Relapse Part II

Good news: I was off the stick since June 29, 2012!

Bad news: I relapsed today.

This is the second time that I relapsed. The first one was when I was in college. I was heartbroken and I wanted to be a better person. So, I decided to quit smoking. How? I used flooding technique wherein I intentionally smoked two packs of cigarettes in one night (it was December 17! Lantern parade!) until I couldn't breathe anymore. After that stint, I stopped smoking for six months. The mere sight or smell of cigarette made me want to throw up. For six months, I was clean. My lungs were clean and free of nicotine. I didn't crave for it. I didn't feel any need for it. Then, came thesis. Everything went downhill from there.

From being "sober" for half a year, I relapsed. From the usually two sticks a day, I consumed at least five a day after I picked up the habit again. Before I knew it, I can consume half a pack a day (and that was when I was still in college). After college, I became notorious in smoking. I had the liberty to smoke everywhere, at my own expense. From two sticks a day to five to 10 to 20 to I-can't-even-count-anymore. On the hindsight, I could feel my lungs giving up, but I took no hid. Even when I was diagnosed with Upper Respiratory Tract Infection in October 2011, I didn't drop the bad habit.

It was only in February 2012, the second time URTI hit my system, that I decided to limit my nicotine intake. From the usual I-can't-even-count-anymore, it went down to half a pack a day. Then, I decided that I would only buy cigs every Friday, which led me to 1-2 sticks a day from Monday to Thursday. Slowly, I was detaching myself from nicotine dependence. From time to time (usually during Fridays and Saturdays), I would exceed the 5-stick rule that I imposed on myself. But I was not a notorious smoker as before.

Then, URTI paid me a visit again. This time, hell knew no fury. URTI wanted revenge. I thought I was going to die. But of course I didn't. That was when I decided to totally quit smoking, since it wasn't much of a need to me anymore.

I was off the hook since June 29, 2012 until I decided to take a drag today. I wasn't even stressed. I was, for the most part, curious. I couldn't remember its taste anymore. I couldn't remember how it felt like or how I should do it. Hence, I pulled the string and lit a stick of Black. I took one long drag, then another, then another one only to realize that I can actually live without it.

I am not sure if I should call it a relapse, because I am not planning on smoking again, not tomorrow, not in the near future. But for the sake giving in to "weakness," I would call it as such.

Relapse and back to square one.

The Wasted Youth

It's been more than two years since I stepped outside my comfort zone and embraced the world outside Padre Faura. Two years. Imagine, only two years. And yet, it feels like eons of years had passed. I feel old. I am withering.

Two years ago, I can pull off a triathlon consisting of drinking all night long, taking an exam the next day, and drinking after the exam. Without feeling tired. Without getting sick. Now, I can't even knock down a bottle of beer without feeling tipsy. I sleep at least 8 hours a day, but I always feel tired.

Once I tried to bring back the old times. Convinced that I can still get back the vigor I had for drinking and rock and roll, I spent three consecutive days drinking non-stop. Two days after, my immune system dropped significantly. I got sick. I am wasting away. But this I refuse to accept or to even acknowledge. I am only 22, how can that happen?

Two years ago, I can still manage to get my shit together. Despite the lack of sleep and resources, I can make anything happen. My optimism was beyond me. I believed in myself, in my idealism, in my dreams. At the time, everything was possible. But now, all that's left of me are memories--memories I can never re-create, memories I can never live again. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I try to search the person that I was two years ago. I try to look further: beyond my bloodshot eyes, beyond the blemishes in my skin. I try to find that 20-year old girl who thought she could be anything she wanted, but I cannot. She's gone.

I feel old and tired and sick. I can hear my soul creaking, slowly tearing apart inside this frail human body. I am tired. And I am too young to feel this tired.

Hey, Stranger!

Hi, I thought I should drop by today to give you an update with my life. Just in case you are interested.

1. I am reading again. Congratulate me, please. For the first half of 2012, I was able to finish 6 books. Not bad, considering how short my attention span is. This June, I already finished reading 2 books (The Art of Racing in the Rain and The Perks of Being a Wallflower). Yes! I read The Perks again. Go figure why.
2. I am getting involved with physical activities--Futsal and Frisbee. Pat my shoulder for affirmation, please. You know that I am not into sports (aside from Basketball, which I played when I was in high school; and chess, if you consider it as such). I am not a fan of moving my ass and sweating like a panda, but I am bored. And there's nothing I can do after work. No friends to hang out with whenever I want to. No books interesting enough to get and hold my attention. So, yeah. There you go.
3. I am letting myself meet new people. It's hard, but I have to. Because if I don't, I'd be alone forever. And I don't want to be alone, not forever that is. It's hard, because I know that they'll eventually leave and forget about me or anything that relates to me. They will forget, because that's what people do. It's natural to forget. But I don't. I don't have a memory of an elephant, but I remember people. Maybe not as accurate, but I remember them. And when they're gone, I am left alone. But I have to meet new people to make new memories. Because I just can't go back to the same past over and over again.
4. I am trying to write again, which is hard because I can't maintain the same tone. And I keep committing grammar mistakes. But I think that's the essence of trying to write decently. I must commit mistakes in order to learn. Just like in life.
5. I am sad. Maybe that's why I keep on ignoring run-on sentences and dangling modifier. Or maybe that's why I keep reading and keep trying to participate in life. Or maybe, it's just because I readThe Perks of Being a Wallflower again. I don't know. And I am tired of figuring out why.

That would be all for now. After this, I'll be crawling back to my bed and resume reading Looking for Alaska by John Green, which I already read early last year. Bye.

Memories of a Daddy's Girl

I was once a daddy’s girl.

I was his favorite child, the apple of his eye. I was the only one he allowed to sit on his chair in the dining area. He never allowed anyone, not even my mom, to sit on his trono. Anyone, but me. I was his precious daughter.

I was his little princess. He always had pasalubong for me. He always bought hopiang baboy from Tipas on his way home. I never got tired of hopiang baboy, because it was our favorite merienda. On my fifth birthday, he gave me a Pink Pig Pillow. He said that I looked like the pillow. Despite my mom’s protest, he also gave me a white and green truck for a toy. He even gave me an endless supply of Mongol 2, only because he knew that I had the habit of sharpening my pen every 10 minutes.

I was his little buddy. We watched X-Files together every Thursday night. We both liked soft boiled egg on top of fried rice. We went to Tita Penny’s grave together. We cooked barbeque every Sunday; he was the one doing the barbeque, I was the one grilling them. We listened to DZMM every morning. We were buddies in every conspiracy we had against my siblings.

I was his sidekick, his right hand. He always tagged me along to the piggery and to the grocery. He taught me how to bathe a pig and how to feed it. Despite the searing stench of the piggery, I gladly obeyed his teachings. He let me play with his fishing rod, and let me see his .38 gun. He allowed me to help him in cleaning the car, though he never let me touch his babies.

I was the answer to his frustrations. Days after I turned seven, he gave me his college ring. We were sitting on the stairs. He told me, “I know you’ll be a good lawyer someday.” I knew nothing of being a lawyer then, but it sounded awesome. I grinned, and observed the green stone on the ring. I tried putting it on my ring finger, but it was too big. Little did I know that that ring was just as big as the dreams he had bestowed upon me, and that I was too small or too young to even know the gravity of it.

I was his favorite child. He could have given his college ring to my sisters, but he chose me—the middle child. I did not know his reasons for doing so. I never learned why, but one thing was clear: I was his darling little girl.

I was a daddy’s girl until that 24th day of April 1998.

I opened my eyes to the blinding light that came through my window. The roosters were singing their daily anthem, signaling another day in that boring summer of ‘98. I grunted in my bed, squirmed as I reached out my screaming alarm clock. It was eight in the morning. I got up. It seemed to be a nice and sunny day, a perfect day to test my newly made kite.

I smiled to myself. I had been able to make a kite the other day. For an eight year old kid, that was already an accomplishment. I got up from my bed, stalled a little, and inhaled the sweet tangy aroma of cinnamon and soothing smell of coffee coming from the kitchen. It might have been my cousin’s doing. She liked cinnamon bread and coffee together. Hearing the grumbles in my tummy, I postponed my daydreaming and headed out to the kitchen.

In the kitchen, I found not only my cousin but her parents as well. That was new. My aunt and uncle were usually out and working during the day. It was unusual, but I was more concerned with the breakfast than with their reason for ditching their work. I greeted them good morning. As I sat on my usual seat on the dining area, they seemed to be overly happy. They wore a big smile on their faces, as if they won the lottery. They looked like the clown from Hunter X Hunter. Not that I was complaining about it, but it was weird.

“What’s up with the smile?” I asked.

“Are you up for some malling today?” my cousin replied.

I was taken aback. As a child, I spent every summer of my life in Bulacan—a place of infinite rice fields, scorching heat, and permanent flood. Every summer vacation, my parents would deport me to my Aunt’s place in Bulacan. They had this notion that I should be introduced to the old school type of vacation, that I should have a normal vacation with my normal cousins. You know, a summer vacation with human interaction. They hoped that human interaction would ease my intense dependency on TV and imaginary friends. And summer vacations there usually did not involve the comfort of airconditioned malls. So, malling was really a wild suggestion.

“But I am going to fly my kite later.” I responded, a coy smile forming my lips. I tried hard to remain nonchalant about the idea of going to the mall. I was raised that way—to be subtle in my desires and not to demand anything, unless it was strongly suggested.

“It’s okay. You can do that any other day.” my uncle said.

I looked at him, wishing that my eyes would not betray the building excitement in me. He was still wearing his smile. That was something. My uncle rarely smiled. He usually kept his lips sealed and his face void of any emotions. My uncle was a strict patriarch; his words were law. He was also a traditional person. He had an aversion to malls and the likes. He believed that a kid should always know how to play the traditional games—piko, shato, sipaang bola, and even kite flying.

I did not reply. Something was wrong. Really wrong.

My aunt placed a piece of cinnamon bread and hotdogs on my plate. I thanked her. Like any caring mom, she patted my disheveled hair and smiled. Her pat felt weird. Her smile looked weirder. I glanced at her; she was still looking at me. I caught a glimpse of her soul through her eyes. She was telling me something, yet my feeble mind could not process it. Blame the cinnamon bread, I was distracted.

Silently, I ate my breakfast. I heard their whispers and felt their silent knowing nods.

“Once you’re done with your breakfast, we’ll go to the mall.” my cousin interrupted my little privacy.

I nodded in response. They were acting like they were hiding something from me. Being an eight year old kid, I was not to suspect anything, but I hated not knowing. Did they sell my doves? Did they feed my goldfish to Thalia, their cat? Did they burn my books? Did they seize my piggy bank and forget to replace it? Did they do something that would upset me? They were certainly hiding something from me. And I hated not knowing.

Silence dominated the dining area. I could feel the thick pressure rising. My aunt, whose tension I could feel, melted the gnawing silence. She asked, with her soothing and soft voice, “Ano’ng gagawin mo sa savings mo kapag nalaman mong patay na ang Daddy mo?”

I stopped eating. I was eight-year-old, and answers were simpler then, because I knew nothing of difficult questions. I was eight, so I said, “I’ll buy him a casket.”

With that, she cried and left the dining room.

“Why did she cry?” I asked my cousin and uncle, who were both staring at me, dumbfounded. I didn’t know why she cried. I didn’t know why the others kept smiling. I didn’t know why they kept on insisting that we go to the mall.

I caught my cousin and uncle share a knowing look. My uncle set his coffee mug aside, and looked at me with a kind smile.

“Get yourself fixed. We’re going to the mall.”

But we did not go to the mall. I was not able to fly my newly made kite. Instead, we went straight home in Rizal, where a gloomy feast was being held. I ceased to be a daddy’s girl, because daddy left his little princess, the apple of his eye, his little darling on that nice and sunny day of April 1998.

I could not remember what happened after that. My memories were hazy and somewhat inconsistent, but one thing was for sure: I was not the same person again. Things changed. I did not want to sit on his trono anymore. I stopped liking hopiang baboy. I stopped watching X-Files and listening to DZMM as well. I basically ceased to do the things we used to do together. Then, I grew up and forgot most of the memories I had with my dad. I grew up and moved on. New memories occupied me, and I was not sad anymore. I think that’s the thing with children; they can forget even the most painful event in their lives. They can forget and move on. Just like what I did.

I might have forgotten how it was to be a child or how it felt when my dad left me, but I knew that once upon a time, I had a dad. I was once a daddy’s girl.

Meet and Greet my Dad

Once upon a time, I had a dad. A real one. Let's call him Valentin.

December 16 was a usual cold day for many Ilocos Norte dwellers that lived in 1938. Second World War was looming over the horizon, but that did not prevent them from preparing for the start of Simbang Gabi, a tradition we inherited from the Spaniards. They were hoping that they would be able to complete the nine days of Simbang Gabi so that their wishes could come true. Unfortunately for Justina, a devout Catholic, she would not be able to complete it because the night before she was rushed to the nearest hospital to give birth to her fifth child--Valentin. That day, December 16, 1938, the world gave its nastiest smile on him.

Valentin grew up in a large family, which was very common at that time. He was very good in numbers, just like the rest of his family. He graduated Valedictorian in elementary. Like any of us, he had his childhood dreams: to be a CPA lawyer (unfortunately, only the CPA part came true). He had a sunny disposition in life, he believed in everything. He believed that he could do anything and that he could be anything he wanted to be. In his eyes, everything was possible. But when his father went bedridden due to stroke, the family's middle class status went down the drainage. So as his childhood dreams.

At a young age, he learned the hard way. He helped his mother in her work, so to add to their income. He worked some odd jobs just to help his family. Among the brood of six, he was the only one whose education had suffered a lot. He had to stop schooling because his older siblings were all in college and high school. He had to sacrifice his "tuition fee" so that the college students in their family could continue studying. He just resumed studying when there was extra money. Then when there won't be enough money to support his education, he would stop again. His education went on and off for some years. But he did not stop believing then. He worked harder. He studied the books of his older siblings just to catch up. At long last, he graduated in high school in 1957, three years behind his supposedly graduation.

He then ventured to Quezon City when he learned that he passed the UPCAT. He was full of positive vibes when he got to Diliman. All his dreams were slowly unfolding before him, he thought. He explored the city, hoping he could get a boarding house he could afford, there wasn't any. Instead of being Iskolar ng Bayan, he became Construction Worker ng Bayan. Instead of having diploma from the University of the Philippines Diliman, he had nothing but a piece of paper signifying that he passed the then-prestigious UPCAT. And instead of living in a decent boarding house near UP Diliman, he ended up living in an abandoned truck in Caloocan. He then moved to Malate to live with a photographer cousin. He helped his cousin in developing the pictures in return for free lodging. He held three odd jobs at the same time only to make ends meet. After sometime, he went back to Laoag with his baggage full of dirt and with his skin pitch-dark.

He continued his college education at Divine Word College of Laoag, majoring in Business Administration. This too went on and off. During the years that he stayed in DWCL, he showed exemplary academic performance. He topped most of his major subjects. He worked while studying. He was a laborer during the day, and he was a student in the evening. It was not until his third year college that he decided to go back to Manila. He thought that he would earn decent living once he was there. He left his college degree undone with a mission to give a better life to his family.

Once in Manila, he became an employee in Congress. After that, he looked for a better paying job to support his younger brother and his father's medical needs. He then applied as a staffer in an oil company, then made his way up to being a manager. Life was indeed smiling upon him at last. Years came by; he decided that he was not growing as an individual in his current managerial post.

In 1969, he ditched his managerial job and started working in BIR as an inspector. After a couple of years, he decided to continue his degree. He enrolled at Philippine School of Business Administration to finish what he started out. Like before, he studied while he worked. He obtained his degree in 1975. Though not with Latin Honors to tag along with his name, it could be assumed that he graduated with high grades. In 1977, he made his fulfilled the first step to being a CPA Lawyer. He passed the board exams, and became a Certified Public Accountant. This gave him a high position in BIR. It was the start of Valentin Bareng-Santos' time so to speak.

He was indeed a hard working man. He loved his family more than he loved himself. Though he spelled success in his career, his married life was close to being dysfunctional. He had three wives. The first one he had annulled. The second one died from cancer. And the third one he had died on. He was known for being cool with women. He was Mr. Suave personified. Despite that, he was a good provider and a good father to his children. He never forgot their birthdays (for those he knew). And he never forgot to have quality time with his family.

However, good things must come to an end. On September 9, 1997, he was diagnosed with Liver Cirrhosis (which later became cancer of the liver) due to his excessive alcohol intake and failed health-seeking behavior. That day, the optimist in Valentin Bareng-Santos died. He got depressed. He could not accept the fact that he was not invincible, that like everybody else he could acquire such disease. He was in denial. He sulked and drunk even more. He felt alone. And he did not know what else to do. His family supported him in every way possible. After some time, he went to a support group (a group of people with disease like him). But he found it difficult to accept his situation. The disease was slowly eating him. Cancer cells already hit his lungs. He was at the point of no return.

Exactly 600 hours and 10 minutes after my eight birthday, he died. But all I know is that once upon a time, he existed.

Young, Wild and Free

Here goes the obligatory birthday reflection.

My 21st year of existence, as I prefer to call it, was a huge terrible hangover. A year-long hangover, both literally and figuratively speaking. It was as if I gulped two (or maybe three) bottles of Vodka coupled with a case of beer and I-couldn't-remember-alcohol-blah-blah on New Year's Eve and forgot where I put my sanity the morning after (in which case the morning after meant the rest of the year).

It was a fog of good and bad memories, but mostly bad, of which I refuse to think about now. I was 21 and most of the time, high and drunk. I was 21 and I thought the world was for me for the taking. I was 21 and I didn't know any better. (Of course, I thought I knew better at the time. Who am I kidding?) I made bad choices and stupid decisions which resulted in a series of unfortunate events that I call my life. (I know that now, thank you.)

It started with me ditching my first job for the search of The Great Perhaps, which turned out to be, well, The Great Ellipsis of the year. Then, I thought I was in love with a man I never really liked. And then, law school happened but it didn't really happen (I dare you to make sense of that.) And everything went downhill from there.

I whined about it, but I'd like to think that I shut off some well-meaning people in my life. I became this massive ball of despair and hopelessness. But thanks to beer and friends (or friends and beer, whichever comes first) who listened to my repetitive rants about frustrations over life and the choices I made. They kept my insanity to a minimum level.

To say that I drank the year away was an understatement. And no, don't mistake me for an alcoholic. I was not and never will be an alcoholic. (Oh shit! That's what alcoholics say.) I spent most of my nights in misery and most of my days nursing a hangover. But the thing was, I 'moved on' with my life. I struggled everyday with high hopes and crooked optimism that everything shall pass as it should.

And it did. It actually did when I finally decided it should end. My ultimate realization was the cliche--it was only up to me.

Everything is a decision, even the decision to drown in misery or to shrug it off and learn from it. The result may not be what I expect, but there must be some wisdom in it. There's got to be something from it for me. In this case, I learned how to overcome defeat and frustrations. I learned to make the most out of the lemon. Get the Vodka, drink, and get on with what I currently have. That's how life is. I cannot always get what I want, but I can always give it my best drunken shot. I know that sounds too Mitch Albom-ish or Legally Blonde-ish or whatever inspirational shit you have there, but whatever.

The year 2011 wasn't the best year to count. I had my shares of wrong turns and detours, but I think I am where I should be at the moment. Being 21 sucked, but it was quite a learning experience. Cheers to being reckless, drunk, and most especially, to being 21.

Now, time to take down that hangover—I am getting high this year.

Living in the Past

This is a celebratory (aka Pride by Association) post for The Crew. Four out of five in med school! Good job, Gerls! But before you become doctors of medicine, let me just remind you of your level of sanity back in college:

The first all-nighter at Bahay ni Ate.

The second all-nighter, still at Bahay ni Ate. Went out for thesis break aka Candy Break.

The (I can't remember when) all-nighter at Briege's house (aka The Hobbit's House).

You must understand that I am an old person by nature. Hence, the nostalgia.

The First Bite of Reason

You thought you loved him, but after some time, you realized that you actually did not. The realization made you sad, because you thought it was real, because you thought and you firmly believed that what you felt for him at the time was as real as your existence.

After the fall out, you cried buckets of tears, thinking you won't be able to feel again, that you won't be as in love again. You thought he'd be the last person you'd love, but you were wrong.

Now, six months past your second heartbreak, you are in love again. And how you wish that this time, it would be real.

Gravity's Command

It is like falling in love for the first time.

You memorize every detail of his being--from his physical attributes to his core values. You know his smell--rustic and comfy; his eyes, those eyes that speak to you everytime you look at him; his lips that twitch everytime he thinks of something witty but refuses to say it; his nose that wrinkles whenever he looks at you; and his voice, that soft yet stoic voice. You understand why he keeps most of his emotions to himself, why it takes time for him to open up, and what keeps him from doing what he wants.

You keep tabs of little things that he's done for and with you like how you keep the fondest memories of your childhood. You remember the way he looked at you the first time you met, the first joke you shared, the first laugh you had with him, and the other firsts. You remember everything he says, whether it be about a random dog or a political dogma. You save everything in your memory. Heck, you even write about it. You write about the day he called you fat ass and the night he asked you of your weight. You take note of his random anecdotes on certain things. You write about him--the way he talks to you, the tone of his voice, the touch of his skin, the smell of his hair. You write about the way he makes you feel whenever he is around, whenever he cracks a joke, whenever he is with you. You write your memory with and about him. Everything that relates to him, you take note so that you won't forget.

With each day, you keep on reviewing, asking yourself, "Of all people, why him?" He is adorably random and awkward, a little humanoid on the side. He is hot and cold, not easy to understand and to handle. It is like you are dissecting and scrutinizing a masterpiece. You are gentle as you turn every piece of him inside out, inspecting, knowing, understanding, and accepting. Every part of him screams his name, of his uniqueness, but you know that he is more than the sum of his parts. Definitely more than that.

It is like falling in love for the first time and seeing the person in a different light.

Everything fades into memories

There's nothing like the first real heartbreak. It burns like the cold, sending chills down your spine, paralyzing your senses. It pierces through your soul like a newly oiled sword, leaving you breathless and incapacitated. Something always has to remind you of something with someone somewhere. The random replay of memory of what was sends you into the twilight zone. It seems pointless, but it feels like it only happened yesterday. But one must move on. One must realize his or her worth. One must be free from the past.

It's never too late

Here goes the long overdue year-end assessment. 

Let’s just say that 2011 was a rough ride for me. It was full of challenges, difficulties, and wisdom. But one thing I am sure of—I got out of it alive and stronger than I could possibly be. So, what happened in 2011?

• I forgot my worth. 
• I became the person I didn’t want to be.
• I hurt the people who love me.
• I failed the people I love.
• I said things I did not mean.
• I broke someone’s heart.
• I got my heart broken. 

All because...

• I fell in love.

I hated myself for the things that I did, for the person that I’ve become, but I learned my lesson well. I learned things that only experience can teach. In the process , I gained what I’ve lost. I prolly received more than I deserve. And I am thankful. I am grateful that I experienced those things, because in the end, I acquired something more—wisdom. 

Now, I’ll take one step at a time. Here’s to 2012 and what lies ahead.

P.S.:

2011, you were one hell of a ride. You went tough on me, thank you. I needed that. Now, all I can say is GOOD RIDDANCE!

My History on Love

Relationship request from [insert name here]: Accept or Reject?

Today, I will get too personal. Today, I will talk about my past relationshits and what I learned from them. Before we start, let me just tell you that:

• I am not after the looks.
• I rarely have "couple" pictures taken.
• I am not into labels.
• I usually make bad decisions.

So, it might be hard for me to explain whatever it was that transpired between me and him. Please bear with me. 

The Childhood Sweetheart. We were in fifth grade. At the time, I paid no attention to boys and attraction. The term "crush" was alien to me. All I cared about were books, friends, and physical games. I was a dork even before. I was a transferee, and he was the first one to notice me. He befriended me and we clicked instantly. Not long after, we found ourselves spending lunch breaks together, goofing around the school together, and pranking anyone in the school (even the teachers). We even walked home together. We were practically best of friends. In our sixth grade, he started acting weird and suddenly got shy around me. He then started sending me letters, which I totally ignored because I hated reading letters. Things changed after that. We started ignoring each other as if we were not friends. It was only four months before our graduation that he told me the content of his letters. Apparently, he liked me... more than friends. Being impulsive and totally mental, I told him, "Yeah? Let's try being more than friends then." His reaction: ecstatic. Mine? Bored. After that day, I went back to ignoring him. We didn't talk until three days before graduation. He asked me what happened between us. I shrugged and told him I was sorry. And we were back to being strangers. 

Lesson learned: Don't say something and then walk away like nothing happened. If you say it, then fucking mean it. 

The Easy Target. I was in first year college. I met him through a common friend. We started out as friends. Things were easy with him. We didn't have to pretend we were somebody we were not. I knew his secrets and how his mind worked; he knew mine. We talked to each other almost everyday always until dawn. We were smooth sailing. Not until he asked me to be his girlfriend. I told him I didn't believe in labels. At first, it was okay with him. But I could only push someone too much. Three months after the no label spiel, he wanted a label. I was bored, and said okay. Three weeks into the "label," I quit. At the time, I had a lot of issues to deal with, so I left him without even saying goodbye.  

Lesson learned: Some people were just meant to be friends. Relationship and feelings cannot be forced to someone. 

The Summer Love Affair. First year going second year college. He was the first person I dated. From the very start, I knew his intentions. He was very clear about it. He wanted me to be his girlfriend. With label. I didn't know what got into me, but I actually gave him a chance. I gave myself the opportunity to prove to myself that maybe I wasn't a frigid and heartless person. The day we got "together," he wanted me to meet his family. I told him I wasn't ready yet. Instead of saying okay, he told me that he wanted to meet mine. What I did was, I let him meet my high school friends. He was the first guy I tagged along to a Barkada Lunch. However, nothing was easy with him. I had to be feminine and perfect around him. I had to extend more understanding and patience, because our wavelengths weren't the same. I also had to make the effort to reach out to him. We were so different, but realizing my relationshit history, I had to make the relationship last for at least more than three months. It didn't last that long, because I caught him cheating on me with someone else. 

Lesson learned: Don't settle for anything less than what you deserve. 

The Teenage Dream. After being cheated on, I focused on acads, friends, and beer. A year after my failed first labeled relationship, I met this guy. He was one of the students in my summer class. He was funny and bursting with energy. He wasn't stunning, but he was interesting--interesting enough to get and to keep my attention. He asked for my number. He called me and things took off from there. Since then, my weekends would consist of Saturday Movie day and Sunday Church day--with him. He made me feel like a girl, like I was special. Effort wasn't much of an issue on both sides. Everything felt right whenever we were together. I didn't mind being mushy and stupid with him. I even made him a poem (yes, I did, judge me then.) The relationshit would have lasted for more than 6 months, had I not fallen in love with someone else. 

Lesson learned: Some things are better left unsaid. 

The One that Got Away. He came to my life while I was having my teenage dream fulfilled by someone else. I met him on a Tuesday (the day I decided to ditch my majors to think over my life and life choices) while I was killing myself with nicotine. He said something that made me smile inside. He was the first guy who told me that. I didn't say anything, but I smirked at him. Exactly a week after that, he asked our common friends for my number and sent me a message. My first reflex was to assume that he was being friendly since he was already warned that I was dating someone else. My second reflex was to friendzone him. So I did both. Things were going pretty well. We were friends who loved to talk about music, literature, and random stuff. We were friends until my Eros shot me with his arrow. I knew I had to stop. And I did. I stopped talking to him and vanished into thin air from his world. 

Lesson learned: Someone will come to your life, change how you view the world, and then leave you perhapsless and stuck in reverse. 

The Counterpart. It took me years to get over The One That Got Away. I didn't think I was ready to get emotionally attached to someone. So, I played the game I played before--the art of being a humanoid. I set foot on this guy's territory, marked him as my own, and left him years ago. Life was okay for him, until I knocked on his door. This time, I had no intention of running away, but I also had no intention of staying. I just wanted to kick back and relax. In the end, it didn't work out for us. We were too much alike that it became boring and predictable. 

Lesson learned: Beware of boredom. It will force you to make decisions you will regret later. 

The Revolution. Coming soon...

Lesson learned: You'll know it when you feel it. Fall in love again, because second chances are always magical.