The girl from Ellen Wittlinger's Hard Love escaped from the person that her parents had tried to manufacture inside her BUT if I were her, I’d give up everything just to get back to the person I’ve been manufactured.
Before the gold, silver, and bronze medals. Before the Simple Plan fanaticism. Before the one hundred thousand pesos. Before the flunking grades. Before my first taste of vodka. Before the alternating bingeing and starving fad. Before the shaved hair. Before the corny jokes and childish pranks. Before the leisurely angst and manic depression. Before the rock band concerts. Before the advocacy against apathy. Before the lost communications and ceased friendships. Before the unexplained loneliness, emptiness, and apprehension. Before self-pity. Before the poison gnawed my soul.
I wore brightly-colored dresses with matching ribbons tied on my hair, poised and smiling in front of the camera, popular among young and old, i.e., sweet, friendly, and basically, a bigmouth but in a cute nice way, a devout Catholic who enjoys giving coins on mass, who's fascinated with adults and so imitates their gestures and/or the way they talk/speak and even think, and last but not the least, is rich both in money and love.
I had a happy and wonderful childhood.
I was manufactured into a high quality all because of the person who noticed me sleeping in a worn-out "butaka" (a folding chair made of abaca) with holes, took me, fed me with Filipino dishes and kakanin, ordered and bought dresses for me, threw big parties during my birthdays with balloons and cakes and ice creams and party hats, took me to church every morning and gave me prayer books, gave me my first job as a cashier when I was barely four, slept beside me in big soft bed with large huggable pillows, brought me to garden shows, taught me to appreciate the beauty of nature through the garden with lots of orchids and anthuriums, made my gown for Reyna Elena, and allowed me to witness a pious living despite a life of struggle with diabetes.
It kills me to see myself as I am now...alive, yet useless. I could have lived with less guilt if I had been with her (paid her a visit) on her few remaining months or days. Instead, I was hurrying to hug the future, my selfish dream.
In the end, I lost even that selfish dream because it was after all, a dream I couldn't fulfill now that she's gone.
I failed with my first patient.
When I quoted Holden Caulfield before, I meant it. I’m keeping my promise.
Happy Birthday, Mommy. I miss you.
Story inspired by Stefan's "Take Me Back To The Start"
Before the gold, silver, and bronze medals. Before the Simple Plan fanaticism. Before the one hundred thousand pesos. Before the flunking grades. Before my first taste of vodka. Before the alternating bingeing and starving fad. Before the shaved hair. Before the corny jokes and childish pranks. Before the leisurely angst and manic depression. Before the rock band concerts. Before the advocacy against apathy. Before the lost communications and ceased friendships. Before the unexplained loneliness, emptiness, and apprehension. Before self-pity. Before the poison gnawed my soul.
I wore brightly-colored dresses with matching ribbons tied on my hair, poised and smiling in front of the camera, popular among young and old, i.e., sweet, friendly, and basically, a bigmouth but in a cute nice way, a devout Catholic who enjoys giving coins on mass, who's fascinated with adults and so imitates their gestures and/or the way they talk/speak and even think, and last but not the least, is rich both in money and love.
I had a happy and wonderful childhood.
I was manufactured into a high quality all because of the person who noticed me sleeping in a worn-out "butaka" (a folding chair made of abaca) with holes, took me, fed me with Filipino dishes and kakanin, ordered and bought dresses for me, threw big parties during my birthdays with balloons and cakes and ice creams and party hats, took me to church every morning and gave me prayer books, gave me my first job as a cashier when I was barely four, slept beside me in big soft bed with large huggable pillows, brought me to garden shows, taught me to appreciate the beauty of nature through the garden with lots of orchids and anthuriums, made my gown for Reyna Elena, and allowed me to witness a pious living despite a life of struggle with diabetes.
It kills me to see myself as I am now...alive, yet useless. I could have lived with less guilt if I had been with her (paid her a visit) on her few remaining months or days. Instead, I was hurrying to hug the future, my selfish dream.
In the end, I lost even that selfish dream because it was after all, a dream I couldn't fulfill now that she's gone.
I failed with my first patient.
When I quoted Holden Caulfield before, I meant it. I’m keeping my promise.
Happy Birthday, Mommy. I miss you.
Story inspired by Stefan's "Take Me Back To The Start"
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