Signing off

Officially, signing off.

Hello, unemployment! We've met again. After eight years of continuous work, I resigned. I do not want to use the word 'quit' because it really isn't synonymous to how I felt at that moment when I left that letter at my superior's office. It was a Friday -- my eight year in the company, to be exact. I'm not sure about the whole drama it took me to write down the words, 'I regret', but honestly, I wasn't regretful. I was uneasy, melancholic. But I was nowhere near uncertain, I was sure. It was after all the longest debate I had with myself -- two years of constant questioning whether it's time to finally fold the leaf and move on; two years of love and hate, of needing and not wanting.

It was indeed a roller coaster. Some say it was too soon, or that it was unexpected and perhaps bordering crazy brave, or whatever. Frankly, I care not. Had they known me and the desires of my heart, they wouldn't have been surprised. But, there's where you learn who cares enough to know you're okay and who's not. What I know now is that although I am now part of a large number of people in my city/state who's unemployed, at least now I can take my time and enjoy it like I've never enjoyed it in the past years. I now can enjoy a carefree holiday, one that need not be spoiled by staff who would not come in as scheduled. I can now read books leisurely and not just as a wise choice to get my mind off the metro traffic and the hassle of commuting. I can now watch movies and not be interrupted by phone calls. I NOW HAVE TIME FOR ME, to be ME again -- the ME I lost when I settled for what's convenient, when I chose to ignore my passion and give my time away for causes that do not seem as important today.

Gone with the old,  in with the new. Moving on will never be easy.  Beginnings will always be tough, but there will always be a calm after the storm. And when the calm finally arrives, I will be ready to start anew.

Day 3: Your mother or your father

Jodie Picoult once said, "Parents aren't the people you come from. They're the people you want to be when you grow up."

I never really liked mine that much while growing up. My Mama's constant nagging, and Dada's disciplinary sanctions were the best reminders of my growing rebellion a decade ago. Being the unica hija did not make it anymore rewarding than it seemed. I did not get enough liberty to do things many normal teens of my age do. Back then, I was always dubbed as the "KJ" (kill joy) because I had to hit home earlier than anyone, let alone participate in school field trips because I had no chaperone. I didn't even set foot in museums not until I was in college. I was forbidden to be "normal", or so I thought.

But as I grew older, and perhaps wiser, I realised that I must have seen things in a different light. When I became a mom to X, exactly a year and 6 months ago, did I fully understand what the true role of a parent is. The cliche was true, we never really know the love of a parent until we become one ourselves.

When I moved out, got married and eventually got pregnant, I did not know what to expect. I thought I was well-prepared for adulthood, only to be proven wrong.

I needed Mama's reassurance and Dada's kind words. I longed hearing their petty arguments on a Saturday morning, or their constant rebuttals about everything. I wanted the convenience of living with them, of being taken cared of by them.

Although I've moved in back with them again now (God bless my husband EJ for his understanding and love), I am still left emotional of the many challenges I couldn't have gotten out of if not for them. When I was broke, they were there. When I was in dire need of strength and company, they came to my rescue. It was through them that I learned that unconditional love do exist.

Now, I cannot thank God enough for making these two wonderful beings my parents -- the rock I anchor my boat into. I know that they will be taken away from me someday, but before that, I wish and pray that they be dealt with all the goodness they truly deserve for being my awesome two.

Day 2: My First Heartbreak

I remembered being in my teens when I first had my first heartbreak. I was probably 12 or 13 at that time. No, this isn't some puppy love story. My first ever heartbreak was by my dad. (Yes, not all heartbreaks need to be romantic.)

My dad had gambling problems. He used to bet on horses and spend all day on those OTB (off-track betting) places near our house. He'll leave right after lunch and came home late, and all he ever talks about are Keyapo (the name of his favorite horse), the PHILRACOM cup, and how close he was to winning back his bets, or not.

It was a cycle, a force of habit. It didn't bother me on the onset, because after all those years that he took care of us, it was the only hobby he had aside from doing his everyday chores as the 'houseband'. I wanted to resent the deed, but a part of me wanted to give him space, his own autonomy.

Until, mom felt it was too much. Enough was enough. She decided to let go, and they parted ways. It was a miserable part of history I didn't want to recall. I had to cry almost every night with the thought that I was to grow up in a broken family. But what haunted me more is the fact that I was powerless. It was the horror I never wanted to wake up to. But it happened.

After a month, or less, of separation, my dad went home renewed. He didn't bet on horses anymore. He let the gambling go. It was one of his best decisions ever.

Side note: I always wondered why people deserve second chances, why it was important to make mistakes. From then on, I understood what it meant to forgive, to make sacrifices, and to love.

Day 1: My profile picture

Facebook profile picture.
Crimson Viper rough sketch by EJ Landicho.

I do not draw. To be truthful, I cannot draw. I am an artist by heart, not by deed. I have a certain view of what art is, but rarely does it come to me by grace. Oftentimes, I had to turn to someone with an eye for color and detail. And that someone's usually my husband, the love of my life, EJ.

We're complete opposites, you see. His definition of art is profoundly diverse than mine. We also have different preferences for most things like food (chicken liver vs lomi), cartoons (live action vs Disney), and hobbies (drawing vs singing). But somehow, his sketches sometimes make me feel like a little kid in a candy store. They show a part of him that can only be expressed through edges and curves. Sometimes, they're his objects of perfection. Other times, they're his current obsessions.

I'm really not the patronizing type.  but I recognize talent, even at its simplest form. 

He's good at a lot of things -- cooking binagoongang baboy, answering trivias, rearing X, hitting the perfect score at the karaoke. I can go on in tales of everything I believe he's good at, but he still won't buy it.

So here I am, continuously hoping and wishing.

I wish he'd draw more. I wish he'd find more time to keep his love of sketching.

I wish he'd learn to not let life be defined by what you are but by who you are now, and who you want to be.

I hope he fights for the dream, because we're never too old to achieve greatness.

But more than that, I just hope he'd believe me when I tell him he's great, and that he'll ALWAYS be enough. Even, MORE than enough.

Side note: A simple profile pic write-up turned into this wishful melancholy. Ahh, it must be the rain. 

The 30-day WRITE MY LIFE Challenge

Hi. I hope this 2016 resurrection of this blog would be its last. A lot has happened in the past year that I cannot elaborate on much unless given certain topics to tackle on. So it's just fitting that to keep the ball rolling in this side of the web, I am joining the 30-day Write my life challenge by one of my industry idols and colleague, Pam Pastor.

If someone still follows this link, or if by any chance someone bumps into my blabbing here, feel free to join in. Doesn't matter if you're a little behind target. I know I am. Maybe I'll catch up, or maybe not. It doesn't matter. What matters is I get to share my life, or at least express it -- not to be heard but to connect. Or perhaps, not connect. Whichever. ^_^