more noise from tumbleweeds rolling through a ghost town.

I personally wanted it bigger than it was, not just for the information and awareness drive but because it was my last project. So we scheduled activities across three IBM locations – Eastwood, UP Ayala and Nuvali, plus video showings in Cebu and Naga as well. Don’t get me started on Cebu, it was a mini nightmare to coordinate. We seem to have a member there but not there, and he was more content at seeing his name than doing any work. But because I’m inclusive, I will not judge.

So Diversity Week came and the result – a whopping 400++ sign ups! The dismal Eastwood roadshow got better with my Valentine lollies in UPA and Fei’s support. But the best was Nuvali, not just because of the karaoke and prizes but because of this wonder girl called Jamie. She was a poster child for diversity and her outlook and attitude was what inclusion is all about. IBMers who were not aware of us before now knew what we and BRGs are. It was a lovely feeling.

We met IBMers who could sign and had been working with PWD organizations prior to joining IBM, we met those who had the spirit of volunteerism in them and were just waiting for activities to join, we met single mothers who had legitimate gripes and needed urgent support, we met the interested, the disinterested and those who we need to start meaningful conversations with. I remember somebody signing up for HANDS and thinking he’d be given a PWD sticker and be able to park in the PWD spot. I recall recoiling at his spirited discussion on PWD discounts being higher than Senior Citizens discounts and how he’s so glad to be able to avail of it now. My eye roll hit my skull.

In the spirit of inclusion, we needed to engage and hear everyone out, we saw areas we need to work on and where we could initiate the conversations, I’m thinking shouting matches at some point might be useful as well. We found where our action was needed and where we have already made great strides in, we wanted people to see how far we’ve come. We ended the event with pride in ourselves and the community and the itch to do more. I remember the activities I wasn’t able to join in IMA’s previous years and I regret nothing. We are far greater now!

The Diversity Week was not the work of one, it was a coming together of skills, resources and dedication from a lot of people. Credit goes to Steph, Jeiz, Donny, Alpha, Ace, Mrose, EJ, Tags, Mark, Cams, Dette, Hazel, Tinay and the entire BRG community. It was a happy-sad time for me. Knowing it would just be a matter of time before I said goodbye. I die a little bit inside when I think I won’t have Steph and Jeiz to talk to anymore.

I hope they carry the pride and commitment that went into Diversity Week 2018 to the Diversity Weeks to come. I hope they learn from the lessons of the first and course correct for better.

Diversity Week 2018 was our first small step but I’m confident it will lead to giant leaps for IBM PH Diversity and Inclusion. But I won’t be there.

I want a love that’s mine. Completely mine. I don’t want remnants of relationships past. I don’t want the ghost of a man trying to run away from those he previously ran away from.

I want my love to count. I want my thoughts to matter, even when it doesn’t agree with his, even if our views oppose. I want someone who listens, not just hears what he wants to hear, not someone who only wants the positive and refuses to hear the negative.

I want a burning love, passionate for my soul as only a true love can be. I want silences to speak and eyes to understand. I want kisses that can’t stop because it’s the line to life and living.

I want an honest love. I want my lips on his body to be the one that drives him crazy, not the imaginings of someone else. I want my kiss to be the one that he craves and not the one from the face in his mind. I want my skin to be the one he touches when his eyes are closed, not another’s.

I want a love that matters truly and not just for show. I want words that drip with sincerity, not just rehashed from the past. I want a life of love, not an escape from his reality.

I want someone who realizes my worth, me as I am. No ifs, no buts, no if onlys. I want someone who touches my being, as I know and ache for his.

I want someone who sees me not as an option but as a preference. I don’t want someone who is waiting for me to show enough reason for him to leave someone else. I want someone who chooses ME.

He is out there, I know.

I started writing this in September, when I felt things were at their worst. I don’t think it’s gotten worse, in fact I think it’s gotten better because I know now where to go and I know now what to do.

When I wrote these words, I was feeling glum and yet optimistic. I should have stuck to that. Things would have been over by now.

I need to remember these days. This is one of the lowest points in my life and I must not forget. There will be a constant need to look back and be grateful. Grateful that I survived, grateful for the things I have left, and grateful that I was able to move on.

I have stubbornly pressed on doing something that I know is bad for me. Last night was the worst, it wasn’t even a show of strength, it was willful hard headedness. It was a dog maniacally holding on to a bone. I had a way out but didn’t take it, I was illogically persistent. And it must not happen again.

I need to get things off my chest and silence the unending chatter in my mind.I need to come to terms with the loss. I need to accept the thing that was once mine has been taken away.

I’m still not brave enough to face the loss, but I’m getting there. I think I need to be grateful again.

So it’s been a few months, 4 to be exact and a lot of things have happened.

I was quiet and happy (for a while) but the unhappiness is back. Only this time I know better. I know what would make me happy. Funny thing about it is, I can’t seem to get up and do it.

That laundry list of things that I’ve labeled “things I need to accept”, is getting harder and harder to accept. And yet I know the longer I prolong it, the worse it will get. I know I can’t stay like this, and I know I can’t live like this. But it’s so difficult to say it.

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to stay. But the convenience of staying and the inconvenience of going, the comfort of having something against the difficulty in letting go is keeping me paralyzed. It’s a hard decision to make and I’m not strong enough to make it, yet.

That word, yet.

It’s a prelude to strength. A promise of something big, a precipice to dive from. I know it will come but I’m reluctant for it to arrive. At the same time it describes the worst…I’m here yet I’m unhappy, I go through everyday yet I can’t stand being here.

I’d rather not be here, I know where I can speak my truth, I know where I can sleep better, I know who I’d rather be with. But right now, I don’t have the strength to go there.

I’ve convinced myself that if I can come to terms with that one thing then I can let go. I’ll get there, I know. It’s getting easier everyday. Yet I dread for it to happen. When I stop caring, when I stop thinking about it, when it doesn’t matter anymore, that’s the day.  A part of me doesn’t want it to go that far, but it seems inevitable.

Words have lost their meaning, some days it doesn’t even matter. But I want to leave with a good impression, I want to leave in good terms. And that will only happen when I stop caring.

So here I am, living each day in misery. Knowing something yet being told something different. Eyes wide open but shutting them to what I see. Knowing in my heart what’s going on but numbing myself to the feeling.