Impatience (or a strong desire to see you right now)

To you,

I really can't wait to meet you and fall in love again. It's 3:30 AM and I really should be sleeping but damn, I'm wide awake because the thought of holding your hand with my cold, clammy ones excite me. (I am sorry, I have poor blood circulation.) I can't wait to laugh and cry with you.

I can't wait to be with you.

I'm beyond ecstatic. My stomach is full of butterflies because envisioning how we will be together fuels me to go beyond and take risks. Right now, as I type this on my keyboard, I realize that I would like trace your cheek bones, the corners of your eyes, the tip of your nose, and the plumpness of your lips against my fingers for a long, long time. I might even want to kiss you, and explore the wonders of your soul until the sun awakes from his sleep. (Actually, I might never want to stop. I am full of greed when it comes to grasping every part of you.) I will not get bored. Even a bookish person who spends her Friday nights with words desires to be with someone she recognizes - she likes, she loves. Trust me, you are the end all and be all of all the heroes and the princes that I've read.

We won't be perfect. You and I will make mistakes. We will ride through bumps and rough patches that will make us want to stop the car. But I believe in you, in us. We will respect our boundaries, and understand our limitations. We will be off to the horizon even when Disney songs end, together. (I cannot tell you how much I love the sound of 'we' and 'together'. We. Together. We are together.)

I am so excited to love you deeply. (I just really can't wait to see you.)

A new word

Apparently, there is a word for what I have been feeling:

nodus tollens

n. the realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense to you anymore—that although you thought you were following the arc of the story, you keep finding yourself immersed in passages you don’t understand, that don’t even seem to belong in the same genre—which requires you to go back and reread the chapters you had originally skimmed to get to the good parts, only to learn that all along you were supposed to choose your own adventure.

Oh will you look at that...Mr. Webster must have been feeling under the weather too when he recorded such a tragic word and description.

Episode 2: Minor in Rock Bottom

Today, I lost a baby.

(Not a literal one, but it was something I had been trying to /conceive/ the whole 2014. It was my minor in history.)

Getting that certificate was my only refuge, my ultimate sign, that I had been dreaming and walking along the right path - the path to teaching kids that they can overcome and actually use their histories to strengthen their present situations and talents. But I guess it was not meant to be. I guess I am really not meant to start my career journey as a public school teacher. Or maybe I am not ready yet.

Thinking about this in a different perspective, I guess I have so much to learn more about life before I even have the right to teach. I did read somewhere that a teacher also teaches how she deals with life to her students, besides the subject/course matter. I guess He is tempering me - with all these news and conditions that I am receiving. Admittedly, I am not at my best yet. I am not facing my problems and my struggles in the most proper way. I do feel that I am lost and confused. (Even MORE so, with the arrival of this news.)

Haha, honestly, it feels like I've been beaten black and blue, and the universe is not giving me the chance to fight back. Despite everything, I still believe that there is a reason why all of this is happening. I just have not uncovered it yet. (But I will! I promise you. *evil laugh*)

And now, I find myself simultaneously eating almond chocolates (Sorry doctors. I promise to be on the right track again after this night.), watching 'Starting Over Again', and writing this down.

Perhaps I have not lost my sanity even when I am at my rock bottom after all.

Episode 1: Dazed and confused (again)

D, a close friend of mine, told me to write my musings and thoughts about how I cope with the clashes of my current health condition, my dreams, and my insecurities. She said I have interesting insights, and there might be people who can relate to what I am experiencing. As such, this post serves as my first entry to a series of random bursts of /angst/, realizations, and stories. 

Long story short, feel free to read about a hormonal, lost, and self-deprecating twenty-year old. Don't say I did not warn you. 

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IT SUCKS.

Going to the hospital for tests and consultations again and again drained the butterflies out of my stomach. It sucks being in pain and itchy all the time, but what sucks more are the verdicts and the prescriptions given by the doctors. It annoys me to hear how my sickness limits me from eating chicken and preservatives, having frequent/prolonged exposure to water, and wearing shoes that are not made from cotton. It annoys me how I can't drink coffee nor consume chocolate whenever I want to without my chest and my stomach groaning in pain. It annoys me how my lungs and immune system seem to embrace all the flu and the viruses out there. It annoys me how my intestines seemed to want to poop all the blood it can poop. Most of all, it annoys the hell out of me that the implications of all the restrictions have such a big impact on how I should live my life, i.e.

I can't swim.

I can't do activities that will require me to get dirty. 

I can't eat in just any restaurant/house/eating place. 

If I overstepped on my restrictions, minor to major repercussions will happen. (And I don't want them to happen anymore.I hate seeing my family all bothered.) 

And I know that despite all of these, I don't have the right to get angry or even whiny. (Though I sounded really whiny just now- I want to punch myself). This is nothing compared to the experiences of the braver and kinder souls of the kids I meet in the halls, fighting fiercer monsters. This is little compared to the grandpaps and grandmoms who cannot even breathe on their own without the help of  the machines. This is just a tiny fraction of how those adults feel who had to leave their /normal/ life behind to be confined in those rows of hospital beds. 

I have no right to be a baby about this. I know. I understand. 

But sometimes, it's tiring. It's tiring to wake up everyday thinking, "Yes, I will live to the fullest today!", but then being reminded just a second later how /limited/ I am. It makes me angry. And hurt. And sad. Because this state did not just affected my lifestyle...it inadvertently affected my dreams, my hopes, my passion.

Do you know that I can't be a public school teacher anymore (Read this: Why I am fighting) - that I have to bury this dream and dug a grave in the deepest corners of my mind alongside the others? 

Honestly, I don't know what to feel and how to process all of these. (That's why this post is a bit bipolar. I'm really sorry.)  I feel lost and confused because I cannot express my resentment properly without sounding like a whiny bitch. I feel frustrated because I am so pissed at my illnesses and at myself. I'm irritated at the fact that I can't bring myself to talk about this whole thing to others. 

I know I can't remain in this limbo. I have to move forward. I refuse to remain angry when I can do something productive and even positive. I have to find ways to make my 2050 goal happen!! Those art-lovin' kids deserve high-class training, exposure, and guidance from the best mentors at a low (FREE) price!!! :) 

I guess, right now, I just have to know that somebody is willing to listen to me - crazy whines and all. 

Last Piece

We tried. We talked. We used every bit of happy memory to lead our bare feet to meet in the middle of the wooden bridge. We walked our January afternoon away to retrieve the time lost when we erased our pencil marked faces from each other. We sang in the same tune when our post-college dreams collided. We laughed until our stomachs hurt when we discovered how similar we are.

I don't really understand why it's not working - why I dreaded every promise that escaped your lips, why I felt claustrophobic when you put your arms around me, and why I found myself disillusioned with your words. We did things together, after all. We were past the stage where I go to the nearest comfort zone at the mere glimpse of your shirt sleeves. I was finally facing you.

So why am I hurting again? Is it because I am tired of pumping myself to hope that I will fit the tiny space you allotted for my big curves and deepest crevices? Is it because of the countless times you left me hanging, even when you swore that you are a man of your word? Or is it because we were forcing each other to replicate the way things were, back when you can still afford to send me an original song composition to placate my hormone-driven heartbreak?

We were friends.

Alms

Don't tell me I look fine
or pretty
or beautiful
I will only think that you are lying, patronizing, and worse
pitying me.
I. do. not. need. your. pity.

It is true.
I feel ugly and it's hard.
It is hard.
It is hard to fit into the spaces society tells me to shape myself into.
It is even harder to let you witness my struggle to become thinner, to make my skin smoother, to put make-up on my face
Because I have to harden my mask; I have to pretend I like the process.

I don't want you to see me like this -
plastic, insecure, and oversensitive girl with a low self-esteem to match
who bases beauty on the number of likes she gets from her facebook friends
who mentally takes note of the praises she receives
who ingests "fat", "chubby" and "dark" as far more offending than
"fuck", "shit", "asshole", and "bitch"
who is green with envy whenever she sees skinny models
who is basically brainwashed by the people around her to think that she is not enough.

But most of all,
I don't want you to stretch out your hands
when I start to beg for attention
for recognition
for love
Do not give me anything but truths and a reproach.
Tell me - this girl who needs to grow a backbone -
to learn how to swim and save herself
and start believing the numerous books she read
that she can be more than beautiful -
she can be extraordinary.
She is more than enough, always in all ways.

Spaces.

When I dance, I reveal a story, something intimate and primal within that words can never conquer. It maybe about a fleeting emotion - despair, rage, hope, serenity - or a lifetime's worth of history. All in a span of seconds or minutes, if I am lucky.

But the world is my stage. There is enough room for a girl who wants to fly to do her dance.

And so, as soon as the music starts, I feel. I move. I push, pull, bend, stretch, spin, jump - I fill the empty corners with tales, secrets, lies, and truths. The thin line between fiction and reality blurs. I portray a character, but I still remain. I give parts of myself with every flick and step.

So watch me, carefully, with your sparkling eyes and understand the narratives I express. Decipher that I am weaving a tale right now: Hi, I am Chel and I am letting you in.

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Sometimes, words are enough. This is when time produces an ocean between two people- that no matter how near they are, they still need a giant ship to connect their shores.

And when my lighthouse flickers, I write letters.

I've never been good at farewells; I never handle them well. I write letters to express my regret of not being able to stay. I write to remember the memories and imagine the ones that I will miss out.

I write letters for closure.



But dearest, I will not exorcise you - your scent, your form, your touch- from me. I am showing you how I am - how I function, how I live.

I am letting you in. I am staying.