-- BELIEVE --

What does it mean to live? Is it to love and be loved? To suffer and know joy? To educate and be educated? A few months shy of my 30 years in the world and I still can’t put a finger on the essence of life. Today I got out of bed feeling lost. I don’t know what to do today. I can’t wash the clothes because the batch I washed 4 days ago was still hanging out, desperately calling out for sunshine. I don’t feel like going out to walk around. My husband isn’t here to keep me company. I’m stuck in a dead-end job which, to make matters worse, doesn’t pay much. I don’t care much for money, but I still wouldn’t mind getting more. And most importantly, I crave a fulfilling career – doing something that in the end, means something. Not just running over my spiel to explain late fees in people’s credit cards or explaining how interest is computed. Am I alone in this dilemma? Because if not, I think to myself, “this is an unspoken calamity.” If all people are confronted with the same questions, but like zombies, walk around like nothing is wrong, then the pretense-coated world IS doomed. Or have they seen the essence of life in their almost robotic lives and embraced it? Then why does it seem like I’m the only one who hasn’t? Why am I blessed (and at the same time cursed) with a mind that questions everything? A thought process that never knows peace? What do I do with the rest of my life? At this point, it is quite evident that I’ve made a mess of my first 30 years – the only good parts being my husband and daughter. But who am I without them? How do I know what I am? How can I breathe, walk, think and eat and still not know life? The world has become such a noisy place that it has drowned all hope of hearing my soul whisper. And in the hurried drumbeat of everyday sounds – the cars speeding, click-clack of heeled shoes on the pavement, trains opening and closing – the world is lost in its home, as I am lost in mine.

A year and two months ago, I began a journal to document life in the Underworld. It was designed to develop into a handbook-of-sorts for migrants, but so far it is serving its more immediate purpose - relief and release. It's where despair and faith face off, life-altering decisions are made, dream sequences are narrated and the ordinary everyday life painted.

Today I went through my entire journal and I realised how much I've changed and how, at the same time, I'm very much the same person. I'm still materialistic - crazy about clothes, fragrances, hair and face treatment, shoes, accessories, the whole she-bang. But now, family needs take precedence. I still overanalyse everything, but now, I have more faith than pessimism. My diet is still poor but I know now that I've got to lay off the chocolates when my throat is beginning to ache. I may not smile in the face of adversity, but I focus on the problem and come up with solutions. I still sometimes measure self-worth with career, but at the end of the day I now realise my new brilliant shining career as a wife and mother. I still have doubts on our future, but now I trust the force that placed us here even more.

As my journal may never see print and that I realize, it would be nice to publish (at least via blog) an entry I made on June 19, 2005 at 1.10a:

That is the question. Often asked, always answered, however never truthfully... at least when it comes to body size. In an age where slimming down comes in a pill, machine or health club membership, people end up asking themselves, "How big is too big?"

Just recently, a friend showed me a pill which promises to cut one's appetite in order to slim down. I was unable to hide my interest. Last week alone, 4 people asked if I was pregnant since I had been putting on weight. Well what does one say to that? I had choices racing through my mind. "No, I certainly wish so, but that was very impolite of you to ask that to my face" or "There's another way to ask that politely, if you try to go with the flow of thinking, which I know is a new thing for you" or just simply, "teka, close ba tayo?" Heheheh. I hate being so polite. The weakling in me just smiled and said, "hindi, tumataba lang." Grrr.

Anyway there I was, intrigued by this pretty expensive, prescription-only pill, the effects of which can be compared to a very powerful and prohibited stimulant - "meth." Your appetite is drastically reduced, you feel like doing a lot of stuff and being productive, some find difficulty sleeping at night, still others complain of upset stomachs. But to those really desperate for "intervention" (as my friend reffered to it), these are but mere inconveniences. She and her husband have been trying it for weeks now and the kilos are dropping. They could only wish it would stay that way long after they've "quit" the drug.

While I was lost in the dizzying pace of their weight loss, I pondered on the odds of them getting back out of shape. And it isn't too far off. These are the folks who think that potato chips and candy bars can be eaten at any time of the day, even for their infant children. That fruits and vegetables are either a figment of imagination or some alien substance eaten only in other galaxies. Their side-by-side fridge loaded to the brink with ice cream and coca-cola. They refer to potato chips and other junk food as "valium" to keep the kids quiet, but in the same breath bemoan that the kids sometimes are too hard to handle, with one of them finding it a hobby to hit other kids (my own daughter is his personal favourite).

Nah, I thought to myself. I better not try it. As much as I've got a control and addiction issue, I don't think there really is a "short cut" to a worthwhile goal. If I am to slim down, I should re-assess and reformulate habits, curb my own perception of health and the most important thing, well, you guessed it -- enforce more control and pass up on the addiction. Thank God it's only chocolates this time around.

Before my family left for this Underworld, I manually copied onto a blank sheet of paper "The Amazing 20-minute work-out" which I got from the Reader's Digest. I remember in the Philippines, despite the stress of working for television news, I made it a point to do this "work-out" at home every single day. And I remember it felt great. The feel of hot sweat trickling down my body, the rhythm of muscles stretching and relaxing and the added energy it gave me throughout the day. I just wish one of these days I get the guts to take that paper off our bulletin board and start sweating once more. Gotta get up and get it done.

At least I've accepted it. Life, with all its glory, love and beauty, can never be without lies. It's as essential as air sometimes, that you're never fully aware you've immersed in it. It's the lifestyle you project but can hardly afford. The "Good Morning! How are you?" to that self-important old neighbor you got who you'd really rather give the finger than greet. The "twing" sound in your instant messaging when a person who really means nothing to you strikes up a conversation and you try to seem happy to hear from him/her. The diet cola and salad you eat when you're body screams out for a big fat sloppy burger. The pictures you send out to everyone or post on the Net to depict a happy and successful you when the only emotion you have while doing your mechanical boring job is insecurity. Yes, it transcends the superficial everyday and encompasses the very philosophy of your being. It is inevitable.

I remember back in 1995, I used to wear a cardboard name plate with the word "LIAR" pinned to my college uniform. It was part of initiation rites into the (supposedly) prestigious Communication Arts' Students Association, and since I was going to be taking CA as my major, well, might as well jump in all its crap tradition. (It's a whole new chapter to discuss how this field of studies had nothing to arm me up when the "real" life began.) Anyway, we were asked to choose a single word to describe ourselves, and wear that word to the University everyday. While others chose "friendly," "cute," "hard" and even "horny," I was even then a self-proclaimed "liar." Who knows, all of us could very well be telling the truth. But it was the observation of my Philosophy and Logic professor that did it for me. He asked how one can be certain if I am indeed a liar. Because a person who calls himself a liar isn't exactly to be believed or trusted. To that I only replied, "Precisely."

We can all be who we want to be, or lead ourselves and others to believe we are. But that shouldn't take the magic out of life. The mystery out of our persona. You and I should be free to accept that we are and at the same time, we are not who we are.