Not for the Impatient, the Logical, the Sympathetic
Today is Saturday. Today is Saturday.
I repeat this to myself as if it is a benediction to keep evil away. Sunday will be too close to what I dread. I am like a child with this phobia against Mondays. I do not like it; I believe I'm better off without it whether I foresee it would be difficult or not. Childish and immature, yes, but as real to me as a humongous Math examination. Funny that the two things I hate the most start with the same letter.
Anyways, I haven't completely recovered from my illness. Yes, I was truly sick yesterday. And judging from my entry, unwell not just in body. Hiding behind a name does not help much nowadays. People are so much sharper, more clever. Freud's theory on projection didn't help much in keeping this coping mechanism a secret either.
Today though, being Saturday, was like a healer's balm to my soul. I can rise at ease and with peace without giving much thought to responsibilities I'd rather be without. The tasks set ahead for me during weekends seem to be more bearable than work.
On Saturdays, I can wake up late. I can stretch on my bed, half covered with my blanket, fully awake. I can wait til the trickles of sunlight pour into my room and let its warmth tickle my arm, my neck, my face.
This particular Saturday, I stepped out of my room and the heavy garlic smell of Vigan longganisa assaulted my nose, pleasantly, mind you. At the breakfast table, Mummy was less nagging, Daddy was relaxed. Even Ella permitted a bit of lightheartedness albeit her tons of homework. As they chattered, I think they were discussing Ella's wish to watch that Close to You movie (I tried not to cringe), I suddenly felt separated from them. It was as if I was an outsider watching this happy family discuss happy, trivial things at the breakfast table. I was alarmed that my sorrow will dare take me away from the only thing I knew to be safe, my own family, if I let it. Well, I will not permit it.
Today is Saturday. I will not be sad. And with great effort (it felt as if I swam my way up to the surface), I made my way back into the heart of the conversation. I was determined to wash the dishes, water the garden plants, clean the upstairs bathroom without even allowing a twinge of darkness to distract me. Half the day passed. My limbs amazed me with their able functioning. Have you noticed that my chores consist of those which involves water? :) I have noticed. Something about it cheers me up. Its cool, viscuous form soothes me.
Afternoon came and I hurried to finish a book I was too afraid to read when darkness falls. About vampires and stuff. (Well, there's your problem, says the inner psychologist. Read happy books! Read the Bible! I had to supress the other inner critic from saying that the Bible isn't exactly an outright cheerful tome) When I looked up, it was 6:30 p.m. and the inescapable dread filled me again. Saturday - - at an end.
Enough! I am so tired of this childishness. That is how I think of it - - this depression is just an immaturity, my inability to accept things as they are. When I think of it this way I see myself as flawed. There must be something wrong with me because why can't I help myself? Other people seem to be doing quite fine. Their lives couldn't be easier than mine. We are living in the same impoverished times, the same cruel and harsh world. Why aren't they crying their guts out as they lie in their beds at night? Or if they do, how come it never shows on their faces in the morning? Have they a more special relationship with God that I could only seem to reach once in a while? I have no idea how I could fall so far from grace. I try and try to remain enfolded in divine protection but I lose it time and again. It's as if my soul needs to compensate for all those times I was sated and blessed. The darkness lashes out a hand in revenge. And all of it is my fault. Somehow, my internal reaction always seem to be wrong.
Does my words bore you? Or maybe you cringe in embarassment because I am discussing this - unfortunate sadness for all the world to read? It's not proper, is that what you are saying? There are things best kept a secret. But if you are my friend, you who read this, you will let me rave. You will let me be the lunatic tonight because it is my only way to say it. To let it out.
You will encounter me along the corridor, you will meet me again in some restaurant or another. We will greet each other, we will laugh, we will eat. The knowledge will not let you be at ease if you hold on to it. You will always think now, she is not everything she seems to be in the surface. Maybe, you will not even like me, your initial affection for me turning to mistrust. I will not mention this to anyone in my "normal" life. We will not speak of it. I do not wish you to pull me to a silent corner asking me if I need help and if I need a psychatrist. I hope you would see that the only way i can get over this is to write about it. My fingers are now able to unleash the sadness pooling inside me for over two decades. Let it go. Let it be.
I still might prove to be the genius everyone seems to believe I will be. I just plead for the time to work it out. And in case I fail, I just pray for the chance to let God be my deliverance. Wherever I might have failed Him in being His Warrior of Light, I will seek his forgiveness and ask only for peace.
I repeat this to myself as if it is a benediction to keep evil away. Sunday will be too close to what I dread. I am like a child with this phobia against Mondays. I do not like it; I believe I'm better off without it whether I foresee it would be difficult or not. Childish and immature, yes, but as real to me as a humongous Math examination. Funny that the two things I hate the most start with the same letter.
Anyways, I haven't completely recovered from my illness. Yes, I was truly sick yesterday. And judging from my entry, unwell not just in body. Hiding behind a name does not help much nowadays. People are so much sharper, more clever. Freud's theory on projection didn't help much in keeping this coping mechanism a secret either.
Today though, being Saturday, was like a healer's balm to my soul. I can rise at ease and with peace without giving much thought to responsibilities I'd rather be without. The tasks set ahead for me during weekends seem to be more bearable than work.
On Saturdays, I can wake up late. I can stretch on my bed, half covered with my blanket, fully awake. I can wait til the trickles of sunlight pour into my room and let its warmth tickle my arm, my neck, my face.
This particular Saturday, I stepped out of my room and the heavy garlic smell of Vigan longganisa assaulted my nose, pleasantly, mind you. At the breakfast table, Mummy was less nagging, Daddy was relaxed. Even Ella permitted a bit of lightheartedness albeit her tons of homework. As they chattered, I think they were discussing Ella's wish to watch that Close to You movie (I tried not to cringe), I suddenly felt separated from them. It was as if I was an outsider watching this happy family discuss happy, trivial things at the breakfast table. I was alarmed that my sorrow will dare take me away from the only thing I knew to be safe, my own family, if I let it. Well, I will not permit it.
Today is Saturday. I will not be sad. And with great effort (it felt as if I swam my way up to the surface), I made my way back into the heart of the conversation. I was determined to wash the dishes, water the garden plants, clean the upstairs bathroom without even allowing a twinge of darkness to distract me. Half the day passed. My limbs amazed me with their able functioning. Have you noticed that my chores consist of those which involves water? :) I have noticed. Something about it cheers me up. Its cool, viscuous form soothes me.
Afternoon came and I hurried to finish a book I was too afraid to read when darkness falls. About vampires and stuff. (Well, there's your problem, says the inner psychologist. Read happy books! Read the Bible! I had to supress the other inner critic from saying that the Bible isn't exactly an outright cheerful tome) When I looked up, it was 6:30 p.m. and the inescapable dread filled me again. Saturday - - at an end.
Enough! I am so tired of this childishness. That is how I think of it - - this depression is just an immaturity, my inability to accept things as they are. When I think of it this way I see myself as flawed. There must be something wrong with me because why can't I help myself? Other people seem to be doing quite fine. Their lives couldn't be easier than mine. We are living in the same impoverished times, the same cruel and harsh world. Why aren't they crying their guts out as they lie in their beds at night? Or if they do, how come it never shows on their faces in the morning? Have they a more special relationship with God that I could only seem to reach once in a while? I have no idea how I could fall so far from grace. I try and try to remain enfolded in divine protection but I lose it time and again. It's as if my soul needs to compensate for all those times I was sated and blessed. The darkness lashes out a hand in revenge. And all of it is my fault. Somehow, my internal reaction always seem to be wrong.
Does my words bore you? Or maybe you cringe in embarassment because I am discussing this - unfortunate sadness for all the world to read? It's not proper, is that what you are saying? There are things best kept a secret. But if you are my friend, you who read this, you will let me rave. You will let me be the lunatic tonight because it is my only way to say it. To let it out.
You will encounter me along the corridor, you will meet me again in some restaurant or another. We will greet each other, we will laugh, we will eat. The knowledge will not let you be at ease if you hold on to it. You will always think now, she is not everything she seems to be in the surface. Maybe, you will not even like me, your initial affection for me turning to mistrust. I will not mention this to anyone in my "normal" life. We will not speak of it. I do not wish you to pull me to a silent corner asking me if I need help and if I need a psychatrist. I hope you would see that the only way i can get over this is to write about it. My fingers are now able to unleash the sadness pooling inside me for over two decades. Let it go. Let it be.
I still might prove to be the genius everyone seems to believe I will be. I just plead for the time to work it out. And in case I fail, I just pray for the chance to let God be my deliverance. Wherever I might have failed Him in being His Warrior of Light, I will seek his forgiveness and ask only for peace.
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