tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12551087153196214472024-03-12T16:53:13.655-07:00Smarter in my 40s24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-54093095194148198902019-06-04T18:32:00.000-07:002019-06-04T18:32:27.803-07:00Untangling Chains
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I decided to start psychotherapy when I admitted to myself that I was an alcoholic. Three years ago, I could not go through a day without a drink. It began with a glass of nightly wine. Then I started drinking a lot more on nights-out. Introverted me suddenly wanted to attend social gatherings so that I would have an acceptable reason to drink more.</div>
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Eventually, I found a reason to get a buzz every time. I had lunches with a mojito. Then I had breakfasts with mimosas. And my nighttime drinking in solitude got worse. From a glass a night, I eventually worked my way up to half to a whole bottle of red wine. I said I needed the wine to sleep. But eventually the half bottle wasn’t making me drowsy so I amped up my consumption until I would be spinning and ready to collapse in bed.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There was a time that there wouldn't be a week's worth of<br />Facebook posts that didn't have me holding a drink. (This is<br />me with a lunchtime mojito.)</td></tr>
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Two years ago, I knew I was in trouble. My liver was dying but, more than that, I felt that I was drinking because I wanted to numb my emotions and thoughts. And, as I got worse, I realized that I was subconsciously trying to kill myself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I found her accidentally, my psychiatrist. She shared an office at the hospital with my son’s developmental pediatrician. While I was in the hospital for my son’s regular checkup, I decided to book an appointment with Dr. S on a whim. I figured, "what was there to lose? How could I even get worse than I was already? It was worth a try and, if she wasn’t good, I could always find another.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> "</span></div>
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My first visit was a bit of a disappointment. I really wanted to stay away from meds to solve my problems but after my hour-long appointment where I gave a briefer on my alcoholism and depression, she did just that. Mood-stabilizer, was what she called it. To me it was just a drug that I feared would simply replace the alcohol. But I took them anyway, just to see what would happen.</div>
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After two weeks, I was convinced that I needed them. I was crying less and was functioning better. But my drinking continued.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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For the first three months, my monthly therapy sessions were uneventful. I would whine about my life and tell stories from my childhood. Nothing ground-breaking was happening to me. I was as alcoholic as ever and I now had meds to add to my list of emotional crutches.</div>
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At around six months, things started to happen. But only after I began to be more honest about what I was really going through in life. I wasn’t optimistic about her suggestions, though. “Keep yourself busy,” she said. “Indulge in your crafts. Continue with your regular workouts.” What really stuck with me during that time, though, was when she said that I should build a “parallel life.” One where I was happy, doing things I wanted, taking care of myself. An escape from my daily worries.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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It sounded dumb, really. I already had alcohol, meds, cigarettes, now she was telling me to do more things to escape my reality?! I was seeing her to help me deal with my reality, not avoid it. But I followed her anyway and kept seeing her monthly for, what really only seemed like, chit-chat.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Oh, but what all that chit-chat did! After a year of seeing her, as she got to know me better, as I began to trust her, as I continued to pursue my passions, I started to develop a sense of self. I began to realize who I was underneath all the crap and what I really wanted in life. That’s when the alcoholism stopped. By forcing me to do seemingly psychologically-irrelevant tasks like painting, sewing and exercise, I was weakening my dependence on drinks as a crutch.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Surrender" 2018</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Costume sewn for a friend<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ran my second NY Half Marathon in<br />March 2019</td></tr>
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The meds were still a crutch but a medically-necessary one. Without the meds to help stabilize my emotions, I would not have had the lengthier moments of sanity that helped me think deeply about my issues without crying and falling into the vortex of depression. Healthy self-realizations happened when I was stable and sane and the meds helped pave way for me to have those quiet moments in my head.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Finally, after much dissection and introspection, I was able to clearly identify my problems. And, with the strengthening of my inner voice, I was then able to find ways to solve them. I started to make plans. I began to set boundaries. I started feeling like I was finally living for me, not to force myself to fit into societal or religious norms. I may have changed but people around me haven’t and they have to learn to deal with the new me if they want me in their lives. This might sound selfish to most, but I realized that I have one life to live and I will try my darnest to stay true to myself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Last week, as I laboriously worked for hours on untangling a bunch of chain necklaces that I haven’t touched in a decade, I stopped myself to write a note on my phone. “Untangling chains,” I typed. Because that is what psychotherapy is helping me with. Everything within me was a mess, a mishmash of past hurts and current problems that all did not allow my true self to come out. I slowly have to unravel the knots and twists to see through the jumble but I’m getting there with patience.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mental and emotional chains are more<br />numerous and intertwined but I'm getting there.</td></tr>
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This is not the happy ending. In fact, it is just the beginning of more years of struggle. Until the chains are truly apart from each other, they weigh me down and I won’t be totally free to be truly me. When I can live as me and be oblivious to the way the world sees me without harming them, that is when the journey is complete. This is the happy ending I hope I find before I die.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting a high without alcohol</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finding peace slowly</td></tr>
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<br />24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-90107400310818980842019-05-13T21:15:00.000-07:002019-05-13T21:17:42.080-07:00Courage<style type="text/css">
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Sometimes courage is not about bungee-jumping, rock climbing or even sky diving. Sometimes, it is the subtle push you give yourself to leap into the unknown.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I am traveling to Siem Reap in a few days, alone. I’ve never traveled on my own as a tourist. I am doing this to prepare myself for the more distant trip to Budapest in September. Why this need to travel alone? Because, like many things I’ve been pushing myself to do lately, it is a fear that I have to overcome.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I want to know how it feels to be in a foreign place where you, alone, are the master of your trip. Wake up when you want, go wherever you want to go, skip touring if you’re lazy or even dare to deviate from the usual tours. My past trips were always planned by others- from accommodations, itineraries, budgets. In Siem Reap, it’s all on me (but first, someone please define “budget” 😛 ).</div>
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Siem Reap is major for me. I am not only trying to be brave in order to face unfamiliar experiences. I also need courage to face peoples’ opinions of me; from the father of my children, my friends, my parents.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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“<i>Sama ako </i>(Let me go with you),” someone would say. “<i>Ang lungkot naman. Mag-isa ka lang</i>? (How sad. You'll be all alone?)” another would chime in. Of course there are those, too, that second-guess my intentions. Because, what kind of middle-aged Filipina mother travels on her own anyway? Is she searching for new connections and friendships? </div>
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At this point, as I near 50, I don’t give a f*ck. It’s an art I’m trying to master. I know the truth. I know my intentions. I love my children and that love guides me in all that I do.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> I want my children to see a strong mother who joined half marathons in her late 40s and learned to rock climb. Someone who dared to be true to herself without concern for what society says. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My second NY Half Marathon</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Conquering my fear of heights</td></tr>
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Which brings me to my next adventure. The next major event that will require me to muster all the courage I have within. I am migrating to the US once again. Many will say, “<i>wow, ang sarap naman! </i>(wow, that will be so much fun!).” Or, “that will be a better life for you. You’re so lucky.” Right now, all I feel is fear.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I am not familiar with that life anymore. I left California in 2008 a different person- obese, lacking self-love and an identity. I was a mother and wife who followed the pack. That was all I knew. That was all I wanted.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Days before I moved back to Manila in 2008</td></tr>
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So much has changed in almost 11 years. Aside from a 60-pound weight loss, I became me. The woman I didn’t know I could be. Someone with an identity so strong that she protects it fiercely from anyone who dares change it. Someone who loves her friends but craves for solitude just as much. Someone who can’t last long without the happy hormones of her workouts. Someone who admits that, though this is a nice level of self-awareness to settle in, there is much more to learn and a tremendous amount of growth that is still possible.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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And so, much more than Siem Reap, Budapest, and the fear of heights, I now face this new unknown. Will I be happy in America? Will I lose my sense of self again because I will have to reinvent myself to function best as a mother? Will I have to amp up my anti-depression meds? Hahaha!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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It is a move I have to do. For my children’s sake. And, no matter how badly I will miss the person I have become in the last few years, there is no higher passion in my heart than to be the best mother. This is all I have that defeats my doubts and fears.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I cry now as I fear the inevitability of losing a part of the “new me” in America. The person I’ve worked so hard to become. The one that I had to fight for for years. We’ll see. It’s just the next step for me. My biggest adventure (for now). Hopefully, a big chunk of the new me remains. To do this, I will fight fiercely and be brave.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking another leap into the unknown</td></tr>
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My psychiatrist said it best last month. “The biggest sign of mental health is the ability to embrace the ambiguous.” I guess I am sane now. 💗<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ambiguous" by Niña Defensor with my self-made<br />
strength and empowerment bracelet</td></tr>
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24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-44739006802286754872019-05-09T18:18:00.001-07:002019-05-09T19:14:11.447-07:00Budapest<style type="text/css">
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It all started after I ran a half marathon in San Francisco and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. The emotions I felt when I first stepped onto the bridge were overwhelming and inexplicable. I could not understand why, though I loved this bridge immensely, my chest was overflowing with happiness and the joy was making me teary-eyed. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emotional before I crossed the GGB</td></tr>
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That feeling of elation remained (still does) with me. I wondered, what if I set out to run over bridges for as long as physically-possible? So I started to Google “most beautiful bridges in the world.” Among those bridges, I looked for half marathons that passed said structures. That’s how Budapest came up.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Budapest’s Chain Bridge, merely 200 meters, but gorgeous. Of course the capital of Hungary isn’t an eyesore either so I said, why not? But I couldn’t commit just yet. There were so many things going against the plan.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlCBfwisVGmwk-aD-fmXAoh6BolWgkfvkY2J6nOP2Q_oHKlWT3ovRfuHWCXsYUzhlEQN2DNQCkuRDudRojBzEKlLw8wI52GRwlCdncU_74zvT9fKZK9PFbYhAzG9NqiBCXSMc1Rm8pXKM/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-05-03+at+1.10.49+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1150" data-original-width="798" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlCBfwisVGmwk-aD-fmXAoh6BolWgkfvkY2J6nOP2Q_oHKlWT3ovRfuHWCXsYUzhlEQN2DNQCkuRDudRojBzEKlLw8wI52GRwlCdncU_74zvT9fKZK9PFbYhAzG9NqiBCXSMc1Rm8pXKM/s320/Screen+Shot+2019-05-03+at+1.10.49+PM.png" width="222" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Szechenyi Chain Bridge<br />
(source: travelbe.weebly.com on Pinterest)</td></tr>
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The biggest obstacle of all was fear. I have never traveled alone to an unfamiliar destination, so the fear was intense. This thought prevented me from taking any further steps for more than two months. I shelved the bridge mission indefinitely.</div>
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Then, one at a time, things would remind me of Budapest. First was George Ezra’s song, “Budapest,” one of my recent favorites. Only after the bridge mission did I even notice the title of the song. It doesn’t even talk about the city!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhhKvdkh5VBFMqPBu7pdH3tQv4P1clhc_DoLuh7gYAL7tDj0XKroCFhtE08T0pzBGNDw9kz3pN8waLSn_yLKla3D29zFoJYwXSrVxwzma5dMX6GyRNhAvviTwKe1128Cq_DZ4HM-K4bDY/s1600/59743710_1558482854286457_1587390449125949440_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="984" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhhKvdkh5VBFMqPBu7pdH3tQv4P1clhc_DoLuh7gYAL7tDj0XKroCFhtE08T0pzBGNDw9kz3pN8waLSn_yLKla3D29zFoJYwXSrVxwzma5dMX6GyRNhAvviTwKe1128Cq_DZ4HM-K4bDY/s320/59743710_1558482854286457_1587390449125949440_n.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
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Being part of a family of Avengers fanatics, I made it a point to watch Endgame on its first day out. “We’re a long way from Budapest,” Hawkeye tells Natasha as they flew through space. I smiled at the reference as I sat through the movie alone. <br />
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Last week, my daughter, G who lives in California, shut me out of my Spotify playlist unknowingly while she played her music. I was forced to play my songs on Youtube. And there it was. Not even a song title, just text in the beginning of Ellie Goulding’s video for (another of my favorites) “Close to Me”- BUDAPEST, HUNGARY. It was the setting of the video’s storyline.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFG3ZtJCQvTcmOJSzX94SKIpU3ujeZSmACdibz5MFOgqrhG3HI0lM-PmkaRYp_75Sg5iYSW060pFYiXz8P-ZW1SKscxPCbU9k8XI_ATeb9VPazsScICLIIVJ3Ydg_b9yprNmWHExKyNRk/s1600/Screen+Shot+2019-05-10+at+8.53.17+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="753" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFG3ZtJCQvTcmOJSzX94SKIpU3ujeZSmACdibz5MFOgqrhG3HI0lM-PmkaRYp_75Sg5iYSW060pFYiXz8P-ZW1SKscxPCbU9k8XI_ATeb9VPazsScICLIIVJ3Ydg_b9yprNmWHExKyNRk/s320/Screen+Shot+2019-05-10+at+8.53.17+AM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajN57m_OSpY">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajN57m_OSpY</a></div>
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That was it. I was going to Budapest. I was no longer going to be afraid.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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But then, another hurdle. How could I go to Hungary in September when I have to watch the kids in California? Unless… our dearest yaya Ting got her US visa approved and she could take care of the kids for a week while I’m gone. Only then would I be able to commence the bridge mission.</div>
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This obstacle to my plans was almost impossible to overcome. Having been denied a visa six months ago, the chances of her being granted one now was remote. The consul would obviously scrutinize her application deeper. S/he would ask tougher questions. Ting and I both went to the US Embassy early this week with no expectations. We knew that an approval was a stretch. <br />
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“<i>Bahala na ang Diyos; Kung para sa yo, sa yo</i> (It’s up to God; if it’s meant for you, it will be yours),” I repeatedly reassured Ting (and myself). And then…</div>
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Synchronicity! Yes, of all the consuls, we got the sweetest man who wanted to give us another chance; even if both Ting and I both fumbled through our answers. (Or maybe it was my charm? 😜 )<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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My psychiatrist is a huge Carl Jung fan. And, although she didn’t mention Jung last month when I visited her, it is interesting to note that it was Jung who coined the term “synchronicity.”</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Source: Wikipedia</td></tr>
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Budapest is the result of synchronicity. It is a product of the aligning of events and coincidences.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yay! Registered!</td></tr>
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Call it vibration, manifestation, destiny, God’s work. Things happen to us as they should. They are either steps to a more meaningful endpoint or are lessons to be learned on our way to self-awareness. The Budapest journey taught me that- to surrender and let go. <i>Kung para sa yo, sa yo.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHPNPKgZL0LCgAqUqbkgAhMXVU-W14XUkizIgBOyeSpjtAxsPy85BDA5VYRoqy1qkLLnMAR4-Y_hi3alHiQBOPO2xeKlGJiYQQ3F2To86PVEeP7b63yLk9NNKD4Y8-sJf0eIaFf9j3ow/s1600/60188302_363203947642255_1735378284658556928_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="832" data-original-width="1060" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHPNPKgZL0LCgAqUqbkgAhMXVU-W14XUkizIgBOyeSpjtAxsPy85BDA5VYRoqy1qkLLnMAR4-Y_hi3alHiQBOPO2xeKlGJiYQQ3F2To86PVEeP7b63yLk9NNKD4Y8-sJf0eIaFf9j3ow/s320/60188302_363203947642255_1735378284658556928_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Synchronicity" by Niña Defensor with a Labradorite bracelet</td></tr>
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<br />24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-62556240406263316272018-11-05T15:16:00.002-08:002018-11-05T15:22:14.560-08:00Catharsis<style type="text/css">
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<span style="font-size: small;">Alcoholism. Depression. Autism. My parents. My lesbian sister. My ex-boyfriends. My two husbands. My psychiatrist. These are topics I write about. Some people might criticize me for opening up too much about my life. I know my parents worry about my privacy (I do too). Others might think I simply want attention or, when my posts are sad, pity.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I don’t define myself as a “writer.” I don’t create pieces on demand. I can’t have deadlines and assigned topics. Most importantly, I cannot write about subjects that I don’t care about. Whenever I do, the piece seems contrived, insincere.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I am with writing as I am with my other hobbies- always for love, always mood-driven. I have to be passionate about something to be able to write about it. Yes, there are many writers who can write pieces without divulging snippets of their lives, but mine are not merely essays. They’re stories. Of my life mostly but unintentionally stories, too, of others who have had similar experiences.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wCipBX_xaBgi_zHG5lIVLHmgnZdzapvXxOtmbuCCkzhc-gF_q992jT5x__S6Nh13OItPKgMN7h1qjgl1oEUknAOHpE3w6SAvC6PZhyphenhyphenRVGyyihT605C6hBs1CAoQ_ymVI9W47FySeUdA/s1600/45596864_291858434757695_6787830923791433728_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wCipBX_xaBgi_zHG5lIVLHmgnZdzapvXxOtmbuCCkzhc-gF_q992jT5x__S6Nh13OItPKgMN7h1qjgl1oEUknAOHpE3w6SAvC6PZhyphenhyphenRVGyyihT605C6hBs1CAoQ_ymVI9W47FySeUdA/s400/45596864_291858434757695_6787830923791433728_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For my daughter's airplane birthday party, my sisters and mom were the flight<br />
attendants, we built a pretend cockpit for the stage, presented a safety<br />
demonstration, and dressed guests in pilot hats and aviator sunglasses.<br />
All for love. :)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Recently, one of my good friends experienced a major heartbreak. After I talked her through her pain and tears for an hour, she said, “why do you give such good advice, anyway? How can you know all these things?” “Because I’ve been heartbroken many times!” I said, laughing.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My psychiatrist said it best. “You are a wounded healer,” she said. Her choice of words was both hilarious and marvelous. I never thought of myself as a “healer.” I always thought that I was the one that needed to be healed. I never imagined that all my crying and drama would be of any value to any one else.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I haven’t written anything on my autism blog, <a href="http://www.journeyonthespectrum.blogspot.com/"><span class="s1">www.journeyonthespectrum.blogspot.com</span></a> for years. But I remember an incident in Ton’s therapy center where, a mother’s eyes lit up upon seeing Ton, then she approached me to say, “is that Ton? Are you the writer of the autism blog?” I nodded and she said, “I read everything in it and it helped me so much, especially when my son was first diagnosed.” I thanked her and gave her my number in case she needed emotional support or answers to questions.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In May this year, I wrote an article on special schools for Smart Parenting,, <a href="http://www.smartparenting.com.ph/parenting/kids-with-special-needs/choosing-a-school-for-my-child-with-autism-a1629-20170522-lfrm"><span class="s1">http://www.smartparenting.com.ph/parenting/kids-with-special-needs/choosing-a-school-for-my-child-with-autism-a1629-20170522-lfrm</span></a>. It chronicled our long journey to find a good fit for Ton in terms of education. It also helped many parents of special children understand what it took my family six years to learn.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Lastly, my piece in this blog which was published in Rappler, <a href="https://www.rappler.com/move-ph/issues/gender-issues/95274-sister-wedding-same-sex"><span class="s1">https://www.rappler.com/move-ph/issues/gender-issues/95274-sister-wedding-same-sex</span></a>, talked about a still highly controversial topic in our country. I really wanted to show how discrimination against same-sex relationships is so real by sharing how I, who once regarded my lesbian sister’s relationship as inferior, now see her marriage as an inspiration.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I am not poetic. I don’t have a vast knowledge of figurative phrases. When I write, readers don’t have the opportunity to “see, smell, touch or taste” the words. My writing is plain, raw, emotional, and always “from the heart” (sometimes, I even cry while I write). Just like me- imperfect, unguarded, honest and always full of hope.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">This is the only way I know how to write. It’s the only way I know how to inspire others. By “healing” others through my writing, I slowly become less wounded myself.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxD-BNKb5JnErI-rKO7q-EkxmAaZSIXAEcevTy-OOQTovgXNyfxw7SVR-GgiBN0gAxfbxV2Z4wui7YfMAl3ew' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Just like me- imperfect, unguarded, honest and always </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">full of hope.</span></div>
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<i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Written on November 8, 2017, never published until now)</i></div>
24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-34674812020309632092018-01-21T19:33:00.001-08:002018-01-21T19:42:34.783-08:00Of Nice and Men<div class="p1">
I’ve always taken pride in being empathic. I reward and develop friendships with service people who exceed my expectations. I always try to put myself in others’ shoes- the jeepney driver who cut me off, the pedestrian taking his sweet time to cross the street, household help who sometimes don’t get instructions clearly. Most of all, I try to understand difficult people as much as I can.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Yesterday, a very important person, someone I care about deeply, someone I’ve always tried to understand and make excuses for, hurt me again. There’s something about this man that has always left me vulnerable. I’ve wanted nothing but to please him, make him proud of me. I’ve received a few praises over the years but what I remember the most are comments about my appearance and weight. He once said I looked like a whale. He said my husband (now ex-husband) would leave me because I was unattractive (he did, but because of another woman). He said I was too emotional, too nice, too friendly.</div>
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I greeted him with a kiss on the cheek as he entered the restaurant. A few minutes later,</div>
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Him (out of the blue): Your next project is to lose weight!</div>
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Me (trying to defend myself): <i>Pagbigyan mo na ako</i> (cut me some slack), I’ve been sick for three weeks! I’m also training for a half marathon and I run every day.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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Him (snickering): Alibi accepted!</div>
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I forced a smile and looked away in disbelief. I watched the woman beside him and waited for her to defend me but she was silent.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmvrYKARVuoyWMvSJg5npltXg2ZVELiMyH8e4l1AQsEfEDlYBjjCTQqLsdXBiLDRkesJOBF_12O5v0zO2A5s_rwu3ejHSTK-qs018cMkdRYIc0Mft156W1teUC9kYuz4MHgKn3D2GRxk/s1600/26904332_10156133928064577_1773223328335754260_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="99" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmvrYKARVuoyWMvSJg5npltXg2ZVELiMyH8e4l1AQsEfEDlYBjjCTQqLsdXBiLDRkesJOBF_12O5v0zO2A5s_rwu3ejHSTK-qs018cMkdRYIc0Mft156W1teUC9kYuz4MHgKn3D2GRxk/s320/26904332_10156133928064577_1773223328335754260_n.jpg" width="75" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Fat" me (1 day before <br />
the comment)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I cried as soon as I got home. Not a lot, but the pain was overwhelming. And familiar. I should be used to it by now, after 47 years of hearing that I’m lacking in one thing or another. Throughout my life, I’ve managed to smile respectfully at hurtful comments. I’ve tried to understand him and make excuses for him. I’ve never doubted his love for me but have always wanted to feel it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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He’s shown it in more practical ways- with generous gifts, trips, my monthly allowance. And I’m grateful. I’ve learned to accept that this is how he shows it. And I have no doubt he loves me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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But whenever I’m around him, I’m a nervous 5 year old afraid to spill water on the table. In my 40s, I’ve seen major changes in him. He has become more communicative, laid-back, funny, honest. So I’ve relaxed, too, and have tried to open up more. But when these comments come (mostly having to do with my weight), I am often caught unaware. I’d be paranoid if I was really overweight (like yesterday) but I know that, even if I’m not at my fittest, I’m not ugly-fat like he makes me feel.</div>
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While I was holding back tears in my bathroom after lunch, I finally admitted that this feeling of unworthiness from my father has permeated my life through the years. I guess the mental conditioning that I wasn’t good enough led me to go on with relationships that were detrimental to me. Because I wanted to prove I was worthy. Because I kept making excuses for these men, thinking they’ve had sad childhoods, or that they, themselves, did not feel valued by their families. Or maybe, “he’s just tired.” With my ex-husband, I also justified the lack of intimacy with “I’m fat and look disgusting.” Nowadays, when my husband says something that challenges my intellect, I often retort, “are you calling me stupid?!” Or “I’m not dumb, you know!” because I tend to think that people look down on me.</div>
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Although I’ve been going to a psychiatrist for a while now, we never really discussed childhood hurts. It was my choice; I never wanted to dig deeper. I’ve had so much trouble dealing with the “now” of my life that I didn’t want the added burden of trying to resolve past issues. Yesterday, I realized, that I didn’t need to spend hours with my shrink to dissect why I’m so screwed up. I was screwed up because I still kept hearing my father’s voice in my head. Whether in justifying my partners’ abuse or being defensive about being inferior, this feeling of unworthiness has been ingrained in me. And, now that I am more conscious about it, I want it to stop.</div>
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I don’t regret what happened yesterday. It was meant to happen. I was meant to see and realize. I guess I am in a better place to appreciate the value of that pain. And I’m hoping that I finally draw from that pain to be a better person.</div>
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I don’t blame Papa. I still want to make excuses for him but I don’t hate him. In fact, it was when I realized that, it wasn’t him that I was sad about but that, I have<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>allowed his silent voice to make me believe that I did not deserve love or to be treated well; or to believe in myself and feel secure. Yesterday was a turning point that, although painful, was long overdue. I was emotionally ready to go through it and process it better. To not dwell on the feelings but to draw from the experience and learn.</div>
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After my moment of sadness in the bathroom, I was walking with my 15-year old daughter to the pool. “Don’t give your dad such a hard time. He loves you. He always tells you that. He says you’re pretty and smart always. He really appreciates you.” She gave me a quizzed look so I told her what happened over lunch. She understood. And I hope that you, who have children, see this too. The seemingly innocent teasing, joking about appearance and weight, or of your child’s intellect, sometimes those linger. Like mine have. Don’t wait until your grown up child has to see a psychiatrist at 45! :p</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwVr8bvwhV93p7kTvss-hYo_aA-fy6g5q3n9MgghKovd8MpDyzwUtLOzp4AdvF_sWI8lsjOjb_feYLlEwnXSZwpTE3hejIHzTjVSQk3Ty2OOy9rKiGKtiBH0NDqo7b48jnlrlB2Q9tsA/s1600/26166166_10156082838004577_8203462581134933262_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="543" data-original-width="511" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwVr8bvwhV93p7kTvss-hYo_aA-fy6g5q3n9MgghKovd8MpDyzwUtLOzp4AdvF_sWI8lsjOjb_feYLlEwnXSZwpTE3hejIHzTjVSQk3Ty2OOy9rKiGKtiBH0NDqo7b48jnlrlB2Q9tsA/s320/26166166_10156082838004577_8203462581134933262_n.jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The father-daughter dynamic is very crucial in shaping a<br />
young girl's future. I'm grateful that their relationship has<br />
gotten better through the years.</td></tr>
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Empathy is good but not to the point of abuse. I want to learn to set limits. I will try my best to distance myself from people who always tend to hurt me or those who want nothing but to take advantage of my kindness and understanding. I will learn to bask in the love that I have long-deserved but never truly appreciated. I am worthy. I am loved. I deserve this. I know better now. I will be better now. :)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmfrxDhZAYWrGK_rNECsKMkbqDeSH0ii0yQGMlW0mVpXnmR1hi4lZlcIPq3Xayw8ZTL6aDusZ2XymsMsrjVB8jTN16DZQxW-XqhbZ065fWkMZlcsK5gVquMeW11ytRbv-FcHVkgsxqDw/s1600/26239489_10156124894054577_1436774866340737604_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="586" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsmfrxDhZAYWrGK_rNECsKMkbqDeSH0ii0yQGMlW0mVpXnmR1hi4lZlcIPq3Xayw8ZTL6aDusZ2XymsMsrjVB8jTN16DZQxW-XqhbZ065fWkMZlcsK5gVquMeW11ytRbv-FcHVkgsxqDw/s320/26239489_10156124894054577_1436774866340737604_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No more silent voices in my head! (Hopefully :p)</td></tr>
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24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-42527006325051133502017-11-03T08:49:00.000-07:002017-11-03T08:59:51.481-07:00Getting through<div class="p1">
<span style="font-size: small;">Here I am, 10:30pm, thinking about how to get through another emotional night alone. With a bit of self-pitying, I think, “I just want to get through tonight.”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Then, my thoughts turn to Vicky Caparas, my high school friend. We were never close, but she was special to me. And (unknown to me) I, to her.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTgzLAkNXQjjJi2VGtBVILg3fWitwkd3zmbkYwO2oHDyZpPR4ICs2ulepRwbOIUs7CROISf6AEv4WOy3_jU2lF3aQW38XsVQU9VIDuM_bjSNS1wzk3QejWJ7YFfxW3HWXfOV_iUtawHw/s1600/1384246_10151940677094577_190046147_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="557" data-original-width="330" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMTgzLAkNXQjjJi2VGtBVILg3fWitwkd3zmbkYwO2oHDyZpPR4ICs2ulepRwbOIUs7CROISf6AEv4WOy3_jU2lF3aQW38XsVQU9VIDuM_bjSNS1wzk3QejWJ7YFfxW3HWXfOV_iUtawHw/s320/1384246_10151940677094577_190046147_n.jpg" width="189" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vicky said during our school's 50th anniversary reunion in <br />
2013, "Aya, ang ganda mo! Pa-picture naman!" I blushed <br />
and felt so awkward because it seemed so insane.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">She passed away on October 28, with none of her friends by her side because she didn't want us to know of her situation. After battling bone cancer for four months, she finally succumbed to the disease. During her wake, her family said that she refused to take any pain medications for supposedly “the most painful cancer.” She prayed and put her faith in God until the very end, trusting that whatever pain would come, they were temporary obstacles to a better, more peaceful, pain-free ever-after.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">How did Vicky get through? How strong was that faith? How do I even get that? How do I believe that there will be a better tomorrow?<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">How? Here’s how. From one of Vicky’s dearest friends, Dory, to me on Facebook Messenger:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NJWCjiA-9n-_Qc1g5GxByqbtprICva68XdLv6yd3xS-jih1HTd4_ksOZwet9jcWgyke32cGULrrLcQq4qcxj3VQG2kmdDrcdbADZ_ZAOcbV_-WcVtB-J8ilr30-ynw-oH9BnrayVRcw/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-11-03+at+6.43.34+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="102" data-original-width="376" height="86" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4NJWCjiA-9n-_Qc1g5GxByqbtprICva68XdLv6yd3xS-jih1HTd4_ksOZwet9jcWgyke32cGULrrLcQq4qcxj3VQG2kmdDrcdbADZ_ZAOcbV_-WcVtB-J8ilr30-ynw-oH9BnrayVRcw/s320/Screen+Shot+2017-11-03+at+6.43.34+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMnCG0NYNoMoFzOmuK7gaJODyHNNVDf0gzAYiMf2vmF1y8-yxa_UklHqTc1kabCu-xPq9LcGjrx1eBCYmPglQNgcfC91hYwDmiH0b3thgvUdbpQxJw06najWT3nkQdRKgUz0TneSNP4s/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-11-03+at+6.43.47+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="278" data-original-width="404" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMnCG0NYNoMoFzOmuK7gaJODyHNNVDf0gzAYiMf2vmF1y8-yxa_UklHqTc1kabCu-xPq9LcGjrx1eBCYmPglQNgcfC91hYwDmiH0b3thgvUdbpQxJw06najWT3nkQdRKgUz0TneSNP4s/s320/Screen+Shot+2017-11-03+at+6.43.47+PM.png" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidD0caLgm8BsZuBh8EfzaRfPrA0zfZc9oXub3oz1mi7Vi1GV8XSIvY8J3Gw5jmVRvPS3A7OdxJYgW4dpQpF9Nu0YNSBwgbLEO4bY3FthyHAbMvnhtov9unk6nUVqINhppdqwy6vGkuQLM/s1600/Screen+Shot+2017-11-03+at+6.44.56+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="112" data-original-width="353" height="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidD0caLgm8BsZuBh8EfzaRfPrA0zfZc9oXub3oz1mi7Vi1GV8XSIvY8J3Gw5jmVRvPS3A7OdxJYgW4dpQpF9Nu0YNSBwgbLEO4bY3FthyHAbMvnhtov9unk6nUVqINhppdqwy6vGkuQLM/s320/Screen+Shot+2017-11-03+at+6.44.56+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Vicky, and her closest friends Dory and Divine, saw me as valuable. Even if I do not see myself as such. They drew happiness from the knowledge that I valued them. And, though they saw me as “perfect” which is far from how I feel right now, I have that responsibility- to spread love and kindness. These two traits, I am sure I have (no matter how tough I am when I question my worth).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Love and kindness. I have so much of these to give and share and I rarely ask for much in return. I give ’til it hurts. I try my hardest to make others happy. And, sadly given my mental state, I try my best not to inconvenience others.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In my lowest moments, when I force myself to overcome the sadness alone because I dread to reach out to any one for fear of inconveniencing them with my petty troubles, this is what I have to remember, thanks to my super smart sister.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">In the greater scheme of things, what are my troubles, anyway? Sadness? Tell that to my friend, Vicky. My mental state defeats me. Her mental state defeated the pain of her disease.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Dearest Vicky, no. I am not the perfect one. I am highly flawed and weak. Without intending to, your struggle has shown me what strength is. Like me, you did not want to inconvenience your friends with your troubles (though mine are far more petty than what you went through). But, unlike me, you marched on, battling your disease with just the immense belief that you would get through. That you would see it until the end. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The last time I saw Vicky (and Dory), 2016, during my 45th<br />
birthday celebration</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small;">I was not the blessing in your life, after all. You were my blessing. Please watch over me, Vicky. Soar. And, finally- live!</span></div>
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</style>24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-34778536053772081672017-10-11T20:07:00.000-07:002017-10-11T20:28:30.185-07:00Better late than never<div class="p1">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Hard to believe, but I was always anti-social. I am an introvert and I try to avoid social situations because I don’t quite know how to talk to people for the first time. Or, once that conversation has started, how to sustain it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">This is why I do not have many close friends from my youth. The few that I have from high school and college remain special (even though we rarely see each other) because they’re like family. We grew up together and we learned to accept each other for who we were. And no matter how much we’ve changed since then, they’ve accepted that that’s part of your evolution. They still love you no matter what you’ve become.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">In fact, during a recent trip to Singapore with them, I realized that I was wrong for thinking that ours was a not-so-deep connection. It was there that I realized that they see the "me" hidden inside the “lost” girl I've always been. As I went through a very painful event in my life, they hugged me and cried with me. I realized, then (and even now as they express their support for me through my depression), that no matter how rarely we meet, their concern is genuine and unconditional.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwr6WE_vZMllqkgCuKIF9s21-8WTqXSd6BUCdYkbNRoBZfJGQa4uxn5SMh7eUK_nxefPp-9KsGOpEsLCFwXC9Grl9xS-SD9D0vPpEfey1KyfyXj4PXH2AJQxEttgctLNV5UMPWHWL5Pus/s1600/21013880_10155693771839577_2013256573372717839_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="796" data-original-width="1124" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwr6WE_vZMllqkgCuKIF9s21-8WTqXSd6BUCdYkbNRoBZfJGQa4uxn5SMh7eUK_nxefPp-9KsGOpEsLCFwXC9Grl9xS-SD9D0vPpEfey1KyfyXj4PXH2AJQxEttgctLNV5UMPWHWL5Pus/s320/21013880_10155693771839577_2013256573372717839_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the honors section all, nerdiness brought us together. We may<br />
have morphed into new beings but our shared history binds us.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">In my midlife, though, with the added self-confidence and decreased self-consciousness, I have gradually made new, deep, meaningful friendships.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>It didn’t take a lot of effort, really. I was ripe for new connections that would help carry me through to the next stage of my life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Surprisingly, I found out how the friendships I developed in my midyears could actually be the anchors that will keep me grounded and sane. Maybe it’s because I am already formed. I know who I am now. I am comfortable in my skin and am not ashamed to be me. I have come to a point where I pride myself in knowing that I am a good, loyal, honest, supportive, loving friend. And if these new characters in my life don’t appreciate who I am right now, I can move on without the pain of rejection.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Luckily, I now have friends who accept me as I am. Flaws and all. History and all. Scars, deficiencies, quirks and all. I am not perfect. And they have willingly expressed that they themselves aren’t. We are all just people trying to make the most out of our lives. We want to be happy and have the unconditional support of sisters to help us get through whatever challenges we are going through.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>Funny how I found that support from my Seoul Sisters.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQNL-tKXUmkiLJhSac3cw7DKvcnMT32EVm3Dpa9tlf0Lf7Ad6NT3omj87X6wIY6F7sFDhCzyfRP5yfprD_MjHtAsrmrvDbt7GxyFMwSjVA0kz33XV9FJefDYD66e0lxpT9Z06YInLfO8/s1600/14612445_10154628221804577_3570151454366985678_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="923" data-original-width="1309" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQNL-tKXUmkiLJhSac3cw7DKvcnMT32EVm3Dpa9tlf0Lf7Ad6NT3omj87X6wIY6F7sFDhCzyfRP5yfprD_MjHtAsrmrvDbt7GxyFMwSjVA0kz33XV9FJefDYD66e0lxpT9Z06YInLfO8/s320/14612445_10154628221804577_3570151454366985678_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Initially, I hung out with them for laughs and beauty advice.<br />
Nowadays, I don't need a reason to. A month without seeing<br />
them is just not complete.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">They were my high school schoolmates but we were never close. I was always nerdy, in the honors section, and I was never their classmate. So I rarely spoke to them. After knowing them better in my 40s though, I’d like to say that we’ve more than made up for lost time. I often run to them<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>for ears- about my passions, my weaknesses and my insanity. Who would have known that the women I once thought of as “<i>landi</i>”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>(flirtatious) would be my major support system? They might have influenced me somewhat on the “landi” front, but if only to assure me that I am beautiful and I should not be ashamed to flaunt it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Then, thanks to my indoor cycling classes, I have had the wonderful opportunity to meet women who inspire me in different ways. My dearest Ting is like my Ate- she is a role model, she inspires and guides me (she is also my favorite cycling teacher :) ) The rest of my spin sisters come from a wide range of ages, one as young as 38 and then there’s me at 46 (!). We are in this circle to share different perspectives, different experiences, different passions but one motivation- to be there for each other when needed. Who would have thought? Me? Friends with my exercise classmates? Unheard of in my 4 decades, but real now. And worth cherishing for as long as I live.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifW4tRMnFTofyEXqqaJYZojZgUIRsXnvAwt2d6OsXwNZFJkNnNKdRR2Mx4Sj1fZdHf8CF3jWgfgTy16FFRbZtij3_8p69LYpyBvTl21xKtVT8bavKRc_nPsk5J-Lw0HAjor0aAbOHBif4/s1600/21993006_10154728960432714_766671714625088847_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="807" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifW4tRMnFTofyEXqqaJYZojZgUIRsXnvAwt2d6OsXwNZFJkNnNKdRR2Mx4Sj1fZdHf8CF3jWgfgTy16FFRbZtij3_8p69LYpyBvTl21xKtVT8bavKRc_nPsk5J-Lw0HAjor0aAbOHBif4/s320/21993006_10154728960432714_766671714625088847_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whether we hang out over Happy Hour or in cycling class,<br />
seeing these girls always lifts me up! (missing Donna and <br />
Eleanor here)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">46 years old. And only now am I planning nights-out, sleepovers and out-of-town trips with my girls. I feel like a teenager again! Secure in ourselves, we are not afraid to show each other who we really are. We are secure in each other’s love. I am grateful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">For so many years, I kept my guard up with other people. I was cautious of making friends for fear of being judged. Not anymore. I love and feel their love because I, myself, no longer have those judgmental cobwebs in my head. I am ready to trust and am willing to be vulnerable and lean on them for support. No matter how late in my life. ESPECIALLY THIS LATE IN MY LIFE!</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No more solitary emoting! In my 40s, I realized<br />
that I didn't have to carry it all alone. <br />
I have friends!!!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Like I always say, “labia” girls. I’m looking forward to growing old with you!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
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24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-74768016024834184452017-10-09T08:11:00.000-07:002017-10-10T20:06:12.365-07:00Things Midlife taught me, part 1 (because I’m sure I’ll think of more along the way!)<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #454545;">1. <b>Long-term planning is futile.</b> Didn’t I wish that my marriage (marriages :) ) would last forever? I don’t even believe in forever. You live one day at a time and make the most of each day. You don’t wake up everyday and kill yourself working for a goal that will make you happy one day. You make yourself happy, today.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="color: #454545;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Be happy. No matter how short-lived!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">2. <b>Parenting is not easy.</b> I used to blame my parents for not being affectionate. I told myself that I was flawed because I lacked hugs. Here I am now, a parent of a 15-year old girl, and I’m thinking, “if I was anywhere near this, I understand why my parents didn’t want to hug me!”</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">She got the quirky gene so now I understand what my </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">parents </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">went through! It's just a lot tougher because </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">I see so much</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> of </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #454545;"><br /></span><span style="color: #454545;">3. (Related to #2 above) <b>MY PARENTS LOVE/D ME!</b> I grew up feeling like the ugly duckling. I was different. (I was pretty! Hahaha! Seriously…) I was the lost child. The one who gave them the most headaches. They may have rarely shown their love before in traditional ways (they still don’t), but I feel it now. They love me and care for me. I just have to be open to receiving that love.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Gu-COwCwOaOGRsDaqgKkwSudK84ers_jNUkaaQgcRLlS3G1Cr7SWJ0v7gdZD5ScjpZSsZcsFspLaiCXbvG3tSyrvHtMcZP36Cu2BHk3AJ7g-66q_jUhpKDHhdtVqKa_pCp0f467af4Q/s1600/12615677_10153937186899577_2300248857287593807_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="972" data-original-width="583" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Gu-COwCwOaOGRsDaqgKkwSudK84ers_jNUkaaQgcRLlS3G1Cr7SWJ0v7gdZD5ScjpZSsZcsFspLaiCXbvG3tSyrvHtMcZP36Cu2BHk3AJ7g-66q_jUhpKDHhdtVqKa_pCp0f467af4Q/s320/12615677_10153937186899577_2300248857287593807_o.jpg" width="191" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I have learned to accept that Papa's</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">"lumulobo ka na naman, ha?" </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">actually means, "stay healthy, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">my baby girl!" :</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">D</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">4. <b>Motherhood supersedes ALL THINGS.</b> Even your own happiness. The minute my children started expressing their wants- it was Jollibee every time we ate out! Or if we tried planning for a family trip, the answer always used to be “Disneyland!” (Which I dread like crazy because I have vertigo!)</span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #454545; font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But, really, their welfare trumps all things. The minute I had them, “I” was shoved to the back shelf. A mother would never allow herself to be happy at the expense of her children’s happiness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #454545;">4. <b>Being Ms. Congeniality is tiring.</b> I used to be a people-pleaser. I had to be friendly to everyone. I would tiptoe on eggshells so that I wouldn’t offend anyone.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="color: #454545;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #454545;">Well, those days are gone! I know now what I want, what makes me happy, what is worth my time. I take great efforts to nurture friendships that are important to me. Every one else can call me a B (although I’m rarely rude and never unkind).</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="color: #454545;"> </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRXTyAJtS8cC_qzhdEmQ___mXHiRBvQdyZXogeSG3Tk8cPDOP-WuEDQ8fKAcq0YmePHUZKdPC1NZSRdvKPLblAUnLhZ77NimldqHyhezGDMr-4vspif1wO9Kg_G3XtCtaEBVmJfvQw_Eo/s1600/16422841_10155024024769577_2299450221523251236_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRXTyAJtS8cC_qzhdEmQ___mXHiRBvQdyZXogeSG3Tk8cPDOP-WuEDQ8fKAcq0YmePHUZKdPC1NZSRdvKPLblAUnLhZ77NimldqHyhezGDMr-4vspif1wO9Kg_G3XtCtaEBVmJfvQw_Eo/s320/16422841_10155024024769577_2299450221523251236_o.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Though late in life, I developed deep friendships with </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">people </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">who help me stay sane.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #454545;">5. <b>To hell with what everyone thinks of me!</b> I never wore sleeveless shirts most of my life because I knew I had fat arms. Well, those days are over! Global warming demands sleeveless shirts and halter tops!</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="color: #454545;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Seriously, I have loose skin because I lost 70 pounds. I even have stretch marks because I used to be an elephant (though my youngest says I’m a zebra because I have stripes!). But, when you’re 46 and you may die soon, you realize that you want to feel sexy even if you’re not perfect. You want to show some skin finally because you’re not too young that it’s immoral. You’re not too old that it’s disgusting. And, specially because, your husband understands your need to show more skin in your midlife. If not now, then when, right?!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHM0UBOs6B9ux9tLA_oxiP0dXcRKGaXgmeXMYLsQ7OqYxpCx9_sk8EuNDl2_X69INveQTewJzRHU7JKSx2D5vsZnaYKfZMmEVVAA7r_dD6acAeiVfSS4CrMODnNhIqFouZ7a169P0KAwM/s1600/15894772_10154941721699577_6690246331742525166_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="524" data-original-width="552" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHM0UBOs6B9ux9tLA_oxiP0dXcRKGaXgmeXMYLsQ7OqYxpCx9_sk8EuNDl2_X69INveQTewJzRHU7JKSx2D5vsZnaYKfZMmEVVAA7r_dD6acAeiVfSS4CrMODnNhIqFouZ7a169P0KAwM/s320/15894772_10154941721699577_6690246331742525166_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Elephant no more! Now it's "baby elephant"! Hahaha! (I spy</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">stretch marks, cellulite and loose skin.)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">6. <b>I am “Aphrodite!”</b> That’s what my psychiatrist said. She said that, under Jungian theory, I am an Aphrodite. I am naturally friendly and charming. I tend to attract people’s attention and admiration and (hard to believe!) I exude sensuality. (HA!- maybe I should replace my shrink!) So, I say to my husband, it’s not my fault that men (of a certain discount age) look at me stickily. Blame it on Carl Jung!</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The shrink said I was a "Diana," too, but only</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">mildly. I was always meant to be "Aphrodite"!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And, finally for now….</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">7. <b>Life is short</b>. Make the most of each day. Tell people you love that you love them as much as you can. Forgive. Be kind always. Tie loose ends. And- live! Learn new things, love with passion, do good, find your happiness. Try not to die with regrets. We only get one chance at this. :D</span></div>
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Amen.</div>
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24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-29222071114726540912017-10-08T08:03:00.002-07:002017-10-08T08:29:37.628-07:00Hello, darkness, my old friend<div class="p1">
My friends know- I’m an avid Facebook user. I’m on Facebook all the time with memories, my current events, even my diet and exercise. I have a happy, exciting Facebook life. What 95% of my Facebook friends don’t know, however, is how I’ve battled depression for most of my life.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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It started in my teens. I think I was 13, a junior in high school. Like many teenagers, I questioned my life. I self-pitied. I cried about how my family was imperfect and how nobody loved me. By the time I was a senior, I started missing school. I’d tell my parents I wasn’t feeling well when the reality was I just wanted to withdraw from the world.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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For those who have known me (but weren’t close to me) since high school, this would be hard to believe. Even then, I lived the “perfect” life. My family was financially comfortable. I was popular in school. I was in the honors class.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I was president of the Dance Troupe.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>I had many suitors. I had a life many girls envied.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiny3b5whiPF1eVWGJ6g4LVe_9Db_TZwA4396jOzQUWLrwe-Ji8ftTWn6yCG4au7wLIsFHq8t6Eh_1dDhjwP_OxpZde0rH21oA60k7qdXdr23kK8VN0qFyhSuXoGs0qgOGie2LRwR41f9A/s1600/10001020_10152346643584577_1356284905_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1025" data-original-width="1462" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiny3b5whiPF1eVWGJ6g4LVe_9Db_TZwA4396jOzQUWLrwe-Ji8ftTWn6yCG4au7wLIsFHq8t6Eh_1dDhjwP_OxpZde0rH21oA60k7qdXdr23kK8VN0qFyhSuXoGs0qgOGie2LRwR41f9A/s320/10001020_10152346643584577_1356284905_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was 13 when my depression started. I was popular. I was an<br />
honors student. I was talented :D, but I was unhappy.</td></tr>
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I hid it well. (I still do.)</div>
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Eventually my close friends noticed. I almost did not get a silver medal for my high school graduation (boo-hoo, but it was a big deal for me and my family). I got into a much-coveted pre-medicine course in the University of the Philippines (UP) but decided to shift to another course after two years. Then- I decided to pack up and move to another UP campus after I fell in love with a boy who lived in Los Banos (LB), Laguna.</div>
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I continued my perfect life in LB. I was popular and admired. But it was there that I started to overdose on over-the-counter drugs just to numb my emotions. Whenever I would get into my crying spells (that last for up to 6 hours), I would feel so desperate to make the pain stop that I would drink 4 or more Bonamines (Meclizine HCl) at a time. It wasn’t because I wanted to die. It was because I just needed the pain to stop. I wanted to stop crying. My boyfriend even had to get me through a couple of vomiting sessions to expel the Bonamine out of me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjkIvgHc-1mxVkbCzhtzdfTSpOMhnqgo8rmHhyphenhypheniv9KUq2wY1NSGTbp7x1UcI3-Jlx9Sayf_pKnDs_n65bzjArmpVIaThWD8EBbZxFt7BAyJXu4Aqm8a30w6Pq8EABnz8jT_KKXpjxGiM/s1600/1980099_10152333621964577_73366892_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1182" data-original-width="853" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKjkIvgHc-1mxVkbCzhtzdfTSpOMhnqgo8rmHhyphenhypheniv9KUq2wY1NSGTbp7x1UcI3-Jlx9Sayf_pKnDs_n65bzjArmpVIaThWD8EBbZxFt7BAyJXu4Aqm8a30w6Pq8EABnz8jT_KKXpjxGiM/s320/1980099_10152333621964577_73366892_o.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pregnant bride at 20. I actually believed that<br />
I finally had my "happy ending."</td></tr>
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In LB, I started skipping classes, went on prolonged Leaves of Absence, and got pregnant. I married him, that boy I moved to LB for. The marriage, the baby, meant I could start anew. I would finally be happy and live a normal life. But that was short-lived. At 25, I realized that there were no happily-ever-afters after marriage. I separated from my first husband and launched myself into a world of drinking and smoking to once again help me survive the pain.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKG22sgPYFKX06n39rXxzkPCsYuDGSPDKj5h8I1mlTow5-KdqV0c8DRVswbrZu3qJr869bJ7vsO6SF7CTQQ9JyprMviilg5FbOucYu1Dwl_2TprcVDGINkgFImDMTe80EATCTwDECAQl0/s1600/599991_10151098893799577_715162490_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKG22sgPYFKX06n39rXxzkPCsYuDGSPDKj5h8I1mlTow5-KdqV0c8DRVswbrZu3qJr869bJ7vsO6SF7CTQQ9JyprMviilg5FbOucYu1Dwl_2TprcVDGINkgFImDMTe80EATCTwDECAQl0/s1600/599991_10151098893799577_715162490_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I called my eldest, Paolo, "my hero" because he<br />
helped me forget about my depression. </td></tr>
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You get the point. I was always depressed. If I wasn’t crying, I was getting myself into situations that were harmful- smoking two packs a day, relationships with scary men, drunk-driving. I was always the belle of the ball, the clown, the life of the party. (That is, whenever I did go to a party, which was so rare because I didn’t like social situations.) I looked happy and full of life. If only to hide the yearning to die that was inside.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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When I was 30, I married my high school sweetheart. For me it was a fairy tale ending to my tumultuous life. And, just like with my first marriage, my second wedding was my fresh start. And to give myself, my husband and my family credit, I was happy for many years. I stopped drinking and smoking. I had my life figured out- I was mother and wife. I did it well and I was happy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKlELp-5_NvgNzV8OBq4FZUdEgwkJDBgsYYWgrg-ZXIOm8vhCos7Z6M6UD-tMVN71L1SXZad7IXLzlI9evumUq6Rm_gh-RXNQhWxqYEOYsAw1w9z5V5TDl_SId6z-2UwAe4zjc9lpt77E/s1600/10557620_10152587848759577_865310845973246293_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="673" data-original-width="536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKlELp-5_NvgNzV8OBq4FZUdEgwkJDBgsYYWgrg-ZXIOm8vhCos7Z6M6UD-tMVN71L1SXZad7IXLzlI9evumUq6Rm_gh-RXNQhWxqYEOYsAw1w9z5V5TDl_SId6z-2UwAe4zjc9lpt77E/s320/10557620_10152587848759577_865310845973246293_o.jpg" width="254" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I believed my second chance at marriage would<br />
stop the depression. </td></tr>
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Fast-forward to 42 years old- I started feeling that I was failing as a mother and was not happy as a wife. So, I was depressed again. The most obvious manifestation was the alcoholism. What started out as social drinking of mojitos became nightly rituals of red wine sometimes up to a bottle per night. I knew I was in deep trouble when I started ordering alcoholic drinks every time I’d eat in a restaurant. Mojitos with my pizza, Cabernet Sauvignon with my steak, sake with my tonkatsu. There was a time I even had to have a mimosa with my breakfast tapsilog!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzr6y4R1TcVxr7palvXqkC_6V47GSizGMh_i5sQUgTzPbsfYB0nHh4DIO6Zd1ekNtG9wFtAsFYZwbuxqtH-Llq6wAuamoumFXM6uvih6o2eXgP9xEheLqH-foYf8K7GGVtJexJcJzFpk/s1600/10258619_10152392864804577_7397651498350439487_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1080" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzr6y4R1TcVxr7palvXqkC_6V47GSizGMh_i5sQUgTzPbsfYB0nHh4DIO6Zd1ekNtG9wFtAsFYZwbuxqtH-Llq6wAuamoumFXM6uvih6o2eXgP9xEheLqH-foYf8K7GGVtJexJcJzFpk/s320/10258619_10152392864804577_7397651498350439487_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was a 2pm mojito. Last year, there was no right time to<br />
grab a drink. It was happy hour every time!</td></tr>
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It got so bad a few years ago, that I felt that I was going to die of alcohol intoxication. Lying and crying on a couch in a Napa (for wine-tasting, of course) hotel with my husband sound asleep on the bed a few feet away, I felt myself spinning. I was spinning, gasping for breath and nauseous all at once. I was so scared that I would die that night. I didn’t, of course, but that episode scared me. It signaled that my depression was spinning out of control. I needed help.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3Am7Udxib7CAJF8Y_WFnSWEJgWWB9WrlP8rS6j3paTzKAZJg8xJCPfxmxfjzuABnvyVBYhNWWLYj9XlyWwZ1lhfo1bFiu6PiDO3DUKzkSAYC-Tx8hyd2yCSeWV1b0cuDQTySN0Agl9w/s1600/13083180_10154190218644577_2636466092927093797_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="718" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil3Am7Udxib7CAJF8Y_WFnSWEJgWWB9WrlP8rS6j3paTzKAZJg8xJCPfxmxfjzuABnvyVBYhNWWLYj9XlyWwZ1lhfo1bFiu6PiDO3DUKzkSAYC-Tx8hyd2yCSeWV1b0cuDQTySN0Agl9w/s320/13083180_10154190218644577_2636466092927093797_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I loved Napa for obvious reasons!</td></tr>
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My near-death episode taught me that no matter how many hobbies and skills I indulged in, no matter how much I traveled around the world, no matter how pretty or thin I was, no matter how many prayers I prayed, nothing was fixing my depression. I used to think it was a stage- adolescence, postpartum, now midlife. But all those years, even when the disease was dormant, I could always feel it like a dark, heavy cloak on my shoulders, just waiting to engulf me again.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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It was merely a coincidence that I found my psychiatrist. She shared an office with my son’s doctor. Without knowing her or what her approach was, I booked an appointment immediately. In my 33 years of depression, this was the first time I was willing to address it medically. And I’m glad I did.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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It appears that my latest episodes were actually another depression stage for me (and many women). I am premenopausal and, with hormones fluctuating, I am now again vulnerable to emotional upheavals.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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The psychiatrist gave me a prescription for mood stabilizers, but I call them “anti-depressants.” And although at the start I was extremely skeptical (even judgmental) of the power of these medicines, their effectiveness in my life is proof that my depression was chemical. With one pill a day, I get through 24 hours without an emotional meltdown (usually :) ).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmN-oaDhaBZk3j0a3wcZ0ccDgRwY-PyLldQMMuf6f6CG6K7kNMIcGRfTp5MJXts4-GMSgeFyhTOnGTR8E9PED-3O78zSArgJE4z4xmnW0xC2geOPa8ll7U9LiMmq4lRCVT6waNTDeSQI/s1600/11174331_10153280692369577_9019890829273456126_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="987" data-original-width="712" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmN-oaDhaBZk3j0a3wcZ0ccDgRwY-PyLldQMMuf6f6CG6K7kNMIcGRfTp5MJXts4-GMSgeFyhTOnGTR8E9PED-3O78zSArgJE4z4xmnW0xC2geOPa8ll7U9LiMmq4lRCVT6waNTDeSQI/s320/11174331_10153280692369577_9019890829273456126_o.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I am now painting, sewing, spinning, learning<br />
Italian. I try to keep busy and appreciate the <br />
stability my medicine brings.</td></tr>
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When long ago I would cry buckets and hide under the sheets because, maybe, the driver couldn’t pick me up on time (it was that bad!), I have recently even surprised my husband who said, “the medicine is working, no? When Ton (our son with autism) was having a meltdown, you just sat there and said, “it’s okay. It happens.” Long ago you would have cried for hours, too.” Or, a week after we arrived from Paris (where I forgot to bring my medicine), back home in Manila my husband said, “are you drinking your meds again?” I nodded. “Good,” he continued, “you were super grumpy in Paris!”</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZDO76dVVJYp_Va5e0HGqLMmtwXyJpX_H28NdCehl_dTt7iqbRZLb24oObeUh9CCGazEtPiNpXH5uYZRBwvA6yXXoz2MHXjqzYokgEksT3zPEbgdXJRH0gHpo9Gktkzr86myrsZ6IaIM/s1600/collage-2017-10-08+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="516" data-original-width="765" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZDO76dVVJYp_Va5e0HGqLMmtwXyJpX_H28NdCehl_dTt7iqbRZLb24oObeUh9CCGazEtPiNpXH5uYZRBwvA6yXXoz2MHXjqzYokgEksT3zPEbgdXJRH0gHpo9Gktkzr86myrsZ6IaIM/s320/collage-2017-10-08+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My husband said I was grumpy in Paris. I beg to disagree.<br />
I was silly-crazy half of the time!</td></tr>
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I haven’t turned into stone. I’m still the crazy, silly, socially-happy ME. I still get sad but it’s a nice feeling to not cry every time I feel lonely. Sadness is no longer a vortex that draws me into depths of depression; of despair, isolation, pain and desperation. It has now become just this heavy pit In my heart that I carry. Then it passes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoebZstxUhcpneC-dZK6N_boxrmkD9jtOh4C1lm2CI6lHZWtoKI30MvWMpEdiD9ybJVlPY4AcQIZy-pWuOMD3M3MbdTKm8ywm-pRYQJ92iPBNEeUhrEZwBg6M_8FHPzufbeB9ARreeX5U/s1600/15894649_10154955874054577_5693711310925922720_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="690" data-original-width="510" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoebZstxUhcpneC-dZK6N_boxrmkD9jtOh4C1lm2CI6lHZWtoKI30MvWMpEdiD9ybJVlPY4AcQIZy-pWuOMD3M3MbdTKm8ywm-pRYQJ92iPBNEeUhrEZwBg6M_8FHPzufbeB9ARreeX5U/s320/15894649_10154955874054577_5693711310925922720_n.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Typical ME- humiliating myself in public!<br />
(Easier done in a foreign country, by the way.<br />
This was in Portugal!)</td></tr>
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I don’t know how long this current depressive stage will last. My psychiatrist says that I should use this stable time to learn new things, engage in various activities, find diversions, build tools to help strengthen my own ability to handle the depression. So that, one day, I won’t need the meds anymore.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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I don’t think there’s a cure for my depression, really. I’m just wired this way. It’s part of my quirky, silly, friendly makeup. But- with the help of my psychiatrist, “quirky” no longer means that I am crying every night wanting to die. Nowadays, Quirky wakes up every morning, with new hopes for a better day!<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC5YWJEN63ILTTqP_UZHHh6zi742acGuaqeCJ_GYuaxzfbnYgx-brl_ARBeLLqLtQynkeke7aDZOnmKHVmW790Oz1mXwHjYJ0nNwOY22CLFrkVkziwUW8113mLM_qPNlS7ISghYq-oigg/s1600/20292678_10155598551654577_8952358183041991420_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC5YWJEN63ILTTqP_UZHHh6zi742acGuaqeCJ_GYuaxzfbnYgx-brl_ARBeLLqLtQynkeke7aDZOnmKHVmW790Oz1mXwHjYJ0nNwOY22CLFrkVkziwUW8113mLM_qPNlS7ISghYq-oigg/s320/20292678_10155598551654577_8952358183041991420_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One day at a time...</td></tr>
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</style>24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-57432548878565340352017-05-20T06:14:00.001-07:002017-05-21T00:35:46.283-07:00Graduation Day<div class="p1">
I love happy endings; maybe because they're so rare. Four years ago, I started helping someone dear to me financially. While to me it was "just money," little did I foresee how it would lead to a beautiful, new beginning- for a family and for me. </div>
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Last April, Mely Arbo graduated from college with a degree in education. She is 32 years old, married, with a 13-year old daughter. She was our first college scholar. </div>
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Mely's college journey began accidentally. Her college dream, however, was a longing she kept since she graduated from high school. She was working for us part time as a <i>yaya</i> (nanny) to augment her husband’s income as a construction worker. During one of our chats (I have these often with my yayas), she told me how sad she was when her parents couldn’t afford to send her to college after high school. “<i>Ano bang pangarap mo? </i>(What was your dream?),” I said. “<i>Gusto ko talagang maging teacher. </i>(I really wanted to be a teacher.),” she smiled with watery eyes. Right then and there I told her to look into it. To look for universities in her province of Camarines Sur that offered degrees in Education. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZrsnCqZub-fFSiEo5ah6lPvEG4MEzV-vhM-cNBEtKMMzOgqtzx4OZt5vUqzSGwdVvDqKWjnHTnec5cF7Eocahp78nrwue_B6Mn_DSKWVs9w7rjWuUKXAAiQpQcPbPFw5RNtkxsE2Bn8/s1600/554441_10150840890679577_996648156_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcZrsnCqZub-fFSiEo5ah6lPvEG4MEzV-vhM-cNBEtKMMzOgqtzx4OZt5vUqzSGwdVvDqKWjnHTnec5cF7Eocahp78nrwue_B6Mn_DSKWVs9w7rjWuUKXAAiQpQcPbPFw5RNtkxsE2Bn8/s320/554441_10150840890679577_996648156_n.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In 2010, Mely was Tessa's yaya.</td></tr>
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The next few days she was online, researching. “<i>Wag na ‘te, ang mahal! </i>(Never mind, it’s too expensive!)” she said with sadness. I looked at the website. It said, “tuition per semester- around P 8000.” I was not sure if my husband would approve of the added expense in our already-inflated household budget but I said, “<i>basta mag-apply ka. Pag nakapasok ka, pag-usapan natin.</i> (Just apply. If you get accepted, let’s talk again.)” I said reassuringly.</div>
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Her tuition did average 7000 pesos but there were some semesters when she got into the Dean’s list which meant a tuition discount. Her monthly allowance was P 1000 with increases often at semester’s end when she would need more for projects or her thesis. At P 8000 per semester for tuition and P1000 per month allowance, the cost to send Mely to college (don’t worry, <i>Mely, di kita sinisingil </i>(I'm not charging you), hahaha!) was around P 120,000. A small price to pay to witness a dream fulfilled. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsu-EIJe8z2to69urPhKu2gwe7nFiz8dI2r7XvTrG4LzV3b3UGcztq7thHBtnTiQNzJ4sVOr_OhNun66zeHSEpOe1stiuoxUOP-DdJlFgcn38flKYfClv1Htfs0g5cVddx8hODZAeHEw4/s1600/1502560_1549592568628638_2182154874037361097_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsu-EIJe8z2to69urPhKu2gwe7nFiz8dI2r7XvTrG4LzV3b3UGcztq7thHBtnTiQNzJ4sVOr_OhNun66zeHSEpOe1stiuoxUOP-DdJlFgcn38flKYfClv1Htfs0g5cVddx8hODZAeHEw4/s320/1502560_1549592568628638_2182154874037361097_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">School field trip to Albay</td></tr>
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After graduation, she thanked me profusely. Even her relatives expressed their thanks to my family for supporting Mely’s dream. And although I was touched by their gratitude, all I really felt was the pride of a mother. </div>
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Our eldest child, Paolo, graduated from SUNY Binghamton two years ago. And even if my husband and I only contributed partly to his college expenses, when he went onstage that day to receive his diploma, I wasn’t computing how much we spent to help him graduate. All we felt was pride and happiness. He made it! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSYpkZzV-Lt7mugufwK6WRaFv3RQPPXB6bl8oegwLbqTVPIWSRHf3HeY0vzF80FWI5bhmblO3Rp2mKJL_VzsTIZa9xh_vpNA4qaG2cp6xGTYCmWVlH6cMMngTuz9oR9phBqSRLZ2eCbs/s1600/11262499_10153361997199577_6239375896742316715_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoSYpkZzV-Lt7mugufwK6WRaFv3RQPPXB6bl8oegwLbqTVPIWSRHf3HeY0vzF80FWI5bhmblO3Rp2mKJL_VzsTIZa9xh_vpNA4qaG2cp6xGTYCmWVlH6cMMngTuz9oR9phBqSRLZ2eCbs/s320/11262499_10153361997199577_6239375896742316715_n.jpg" width="311" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Proud parents with the graduate</td></tr>
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And Mely made it! My pride for Mely doesn’t come from my personal satisfaction that my money helped her finish school. Yes, she might not have even considered going to college if not for the assurance that someone would shoulder a huge portion of the expenses until her graduation. Mely’s achievement is that she fulfilled her childhood dream despite the odds. </div>
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I remember when I was a college student and new mother at the same time. It wasn’t easy. But I was lucky. I had my family to support me in caring for and paying for the needs of my baby. I drove a car to school. I had a yaya. My ex-husband and I were never hungry or needing of anything because we were financially dependent on our parents. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOT06zeBkbqrXjACSS6FRFi1f90mViB8qljoPkE2gdbCgU2jetNVeJHHDcTV13mYdp87HHNM1pf6sUCL6K24wQ31rb5mRXd1_5r4f7SXq5FBtq3t1IdJYoaIJxGXq_O8vo_EKqHNLXmBw/s1600/1918327_1375037888450_6826535_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOT06zeBkbqrXjACSS6FRFi1f90mViB8qljoPkE2gdbCgU2jetNVeJHHDcTV13mYdp87HHNM1pf6sUCL6K24wQ31rb5mRXd1_5r4f7SXq5FBtq3t1IdJYoaIJxGXq_O8vo_EKqHNLXmBw/s320/1918327_1375037888450_6826535_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I used to bring Paolo (green cap) to school with me <br />
(above Paolo, brown headband) in between classes.</td></tr>
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But Mely’s life is different. Prior to college, she was a homemaker; her husband the sole source of family income. She cared for her pre-teenage daughter full time. So for her to dare to break the mold, for her to deviate from the story of every married woman in her barrio; THAT took courage. She was steadfast and stubborn. She knew what she wanted. She knew this might be her only chance to get it. So she dove in and never looked back. </div>
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I often wondered about Mely's husband, Choy. What I realized eventually is that Mely’s graduation is her husband’s achievement too. In fact, in a country where most women accept their roles to stay home and abandon their personal aspirations, he may have given the biggest sacrifice. Most Filipino men (especially in rural farming areas) would have thought, “<i>bakit pa? 9 years na tayong kasal. Nagtratrabaho naman ako. Ang lugar ng babae ay sa bahay.</i> (What for? We’ve been married nine years. I work and provide. A woman’s place is in the home.)” But not Choy. </div>
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He put his support behind her. He ignored the macho man inside that said that his wife should be happy just being a wife and mother. He had to adjust to the new person his wife was becoming because she was being exposed to other people and was beginning to care for her appearance. He had to be brave too. It took a lot of security for him to trust that a smarter, more attractive, college graduate Mely would still love him and never leave him. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ61BMo3i846-gUxcVQCrpaLfYBOtyPS1t-iKmj8P-X8Db4fqwwEioKgUvt36aCCCwwcTLU6YDao-4udA8q8QUsdWzW4qUIF_puwfw46_pTOStkYpTo5w2vwxf5-DDQH2MBNLgTowjitw/s1600/18033076_1287570671312536_2288825057742983014_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ61BMo3i846-gUxcVQCrpaLfYBOtyPS1t-iKmj8P-X8Db4fqwwEioKgUvt36aCCCwwcTLU6YDao-4udA8q8QUsdWzW4qUIF_puwfw46_pTOStkYpTo5w2vwxf5-DDQH2MBNLgTowjitw/s320/18033076_1287570671312536_2288825057742983014_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The proud husband with the graduate</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Mely’s story is not only a success story. It is also a love story. Mely found her passion. She listened to her inner voice. She became empowered. But it took a loving, selfless man like Choy to help her succeed. And without intending it to be, it has also become their labor of love for their daughter, Dimples. She now sees a possibility she may not have seen in her clan before. Her own mother braved many odds to get a college degree. In her head she now knows that she can too. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW9_NZtP_e6Yebb6SJsLyVZp9ze_Q_hRnvcokMVCne0QeViteATz6oXICrrVDFILuARnXlKWbvkvRkt3Ak5GRrAvw4n7LAv7FJww8aGg9R6877oS3d2lESCGIDV8feZeZaF9a-XX_kugA/s1600/18033531_1287570347979235_8030800212325406428_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW9_NZtP_e6Yebb6SJsLyVZp9ze_Q_hRnvcokMVCne0QeViteATz6oXICrrVDFILuARnXlKWbvkvRkt3Ak5GRrAvw4n7LAv7FJww8aGg9R6877oS3d2lESCGIDV8feZeZaF9a-XX_kugA/s320/18033531_1287570347979235_8030800212325406428_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dimples pretends to be the college graduate.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I now have two more yayas who are going to college. I know mine is not a grand scholarship program. I really don’t care. And I write about it not to brag. I just want it known that it does not take much to help someone out; to help them achieve their dreams and change their lives forever. It doesn’t take a lot from us. But it will mean a lot for them, their families, children and community.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
My happy ending in all of this? I may be irrelevant in the greater scheme of this country’s politics and development. But I found out how to make a difference- by empowering women in the provinces who might not have opportunities to fulfill their dreams. I want them to know that there is a chance to have a life aside from getting married and having children. If they want it. I want them to have options. I want them to know, that no matter what their age, or background, or marital status- it's never to late to make their dreams a reality.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwde5QXVtzNUB5Exx9jlvAeI6KYxPG01Iod7K6RJ8rO2dtXItB2lFbpuu57nDd88_pGWLOkXsnanhRbLEVBqisNqY5iNzzL_6mkW9X8zJlKj5r9wdQ6Eq7pU3s6iL4kAE9oWRqwRRfNwM/s1600/162767_10150092456204577_196065_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwde5QXVtzNUB5Exx9jlvAeI6KYxPG01Iod7K6RJ8rO2dtXItB2lFbpuu57nDd88_pGWLOkXsnanhRbLEVBqisNqY5iNzzL_6mkW9X8zJlKj5r9wdQ6Eq7pU3s6iL4kAE9oWRqwRRfNwM/s320/162767_10150092456204577_196065_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My (in the middle) college graduation, 1994, eight years in the<br />
making; earning a husband and baby along the way</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</style>24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-15197380714198229132016-05-08T16:40:00.001-07:002016-05-09T02:38:50.183-07:00My Father's Mother's Day<div class="p1">
It was mother’s day but, like most of our family gatherings, he was the star. Papa suddenly sat across my sister and I at our restaurant table and said, “I want to talk to both of you.”</div>
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<div class="p1">
In my teens, those words would have sent me into panic. “What did I do this time?” I’d fear. In my mid-forties I’ve begun to find amusement in my father’s need for his children to listen. “Uh-oh! What funny, insensitive, racist, sexist comment will he say this time?” I thought, smiling, as he sat down across me.</div>
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<div class="p1">
You see, when we were growing up, Papa ruled our worlds. Like the king of the house that he was, he was seen as regal, untouchable and, sadly, distant. He barely spoke to any of us. We rarely heard any of his stories- about his day at work, about people he met, about himself and his feelings. Oh, but when he spoke, we shuddered with fear. We braced ourselves for the harshest words and our own buckets of tears. He never needed to be heard by his children. He would speak. Whether we listened or not was irrelevant, what mattered was that he was able to unleash his anger or disappointment at what we did or did not do.</div>
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<div class="p1">
Now that he is an old man, he is physically smaller, weaker and fragile. He no longer seems daunting or as regal. Maybe that is why I now see the humanity in his words. Why I listen intently and why, though rarely, I speak up.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
“Look, guys. One day I will lose my eyesight and no longer be able to stare at the beautiful legs of women passing by but at least I got to see many legs in my lifetime” There they were (I smiled a big smile) his sexist opening sentence. “Or maybe even if you're blind, you’ll keep looking and think all legs are beautiful!” I blurted out, surprised at myself for cracking a joke in front of my father. “<i>Wag naman</i> (hopefully not)!” he laughed.</div>
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<div class="p1">
“Why are you guys so afraid of the elections?” he said, actually expecting a reply from us. “It’s scary,” <i>Ate</i> (big sister) said. “You were there during martial law,” I answered, “you knew how scary it was,” I added. “Yeah, I know. But you see? It made us all tougher. (To me) It will make your kids tougher.” I said, “I understand, but my children are young and I don’t want them to grow up in an atmosphere of fear, silence and lack of freedoms.” He could have given a rebuttal or smirked at my point but to my surprise, the once mighty, invincible king merely said, “you’re right.” </div>
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<div class="p1">
“I’m so proud of you, girls, you know. I tell my friends that in our family <i>walang umuutang sa amin</i> (no one borrows money from us parents). I tell them, “they’re all smart and have made great lives for themselves. They don’t need our money and they’re too proud to ask even if they did.”” My jaw dropped. Papa was praising us. In a language that mattered so much to my father when we were growing up, the language of money, he saw us as great and praise-worthy. Then I said to him, “me, I’m proud to tell my friends that I don’t need to support my aging parents. That my parents don’t need to ask money from their kids. Not many of my friends can say that.” He patted my back, I patted his (figuratively speaking, of course). </div>
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<div class="p1">
Tell me twenty, even ten, years ago that I would have conversations like this with my father and I would have smirked. Papa never talked WITH me. He talked TO me. He talked, I listened and I often cried. We just never had that relationship that you see in "Father of the Bride" movies. We didn’t play basketball together. I never ran to him during heartbreak. I didn’t want him around to comfort me during the delivery of my babies. He was not that kind of father to me. </div>
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<div class="p1">
What happened? What changed? My guess is old age and the inevitability of death. “I’m getting ready to move on. I can’t bring these all with me when I go,” he said. “In the end, all you have is yourself. You fix things. Fix relationships. You ready yourself to meet your god.” I didn’t feel it yesterday but I’m teary-eyed now. Papa’s change of attitude, the fact that he’s suddenly become human, these are his ways of slowly saying goodbye. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
So, Papa, I promise to listen to all your sexist, racist, everyone’s-a-jerk anecdotes. If I sift hard enough through the words, I’ll hear your words of wisdom. I’ll hear your words of praise. But mostly, I’ll finally hear your words of love.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwf_zCVTZlWi0-rbfYToENbLqxkXOSv8eRk0xRKEdx7gtpyP6vEIWRIb74yVIa448GPfbWzbNWI0dUO791LJzFEkIYTKeuHacDWZ8AWyxMVqszWDKNbE5r0Gw4mk45UBynD7DIY24xWlg/s1600/11233179_10153365658119577_7824192788019821190_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwf_zCVTZlWi0-rbfYToENbLqxkXOSv8eRk0xRKEdx7gtpyP6vEIWRIb74yVIa448GPfbWzbNWI0dUO791LJzFEkIYTKeuHacDWZ8AWyxMVqszWDKNbE5r0Gw4mk45UBynD7DIY24xWlg/s1600/11233179_10153365658119577_7824192788019821190_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was difficult to find photos of me and Papa.<br />
I realized it's only recently that I've been<br />
comfortable standing/sitting near him for photos.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
During a discussion on marriage, Ate said marriage is easier when you marry at an older age like she did. “Look at you (to Papa), you married in your twenties (referring to my parents’ challenging and often difficult marriage), or Aya who first married when she was 20. It’s better when you marry older because you already know yourself better.” To Ate, Papa asked, “do you know yourself?” “YES!” my sister said proudly. “I don’t,” I blurted out. And the moment I said it, I saw the words hanging in the air and I wanted to pull them back into my mouth. I knew I was going to get into trouble. I knew Papa was going to preach. </div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
Instead, Papa looked at me, smiled and said, “good!" "You know why?” he continued, “once you know yourself…” Then I interrupted him, “you’re ready to die.” He gave me the biggest smile. I emotionally shrunk to my thirteen-year old self. Then he said, “correct! You’re learning, kid!” Those words moved across the table and gave me an imaginary "Father of the Bride”-kind of hug. </div>
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<div class="p1">
When we were young, Papa used to say that he wanted his kids to fight over the family business and whatever would be left for us. That was the kind of father he was. Yesterday, I realized that no matter how late in his life, I am grateful for the father he has become. Here’s to many more years of craziness, wisdom and love, Steve Martin. Maybe next week we can start playing basketball.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8OHH9Vw5Nkvp6njt6EW0lmyEcWM9caxkIVSIHvjO5vvD7ivoSaU-9i8DuTL7UJO1JCMhFrWsTB_xj5sKtaBtoKWAvODt7ZUPgmajzrcH9WB3nRG27Jb_zS7SZiC5peaf57aShRHFuEo/s1600/gabby%2527s+3rd+qtr+grades.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip8OHH9Vw5Nkvp6njt6EW0lmyEcWM9caxkIVSIHvjO5vvD7ivoSaU-9i8DuTL7UJO1JCMhFrWsTB_xj5sKtaBtoKWAvODt7ZUPgmajzrcH9WB3nRG27Jb_zS7SZiC5peaf57aShRHFuEo/s320/gabby%2527s+3rd+qtr+grades.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Father of the bride indeed!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-45264735098233980702016-01-15T06:16:00.001-08:002016-01-15T06:18:38.470-08:00Delayed gratification<div class="p1">
They never said much. They never told me. Until I turned 45. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJdtShrxeJur4plv3EZkKlt1xeZeIIq63L2epzqFscqPAHdfgdnnZyxvpaUxbrOCKrR3cEFRwOHZXc7Gys3vLwLdsNmbxk9q2mlhtA9Hzv2iireCx1CQ_6zFTAhXkJzjH3loeFzRhatA/s1600/12493661_10153901762334577_3414618912009350541_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJdtShrxeJur4plv3EZkKlt1xeZeIIq63L2epzqFscqPAHdfgdnnZyxvpaUxbrOCKrR3cEFRwOHZXc7Gys3vLwLdsNmbxk9q2mlhtA9Hzv2iireCx1CQ_6zFTAhXkJzjH3loeFzRhatA/s320/12493661_10153901762334577_3414618912009350541_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celebrating 45 with my T n' T</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="p1">
Today I celebrate my 45th birthday. And though I said I’d be smarter in my 40s, I realized that I was not necessarily “smarter.” More open, maybe. More accepting. More forgiving. But not smarter. Because there is still so much more to learn. For decades, I blamed everyone. My parents, my ex-husband, all the bad men, myself. Then today, it came. </div>
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I’ve always been a sucker for delayed gratification- peeling all of the “butong pakwan” (melon seeds) and then eating a whole bunch of 40 seeds or so in one sitting, eating all the yucky food before my favorites, doing the toughest workouts before the more fun ones (the list goes on). Maybe it wasn’t a surprise, then, that on my 45th birthday, when I was still feeling a bit uncertain, undesirable, undefined, it came. A message from my mother.</div>
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<div class="p1">
"I can’t believe you’re 45! Wasn’t it only a decade ago when we welcomed a 7.5 lb bundle of joy with a head of thick, wavy hair and more long hair on her tiny arms? Wasn’t it just 5 years ago when she turned into a perky, frisky and flirty little girl who could do ballet, the hula and every new craze on the dance floor? Wasn’t it only two years ago when she became the prettiest, smartest and most popular belle of the Masci campus? Wasn’t it just a year ago when she suddenly transformed into a rebellious, secretive drama queen battling her puberty hormones? And wasn’t it all too soon after when she presented us with her own bundle of joy, who was much loved all around and grew up to be a fine, accomplished and productive young man? And wasn’t it after a long while that she was blessed with a second chance at love and happiness when she rekindled an old flame who, thankfully, was a remarkable guy who adored her and provided the perfect foil to her mercurial temperament? And wasn’t it soon enough that, together, they gave us three more perfect grandchildren, who we can never have enough of.</div>
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It’s been a challenging but fulfilling journey for our middle child. Happy Birthday, our dearest Aya! We love u so much - Papa & Mama.”</div>
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<div class="p1">
Sometimes, you wait and wait and wait (and cry a whole lot). Then, one day, it just comes. And though at 45 I’m all wrinkly and old and angst is no longer appropriate, I am thankful. And relieved. </div>
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<div class="p1">
I read this and I realize how they did care and love all those years. It truly wasn’t easy for them. I really was quite a handful. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizM-TAr4QLhFHWdiA_TCm0uW1-teGXBYtrbvJULSGc1zQHpuRsUAUhk3J8ZxGbUFqyf1TEjDXEPR5kYiJQp03nY3BPy0yN4Rg5o5HomnO6yt75SjyCE3ES6-GT3zgir4E7GvKgNNRLd4/s1600/12191240_10153754950429577_6027030990646910287_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizM-TAr4QLhFHWdiA_TCm0uW1-teGXBYtrbvJULSGc1zQHpuRsUAUhk3J8ZxGbUFqyf1TEjDXEPR5kYiJQp03nY3BPy0yN4Rg5o5HomnO6yt75SjyCE3ES6-GT3zgir4E7GvKgNNRLd4/s320/12191240_10153754950429577_6027030990646910287_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I did get pregnant and married at 20. As a parent I now realize<br />
how tough that may have been for mine.<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So I forgave. Today, I forgave. It wasn’t easy for you. I wasn’t easy for you. But the fact that you paid attention to me, saw me grow up, appreciated my talents. That is enough. You may not have shown it, nor did you say much. But you did today.<br />
<br />
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<div class="p2">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZMYCkHyEUa7a3nvGE7ca5dDx6KX85iNjuEpRiKOB6G86tBPeT7B9KjOe6xioSjZPaOQqPOqfQ6Q5pPTj1Op-2AXKFw9LcaB0A1GDvCdDnYNJmF2d0Vabyhbn21DvFUV_yCoz5eF_2Svs/s1600/10400901_24405453329_7851_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZMYCkHyEUa7a3nvGE7ca5dDx6KX85iNjuEpRiKOB6G86tBPeT7B9KjOe6xioSjZPaOQqPOqfQ6Q5pPTj1Op-2AXKFw9LcaB0A1GDvCdDnYNJmF2d0Vabyhbn21DvFUV_yCoz5eF_2Svs/s320/10400901_24405453329_7851_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Middle child. Always feeling "incomplete." Hopefully less, <br />
after today.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
So thank you, folks. I was not invisible, after all. I was special in my own way, after all. I was worthy, after all. After 45 years. I know. </div>
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(Now to clear the rest of the cobwebs in my mind…)</div>
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24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-12611208260865648132015-12-25T08:55:00.000-08:002015-12-25T09:45:59.274-08:00Fathers<div class="p1">
“Are you gaining weight again?” my father asked last night, before Christmas eve mass. I was taken aback. I was suddenly 18 again when he said, “<i>tumataba ka na, mukha ka ng balyena</i> (you’re getting fat, you’re starting to look like a whale).” A sudden sadness filled my heart. Once again, I disappointed Papa. Once again, I was not good enough.</div>
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<div class="p1">
My husband asked me in the morning of December 24, as I was stressing out and panicking over the Christmas feast that I was hosting for the family in my home, “why did you say you’d host <i>Noche Buena </i>(Christmas eve dinner)? Maybe you should have said that <i>Ate</i> (older sister) should take care of it so you don’t stress out like this?” I said, "you know Ate’s busy and can’t handle this. Besides, this is the only thing I CAN do. This is the only way I am appreciated by them.” </div>
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<div class="p1">
All my life, I always felt like I was the least favorite of all siblings. Call it the "middle child syndrome," but I’ve always been very sensitive when it came to my parents’ opinions of me. In my 40s, I started to accept the truth- that I was not and will never be the favorite. That they were proud of my other siblings, but not of me. But that it was okay because I knew they loved me in their own strange way.</div>
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<div class="p1">
I can’t blame them, really. I got pregnant and married while in college, separated with my first husband after five years then had a string of awful relationships. I even lost custody of my eldest child to my ex-in laws because I was involved with a scary man. </div>
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<div class="p1">
I’ve never been an achiever. It took me eight years to finish college. When I finally did, I had brief stints of employment, never lasting more than two years anywhere. I started my MBA but after two years into it I just quit. And what do I do now? Nothing really. I am a homemaker- I paint, I sew, I do my crafts, I take care of the kids, and I’m not always great at it. </div>
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<div class="p1">
So i wanted the Noche Buena to be perfect. Everything (and more) that everyone requested I rushed about getting days before. I bought new serving pieces. i started preparations in the morning. I cleaned my patio. I even got my hair fixed. But as I squatted on the floor in my house dress, tinkering with the iPod so that it could play vintage Christmas music for my folks, all THAT was useless when Papa said I was getting fat.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“Just a little,” I said, forcing the sweetness and a smile. "You should have answered back,” my husband said. I wish I did, but no matter how hurt I was, I couldn’t. I didn’t want to hurt Papa or disappoint him. I wanted to get hurt with grace. I wanted to show him that I was no longer the unstable, moody child from long ago. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I remember two years ago, in Boracay, when the whole family (even my siblings living in the US) got together after many years. For two days, we were all happy and having fun. Then, after dinner prior to next day's departure, as we were lounging about by the shore, Papa said out of the blue, “t<i>umataba ka na naman ha!</i> (you’re getting fat again!)” Despite the pain, I smiled and said, “<i>konti lang</i> (just a bit);” even if I had probably only gained five pounds. But my younger sister wouldn’t have it. She blurted out, “why do you have to be so hard on her?! Don’t you know how hard it was for her to lose 60 pounds and how hard it is for her to keep it off?! Why can’t you be more supportive of her?!” </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
My sister knew that I would never be able to fight for myself when it came to Papa, so she did. I was thankful that she came to my side but, at the same time, I felt she embarrassed me. I didn’t want to hurt Papa because my sister’s words were really my own (in someone else’s voice). I felt I disappointed him again. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But last night, I wished she was there. I wished she told him to shut up. I wished he would just find some other topic to bring up other than my weight. Like that the pieces I painted were great. Or that my decorations were nice. Something. Anything. There must be something else about me to talk about. There must have been something I did right… right?</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
These thoughts came to me because I was listening to my “Angry” playlist- the songs that I dedicated to all the boys who hurt me. I realized, just now, how I let them all treat me badly, say bad things to me, hurt me. I remember how I would smile when they would come up with an alibi or excuse every time they would fail to fulfill a commitment. All because I wanted to get hurt with grace. All because I didn’t want to disappoint them. </div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
Just like with Papa. Except Papa does not make excuses. He says hurtful things because he doesn’t realize they hurt me (how can he? I never told him.) Papa does not need excuses. I make them for him. Even now, as I am in tears still feeling years of pain from him, I make excuses for him. I try to understand him. I find reasons for why he says the things he does. Because I love him and I know he loves me. He just doesn’t know how to.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Unlike before, however, I don’t blame myself. I won’t work out or starve myself to death tomorrow because of this. I will stop crying and forget his words. I will find reasons for why I am great. Why I deserve to be happy. Why I am worthy. Because there are many. Because I’m good at many things, things he may not appreciate and value. Because, after 44 years of doubting, I’ve finally realized that despite my seemingly lackluster homemaking career, or (slightly ;) ) above-average weight, or wrinkles and cellulite, I am great. I am worthy, Papa. I was worthy, boys. It was your loss because you didn’t see it, all of you.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
"Fathers be good to your daughters," some singer said (of course I know who but won’t say). Spare them this drama. Life is short. Imagine what I would have achieved early on without all of this self-doubting. It’s never too late though. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I am a work-in-progress. :)</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwW9UKxULHU811SB8c3wzJLgdDocYRlhaDZudj-TFArrbxh2i4x3CiLLoy0nEibnUrwf4RouxuHD3sx_i-xvBvfqMITJD4eopACPimUBTvFT3T97ka0S1SEONCR_Je6TgYawSMF2SV7X0/s1600/1412620_10153852555264577_4555675270545862412_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwW9UKxULHU811SB8c3wzJLgdDocYRlhaDZudj-TFArrbxh2i4x3CiLLoy0nEibnUrwf4RouxuHD3sx_i-xvBvfqMITJD4eopACPimUBTvFT3T97ka0S1SEONCR_Je6TgYawSMF2SV7X0/s320/1412620_10153852555264577_4555675270545862412_o.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Five pounds over?! I love you, Papa!<br />
I know you mean well!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-58339086093379310472015-07-23T13:24:00.000-07:002015-07-23T15:00:47.620-07:00Growing up<div class="p1">
I named him “Angelino” because he was my angel (well, also because he was born on the same day as my grandmother, Angeles). Paolo Angelino saved me. From my youth, my depression, my craziness. After him, life had meaning. I needed to shape up. I was a mother, after all.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Paolo Angelino was born on August 1991. I was 20, a college junior (only because I had already wasted so many years slacking). I was young, unsure of what lay ahead but determined to bring a baby to life and raise him well.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuoHDoeQfHGuA04IaKDAFARmYvyw27mhiXbzzQMWfG-dvezBYOSYV3HLzOGK5GitVqwbv8hyGHLvaNmyv9G4ajKIKJl9-ezztNgjRtzb-InHJ6o7hXibHMQV1b0655a6J_ysY0UddipfM/s1600/Untitled6.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuoHDoeQfHGuA04IaKDAFARmYvyw27mhiXbzzQMWfG-dvezBYOSYV3HLzOGK5GitVqwbv8hyGHLvaNmyv9G4ajKIKJl9-ezztNgjRtzb-InHJ6o7hXibHMQV1b0655a6J_ysY0UddipfM/s320/Untitled6.png" width="226" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my week-long old Angelino</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
He proved to be a savior, Paolo. He straightened me up. The thought that I had to finally be responsible and dependable pushed me to finish college, at last, at 24. He was my inspiration. I remember bringing him to my college once in a while in between classes. My schoolmates knew him. They knew he was my son, and they called me, “mommy.” Maybe because I was never ashamed of it or maybe because it was nice to look up to someone who’s been through so much.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I married Paolo's father with much hesitation a few months before he was born and for five years we were a family. My ex-husband and I were young, immature and unready for the responsibilities of marriage. Parenthood was easier because of our strong support system. Grandparents on both sides and aunts and uncles provided guidance that was sometimes lacking because my ex and I were busy with school or simply because we were young and irresponsible.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Recently, I asked Paolo, now almost 24, about what he remembers from the separation. My memories of those years are vague. It seems that in order for me to survive the aftermath of those tumultuous years, I had to forget events, even feelings. Especially the feelings. Paolo said, “I just remember that you told me that you were separating from Papa and I cried.” </div>
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<div class="p1">
Why do I look back now, 19 years after the separation? Finally, after all these years, I am in the process of filing for my annulment from my ex-husband. I am divorced in the United States and never found the need to end the marriage in the Philippines because I lived in California. And then I moved back to Manila in 2008. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivusoHvymrWGYfAvomrRXp9LVeGfmplnJf4mSOKAjaDiOQpGAH-YHESiqdKXCgJrqXj4qf_EkaKzk6DMpykvP8YnL3zYlqJskZGfH_F33tiA4Klujw9igAVQ9vqon6kB4vgCkeSlfIG84/s1600/57.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivusoHvymrWGYfAvomrRXp9LVeGfmplnJf4mSOKAjaDiOQpGAH-YHESiqdKXCgJrqXj4qf_EkaKzk6DMpykvP8YnL3zYlqJskZGfH_F33tiA4Klujw9igAVQ9vqon6kB4vgCkeSlfIG84/s320/57.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paolo gave me away during my 2001 wedding to Allan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Coming back meant living in the society that recognizes that I am Mrs. C and not Mrs. B. I submit two passports to immigration when I travel- one Philippine and one US. Each with a different surname. My three little children from Mr. B are considered illegitimate under Philippine laws. But more importantly, I carry the legal burden of a short-lived marriage; one that was over even before it started.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Filing for annulment forced me to remember details from long ago. As I looked back, narrated my story to my lawyer and the psychologists, as I answered questionnaires and psychological tests, as I dug deeper and deeper into a stage of my life that I had long forgotten, I realized how immature and unstable I was as a young wife.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Marriage is tough but it must have been tougher for a 20-year old with no sense of identity, low self-esteem and an abundance of hangups and angst. Even now, I admit, I find marriage difficult. It is not the happy ending we are led to believe when we are young. A lot of hard work goes into keeping a marriage strong. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Nowadays, when marital challenges come my way, I look at my three little B kids and think of how much I love them and how I will try at all costs to make my marriage work. These children will not be the same if their parents separate. They will lose their innocence and optimism. At such a critical time, they will be forced to stop being children in order to cope with the emotional upheaval that a separation would bring. I was not going to do that to my children. </div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKHtKTA-l3kcFZuCBTbngcYiEQHrjzp0wUECVUYZNQW2XgBvqxzkO1NQlVvSTljed-5O-YGHtPXvxzuK3VvVdjdR41pv1L2AzKR56MZv1XaB5D_-8J8pjO7uv-YWQzAM1-FrGbJB-QXg/s1600/10440964_10153447128439577_1285063747144063276_n+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAKHtKTA-l3kcFZuCBTbngcYiEQHrjzp0wUECVUYZNQW2XgBvqxzkO1NQlVvSTljed-5O-YGHtPXvxzuK3VvVdjdR41pv1L2AzKR56MZv1XaB5D_-8J8pjO7uv-YWQzAM1-FrGbJB-QXg/s320/10440964_10153447128439577_1285063747144063276_n+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paolo is a wonderful kuya to his younger siblings. Tessa calls<br />
him her "ene-brother" (enemy-brother) because "he is always<br />
supervising" her.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And then I realize how much I’ve changed since I separated from Paolo’s dad and how much I’ve grown and matured. I have become a real parent and a true adult. (I’m 44, it’s about time!) </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Then I stop myself. Guilt floods my heart. Does that mean I did not love Paolo as much as my little children? Was I too selfish back then that I did not try harder to make that marriage work for the sake of Paolo’s happiness? Should I have stayed, should I have sacrificed my happiness and sanity so that Paolo would have a complete family?</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Then I stop myself again. I look at Paolo now; how he’s grown to be responsible, good-hearted and disciplined. Could he have turned out this way if I stayed with his father? Or could he have been a better man?</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Then he posted this on Facebook after his graduation: </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6T9Syp8eeWuyQ-n_jYUTkS4qU3ljFdO6MpIDtGC9b8dL6NMBAyne7_e71IJmSHULYn5mZuieSpzo_X8QZ2qTzJzPTucPjT41GiSukkwDhmBLDw7qiCifuTzfmLWFTcO1S8KrcOvrdqwU/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-07-23+at+5.06.18+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6T9Syp8eeWuyQ-n_jYUTkS4qU3ljFdO6MpIDtGC9b8dL6NMBAyne7_e71IJmSHULYn5mZuieSpzo_X8QZ2qTzJzPTucPjT41GiSukkwDhmBLDw7qiCifuTzfmLWFTcO1S8KrcOvrdqwU/s320/Screen+Shot+2015-07-23+at+5.06.18+AM.png" width="248" /></a></div>
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<div class="p1">
And then another post came on Father’s day:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlG5rBZ354KTOqoyWbNXDm9DWPH0CigzX7hh61ty9BR9goeDoe9miQcO400n6YJwnRcx2yxSbk71Ca33vP1rF586k3PsWLCorzXsgO35Q7lTEP_Ngc1BXwHcBjHIERJeO74m4lodZnyIQ/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-07-23+at+5.05.53+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlG5rBZ354KTOqoyWbNXDm9DWPH0CigzX7hh61ty9BR9goeDoe9miQcO400n6YJwnRcx2yxSbk71Ca33vP1rF586k3PsWLCorzXsgO35Q7lTEP_Ngc1BXwHcBjHIERJeO74m4lodZnyIQ/s320/Screen+Shot+2015-07-23+at+5.05.53+AM.png" width="261" /></a></div>
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<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
My tears fell. When you're a younger parent you often wonder if all the parenting you do is good enough. Paolo's stepdad and I tried to raise him the best way we could and despite all his childhood emotional baggage, Paolo turned out to be a great man.</div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
But, forgive me still, Paolo, for not trying harder to keep your first family intact. Forgive me please for being a crazy, selfish and irresponsible young mother who often left you with your grandparents when I had to go out with my friends. Most of all forgive me, for those years when I had to give you up so that you would grow up in a stable environment while I, myself, tried to grow up and find my way. </div>
<div class="p2">
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<div class="p1">
You have surpassed my expectations. Thank you for charting your own course and finding your way despite all the setbacks that came your way early in life. I admire your strength and stability, your sense of identity and your resolve to be a better person than your parents were. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwmwhze7sb4cGwJnZePBzcqQZQoUCEuKBeEQXXitZ1bULkeMd59Lcu7GhW6zX30NR8SKQAygDznLGId0vnW8zdT-RNq-9Va4KKZipotQd45tIN_8GWlsWOPFVZxA5jQFv0BILnUh3-D1g/s1600/97.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwmwhze7sb4cGwJnZePBzcqQZQoUCEuKBeEQXXitZ1bULkeMd59Lcu7GhW6zX30NR8SKQAygDznLGId0vnW8zdT-RNq-9Va4KKZipotQd45tIN_8GWlsWOPFVZxA5jQFv0BILnUh3-D1g/s320/97.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the wedding, we walked down the aisle as a family.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
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<div class="p1">
Your Ninong (yes, Allan is Paolo’s godfather) and I have tried our best to provide you with a stable, loving environment since you were 11 years old. It may not have been ideal. You may have had to witness a lot of drama and tears but I also hope you remember the happy times we had with your siblings who adore you. Ours was not a glitch-free marriage (it still isn’t :) ) and our family is far from normal (thank God!) but my hope is that we have given you enough good memories to help you build a strong marriage and a happy family in the (hopefully not-so-near) future. </div>
<div class="p2">
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<br />
<div class="p1">
I love you. Happy birthday!</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xlj1ystwVgrnPKELXauRuvaDofECIfT6UvfBhXr12MYfKCvUQ_yFXh2lBWAGl1QVUdFkfY4HU89XtZscry5IKIHu15RZCh2bTFxIxaBOmsU2ifNqEBtnv_OQcNSVWYsl_7f2rZ4bHyY/s1600/11269821_10153346399734577_2457380183162508791_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3xlj1ystwVgrnPKELXauRuvaDofECIfT6UvfBhXr12MYfKCvUQ_yFXh2lBWAGl1QVUdFkfY4HU89XtZscry5IKIHu15RZCh2bTFxIxaBOmsU2ifNqEBtnv_OQcNSVWYsl_7f2rZ4bHyY/s320/11269821_10153346399734577_2457380183162508791_n.jpg" width="216" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm sorry. And thank you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-9888933321649114632015-05-08T02:37:00.003-07:002015-05-08T03:02:28.574-07:00With new eyes<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I put one foot in front of the other, panted while the path curved uphill. I was running in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, New York! Five years ago, who would have thought? Me, running? Or more so, me, enjoying New York?</span><br />
<div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKvqoRyQX5eXQjp-wisDRE84SmCIXVzWCg_zYxnr2qwMfWN6hJssIHEGiQMDZMALpGcdTzRmuI-xujTiegSSMwNMCj-K8lJXk16ehyug0fjmd_vDfQDlaDsl2Uq1RKSRIZNnltKn7XN0w/s1600/11088766_10153322784444577_2367185488499119011_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKvqoRyQX5eXQjp-wisDRE84SmCIXVzWCg_zYxnr2qwMfWN6hJssIHEGiQMDZMALpGcdTzRmuI-xujTiegSSMwNMCj-K8lJXk16ehyug0fjmd_vDfQDlaDsl2Uq1RKSRIZNnltKn7XN0w/s320/11088766_10153322784444577_2367185488499119011_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Today, I ran for the first time in New York!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
I visited New York back in 2010, after a brief visit to Boston to accompany my then 19-year-old son Paolo who was about to enter Northeastern University. I stayed in the same building that I am now staying in. I toured Manhattan and saw the famous sights for the first time but not with as much excitement as this time.</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcBZ7AvNfOE-jF3xImiubfmqUZcFKtM3FF3qlz8ARY8ZTbCKIKvJLxHLSQF2OdF1iTeP1jPatyjiXmQ5XJa2Ib3mZ2D0MbsAWopFppWx-bPF_fOJYB2743CcIq_UV4oEN9j5HLGjA4JTQ/s1600/39628_434286644576_7907075_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcBZ7AvNfOE-jF3xImiubfmqUZcFKtM3FF3qlz8ARY8ZTbCKIKvJLxHLSQF2OdF1iTeP1jPatyjiXmQ5XJa2Ib3mZ2D0MbsAWopFppWx-bPF_fOJYB2743CcIq_UV4oEN9j5HLGjA4JTQ/s320/39628_434286644576_7907075_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was a scared traveler in 2010. My sister, Kia, and son, Paolo,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">had to drag me around because I was too fearful to do it on my own.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
How amazing a five year difference makes! In 2010, I toured because I had to. I was already here with my then 8-year-old daughter, Gabby. I had to make the most of it. I was a paranoid and scared traveler, decided to stick to Hop On- Hop Off buses in order to see the city. I feared riding the subway because of a scary story my sister said about a man with a samurai sword who brandished it in a train and struggled to hold on to it by grabbing onto its blade as his hands bled. I hated the walk from the subway station because I thought it was long and scary. I didn't like Brooklyn in 2010 but I love it now.</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjTFCLYtNh3uc93HTAibVrCcegpLPm33GU2IwmZYuy77s6sMvLSmd55CopaEYoRaY7K72o6hwDPmjErfL0LFUBxedq0c4pmFNfMsdR6d3wSHLda1KkC_OVPiFmSbA-iq6uh142ab_A88/s1600/39982_434286699576_4442638_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjTFCLYtNh3uc93HTAibVrCcegpLPm33GU2IwmZYuy77s6sMvLSmd55CopaEYoRaY7K72o6hwDPmjErfL0LFUBxedq0c4pmFNfMsdR6d3wSHLda1KkC_OVPiFmSbA-iq6uh142ab_A88/s320/39982_434286699576_4442638_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Riding the subway always made me nervous. The samurai sword</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">man never showed up but one time, passengers started screaming</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">and I wanted to leave the train. It was just because of a rat.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
I barely explored this area where my sister lives. But now I twist my neck often to take a second look at quaint places and buildings. I've learned to love the character of Brooklyn. I never imagined myself living in a busy city but Brooklyn grows on you- the bustle of people walking, the restaurants lined up in Flatbush, and the old town look of most streets. I even tease my husband to buy this rental we're living in now.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSJ1g4QI8UJU7hRpqy-ztVv3PNJuP1V-2CPWjfkceapNE84AGG89v81tltnTHdxEravuA16EqBFmV4TR85MtVaUqD5dWO7fLGOAwSkAc4AmFo7B6tOGggsthJqYJyMJ84ZdZqWlOsjp0/s1600/11196276_10153322961999577_6336546459945378498_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSJ1g4QI8UJU7hRpqy-ztVv3PNJuP1V-2CPWjfkceapNE84AGG89v81tltnTHdxEravuA16EqBFmV4TR85MtVaUqD5dWO7fLGOAwSkAc4AmFo7B6tOGggsthJqYJyMJ84ZdZqWlOsjp0/s320/11196276_10153322961999577_6336546459945378498_n.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Back in Brooklyn after five years!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
On my way home from my run, I got lost in Park Slope. Whereas five years ago, I would have panicked, this time I savored the eight-block deviation I had to go through because I made a wrong turn. I've said it before- how nice to get lost! I carried on at a good walking workout pace as I stumbled on loose gravel in front of the St. Augustine church (which was undergoing construction). I smiled in admiration of the colorful wall of the PS/MS 282 (public school) on 6th avenue. And I vowed to go back to take a photo of that brownstone house with the red door near the corner of President street.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
What happened in five years? Why do I now see New York with different eyes? Why does this once-scary, dreary, drab city now seem beautiful and alive? </div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
In 2010, my youngest child was a mere three years old. Prior to this trip, the only places I was familiar with were California and the Philippines. Comfort and safety were always foremost on my mind. And after 9-11, I feared New York. I did not dare go up the Empire State building worried that it would be targeted by terrorists while I was there. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dv7b__WvxiZJX5JZ8Cg5u7-xvTFPOl6kjo_k2GNZRAykCqsnJRSyFTUPOQ9WwQSVEg62vEh4eYLdK48mL9fXqUEtFBfP1utS_IscAjqEHaRpLVDravBWjqYEpkZ0Mq8a6-mwmiscEUU/s1600/11175043_10153304140408330_1506755615421448187_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9dv7b__WvxiZJX5JZ8Cg5u7-xvTFPOl6kjo_k2GNZRAykCqsnJRSyFTUPOQ9WwQSVEg62vEh4eYLdK48mL9fXqUEtFBfP1utS_IscAjqEHaRpLVDravBWjqYEpkZ0Mq8a6-mwmiscEUU/s320/11175043_10153304140408330_1506755615421448187_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">In 2009, I went to Tuscany for my sister's wedding. I barely</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">socialized and I didn't have fun. I regret now that I did not let</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">myself enjoy that trip.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
Back then, because my life revolved around family only, I was weighed down by all sorts of fears that held me back from experiencing life. I took a path of predictability and routine because it was comfortable for me. I was willing to sacrifice personal growth through new experiences and travels because I would rather be "safe than sorry." </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
As my eyes light up now as I walk in front of the Temple of Restoration (a small but beautifully unique structure on Dean street) I realize now how this mentality was detrimental to my being. I deprived myself of many opportunities to admire the beauty around me because it meant making a wrong turn or going beyond the usual 3 blocks to get back home.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
Sometimes you just have to push yourself. Sometimes you have to muster extra courage to walk through an isolated, dark, tree-lined street because soon after you make that right turn, you will have to definitely stop in awe of the Former Lillian Ward house on the corner of 7th and Sterling. Imagine if I didn't get lost or if I just stuck to the main road because it was predictable and easy!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
At 44, I am no longer a young woman. But what I realized is that I've allowed myself to stick to the familiar for so long that I lost my sense of daring and adventure. I've deprived myself of these challenges that eventually shape me and make me a better person. I've avoided the unknown, dark streets of life because they were scary. I chose the easy path because I did not want to get hurt.</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
But I see it now. You have to get scared, get hurt, get lost many times in life before you see a better you. I am grateful I learned this midlife because I've seen many elderly folks, my parents included, who have stuck to the safe route because the other way was just too difficult. I'm grateful I've learned to not let my fears dictate the way I live my life. Most of all, I am thankful I still have the chance to live the rest of my years applying this learning. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcM0xaXdePyrGze0y2DK6V6ZUa-Zu73beswYigPXlJch9iXdJu2Qjwx4rXGCCn3vv_nGpbWl0hjnOvT6fAAPkz8v568s0lLPvH_3PtxnBtWn0jntQ1Gtl9u6W2hAy2FthfmISY_MeB4qc/s1600/20898_10153323711159577_769014434105886466_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcM0xaXdePyrGze0y2DK6V6ZUa-Zu73beswYigPXlJch9iXdJu2Qjwx4rXGCCn3vv_nGpbWl0hjnOvT6fAAPkz8v568s0lLPvH_3PtxnBtWn0jntQ1Gtl9u6W2hAy2FthfmISY_MeB4qc/s320/20898_10153323711159577_769014434105886466_n.jpg" width="189" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">It took a while for me to be brave.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Better late than never!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
Tomorrow I will ride the NY subway system again for the first time after five years (hopefully the samurai sword-weilding man isn't taking my train). This time I will not force myself to look down at my feet because I fear eye contact with the strangers around me. I will look around station to station and see the beauty beyond the dusty, graffiti-lined walls. And when I rise from the darkness of the 8th avenue station and walk towards W 16th street, I will raise my head high. I will open my eyes to the experience I deprived myself of five years ago. I am a new person about to start another new adventure. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-48295790323881318022015-03-11T04:44:00.003-07:002015-03-11T16:12:39.110-07:00Starting with meDays before my sister Shakira and her new wife Roz (yes they are lesbians who married in the US) held their reception dinner in Makati, I took my 12-year-old daughter Gabby aside and said "do you know how lucky you are to be part of this occasion? How many of your friends will ever be part of a same-sex wedding reception?" She looked blankly at me and said, "none." "How do you feel about it? Will you tell your friends?" I continued. "No," she said, "they will think it's weird." Being the straight-forward mother that I am, I blurted out (maybe too quickly), "they may think it's weird now, but I bet some of them will end up gay or lesbian anyway." I smiled and so did Gabby.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdDA_i9y8ZcXO2o5NvlrlBT4dWX1YvAbdgGAzUvO5lQZ8vVid0cGAPx6Nmf2kKicoGqp8Pbe6YyhL8uen5ZxRx9Ytc6TAAgOKGaT56kVTXthCJvW_Tjnw1z_20vzzmOQrVnbhZbcC_WiY/s1600/10386291_10153174079584577_6216681146533617148_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdDA_i9y8ZcXO2o5NvlrlBT4dWX1YvAbdgGAzUvO5lQZ8vVid0cGAPx6Nmf2kKicoGqp8Pbe6YyhL8uen5ZxRx9Ytc6TAAgOKGaT56kVTXthCJvW_Tjnw1z_20vzzmOQrVnbhZbcC_WiY/s1600/10386291_10153174079584577_6216681146533617148_n.jpg" height="315" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'd like to think that Gabby and I have a good relationship.<br />
I always tell it as it is, even if it shocks her sometimes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Minutes later, in my solitude, I replayed the conversation. I realized at that point- I've come a long way from 1998, when my then 7-year-old son Paolo asked me what a lesbian was. Uncomfortable and unprepared, I blurted out, "weirdo," then changed the subject abruptly. I was not prepared as a 27-year-old mother to answer questions about sexuality, gender and social norms. So I decided to shove it under the rug and hoped that my son would never question again.<br />
<br />
Indeed, Paolo never questioned again. Instead, he grew up to be a greater man than I expected. He accepted. After we moved to the US when he was 11 years old, he was exposed to a society of (well, on the surface at least) equality- of genders, races, people. Sexuality was not a forbidden topic in schools and homes. Gays and lesbians were not seen (at least in our community) differently than anyone else. They were just people- measured by their abilities and not by the way they looked, behaved or thought.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizypfNE08WNdRhfs7Ad3I1bTn3du6unPYK4Fioik6qT8erQ-NozLKbMwr1SNL5BUW057_t0qaozmU0PRfy0LfF8Ton8osGZnMQtKW_sjQ92hiqBqSmuyj85qDEPsD2e_5bj7I82TpesjM/s1600/10922504_10153028825509577_8369182014917540482_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizypfNE08WNdRhfs7Ad3I1bTn3du6unPYK4Fioik6qT8erQ-NozLKbMwr1SNL5BUW057_t0qaozmU0PRfy0LfF8Ton8osGZnMQtKW_sjQ92hiqBqSmuyj85qDEPsD2e_5bj7I82TpesjM/s1600/10922504_10153028825509577_8369182014917540482_n.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm so proud of how this 23-year-old turned<br />
out.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So when Shakira and Roz married in 2012 and asked 21-year-old Paolo (who was visiting them in New York at that time) to serve as a witness to their wedding, I was proud. I realized that I raised my son so well that he did not snicker at the thought or tell me about it jokingly. He was to attend the wedding of his Ninang and his Tita. That was it. No questions. No smile. It was simply the wedding of two people he loved (and it didn't matter if they were both women).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ca5hSPjgYiB2XSzpY-GbR4IQ5uYG1FiHK30Xv8C4GDL22qBJMDXrPlo6HEdAjVZRY_GnF0m3ZyBj-KYr0KtrH1kk8dbjrnocR1-9H8hTV1bQ820qI1yLt15XK87BoddW7h_60XI3Guw/s1600/44394_431356553329_2624615_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ca5hSPjgYiB2XSzpY-GbR4IQ5uYG1FiHK30Xv8C4GDL22qBJMDXrPlo6HEdAjVZRY_GnF0m3ZyBj-KYr0KtrH1kk8dbjrnocR1-9H8hTV1bQ820qI1yLt15XK87BoddW7h_60XI3Guw/s1600/44394_431356553329_2624615_n.jpg" height="320" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paolo and Ninang Shakira, 1993 (below) and <br />
2010 (above)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBb4VnOayhsO6_gyqhmXRwuN-iW1crzUd7k0AWpgDhbrR6j0Bw372AZsX8zlfO8RMEU4i-z-8iaC4q_2MXRa5FWaEm1VYZ6gogK_ikfHenmlb3Mv9-rFNzVzj0GllisLK8kHornIhr0To/s1600/10924628_10153047486123330_8821642549603109247_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBb4VnOayhsO6_gyqhmXRwuN-iW1crzUd7k0AWpgDhbrR6j0Bw372AZsX8zlfO8RMEU4i-z-8iaC4q_2MXRa5FWaEm1VYZ6gogK_ikfHenmlb3Mv9-rFNzVzj0GllisLK8kHornIhr0To/s1600/10924628_10153047486123330_8821642549603109247_n.jpg" height="249" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">23-year-old Paolo is very close to his ninang and tita and always<br />
visits them in Brooklyn.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I thought, then, how different he would have turned out if he grew up in the Philippines. I would have done my best for him to not grow up macho like most Filipino men, but I'm sure that, had he been influenced by this country and the way it views gays and lesbians, he would have at least smiled amusingly at the thought of his ninang marrying another woman. He would have probably accepted subconsciously, even without my reiterating it, that lesbians were "weirdos."<br />
<br />
I realized last week that, as I sat through my sister's wedding/anniversary reception in Makati, I was once guilty of that feeling too. I admit it now- when my sister married in 2012 and she posted a slideshow of their wedding photos on Facebook, I told my husband, "it's nice but it seems 'forced.'" I just didn't feel it- the romance that I often felt during straight weddings. Maybe I believed that because they were of the same gender, Shakira's wedding to Roz was slightly inferior to my wedding or my older sister's. It just wasn't the same. It didn't feel equal.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZ2WobkyyN4bwhpTErVRvEko52Jh3EyIs7MbcieJjM73MW38T2drneY_o2kj65kyBi4IPjVMwLLF4m9Q_ZUHPIBemE-LbJwPqWbXBJyFUAljE8t8_OzwD-oHbK9JYPcdgZQwzwLfqOfo/s1600/419123_10151169943228330_1716259212_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZ2WobkyyN4bwhpTErVRvEko52Jh3EyIs7MbcieJjM73MW38T2drneY_o2kj65kyBi4IPjVMwLLF4m9Q_ZUHPIBemE-LbJwPqWbXBJyFUAljE8t8_OzwD-oHbK9JYPcdgZQwzwLfqOfo/s1600/419123_10151169943228330_1716259212_n.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roz, left, and Shakira, right, after the<br />
wedding at City Hall.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
During the reception, I was shaking and close to tears when I watched the same wedding slideshow that I saw a year ago. I had just spent a week with my baby sister and her new wife. I saw how they were together; how they loved and took care of each other. When Roz got sick the day before the party from food poisoning, I saw how Shakira worried and doted on her. On the way back from a trip to Tagaytay (where they did not sit with each other in the car), Roz looked back to our row where my sister was seated and said, "I miss you" as she reached out to hold my sister's hand. All those sweet, caring moments caught my eye and I knew. It was not forced. It was not inferior. In fact, it felt greater than many relationships I had witnessed, even some of my own. And I felt it- all the romance and all the love.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBh4aA-oAU0fosuTOKnh5jwYQcOv89hKWwVDii2D2-ON_XONq5HyICkuU5kr3RQuLx-b8tg2j6Ai7cLeT3m4tBwiDaN_V_Jci2pKOR4D95Z7sBxdBsWKGJMyGOYzeDUgzvLCceIx7S2L8/s1600/1185408_10151871493074577_330213975_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBh4aA-oAU0fosuTOKnh5jwYQcOv89hKWwVDii2D2-ON_XONq5HyICkuU5kr3RQuLx-b8tg2j6Ai7cLeT3m4tBwiDaN_V_Jci2pKOR4D95Z7sBxdBsWKGJMyGOYzeDUgzvLCceIx7S2L8/s1600/1185408_10151871493074577_330213975_n.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roz, Shakira, older sister Myrza and me during the wedding<br />
reception</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4lUti88XsVSlk4zNcJ-StpBhsRBZ8SMkwp84G1zrUsliNxual4iE1op3juuG35PF6w8uH9liTg3yMQw0-FEX7nWQtE15qMEWVK3z8Lm2TxOKtltIKXMwG_lmAwZ8XiQN64WvfWzpOnc/s1600/1229997_10151871494434577_1112195200_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt4lUti88XsVSlk4zNcJ-StpBhsRBZ8SMkwp84G1zrUsliNxual4iE1op3juuG35PF6w8uH9liTg3yMQw0-FEX7nWQtE15qMEWVK3z8Lm2TxOKtltIKXMwG_lmAwZ8XiQN64WvfWzpOnc/s1600/1229997_10151871494434577_1112195200_n.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a cool bunch of parents and in-laws celebrating a unique<br />
marriage like this!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOurU_NA25c-NBmupKvu38Yz5G2QYP7SwEWTX-cjWzDJ71Kz3-DjP2Ham-obtufD-8rkaIbWANKxk09WXCrJ_zRURVT8Dot59amn-S3L_1lptQvRsFsNhUYNIzzKe_ovcFwtazlPJtjls/s1600/1233453_10151858201144577_1157117686_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOurU_NA25c-NBmupKvu38Yz5G2QYP7SwEWTX-cjWzDJ71Kz3-DjP2Ham-obtufD-8rkaIbWANKxk09WXCrJ_zRURVT8Dot59amn-S3L_1lptQvRsFsNhUYNIzzKe_ovcFwtazlPJtjls/s1600/1233453_10151858201144577_1157117686_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roz and I at the wedding reception</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When my straight women friends asked me about my sister's reception, I caught myself by surprise. I said, "the reception was so nice. They were so sweet. You know what, after a while you even forget that they are both women. You just feel how much they love each other." I added, "of course it's even better that Roz is a girl. We get to laugh with her about funny girl stuff like "flower arranging" and "vaginal tightening." She enlightens us younger ones about hot flashes and pre-menopause. It's great! My sister is happy and in love and I have a new sister." It is not inferior at all.<br />
<br />
As I confess all this now (to my sister and my new sister-in-law, to my new gay and lesbian friends, and the world), I realize that I had not only grown so much as a mother. I had also been so emotionally and mentally awakened by this celebration in our family. I used to pride myself in being the "normal" child of my parents- the one who lived life the right way (marriage and children). My older sister does not want children, my younger brother refuses to marry and my baby sister is a lesbian. But the week I shared with Shakira and Roz has shown me that there was nothing much for me to be proud of- I was prejudiced and used sexuality to make myself feel superior over others. My being "normal" may be the norm but it did not give me the right to put non-typical relationships down.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnyCzwoQleGDkrOqMG-tlf5lz6w3f77JRvivi9q7xZ4-duOwRdP60DyMQM39sgKSH4wQ3AM389C2fCPQBRqY6Gvx9H_t0UJXur6DhAISZGV8k3HuZLyy4wYqyYg5OCJxnGdEdU8xQi3Q/s1600/59604_10151282016789577_1178856024_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnyCzwoQleGDkrOqMG-tlf5lz6w3f77JRvivi9q7xZ4-duOwRdP60DyMQM39sgKSH4wQ3AM389C2fCPQBRqY6Gvx9H_t0UJXur6DhAISZGV8k3HuZLyy4wYqyYg5OCJxnGdEdU8xQi3Q/s1600/59604_10151282016789577_1178856024_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With my husband, Allan, in Alhambra, 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkLpNsroJ80K2OeQtQKdVCOFUwYs3NBdk_co7Vwg3yhSoGuK2ocLS6OBCemlaD9wB7nUJRzmz5yB2arq7mMCDULRwC35FHr-3qI2T8WlagftG1uRZHQyzYBwLMJTt_5R2X6h_F62W8hw/s1600/10407647_10152919411229577_8874991765114920209_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkLpNsroJ80K2OeQtQKdVCOFUwYs3NBdk_co7Vwg3yhSoGuK2ocLS6OBCemlaD9wB7nUJRzmz5yB2arq7mMCDULRwC35FHr-3qI2T8WlagftG1uRZHQyzYBwLMJTt_5R2X6h_F62W8hw/s1600/10407647_10152919411229577_8874991765114920209_n.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Porto, Portugal, 2014</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDuZUfzFP8O2TtMRYsSBfb1yTjJmmfASJaSSNoF2JXUdomdF8Uz6T64BNF0bqoYsui4rWaXkHXj37AQE5Nm0veqpQvHPfWTiaHYWeY0waXtaQ7SoqynnloExyW3nU31miFvQyq_o_ntGU/s1600/10513472_10152917120934577_2869655710072946618_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDuZUfzFP8O2TtMRYsSBfb1yTjJmmfASJaSSNoF2JXUdomdF8Uz6T64BNF0bqoYsui4rWaXkHXj37AQE5Nm0veqpQvHPfWTiaHYWeY0waXtaQ7SoqynnloExyW3nU31miFvQyq_o_ntGU/s1600/10513472_10152917120934577_2869655710072946618_n.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Singing and dancing in the streets of Lisbon, 2014</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So thank you, sisters, for not being "normal" and for pushing me to think beyond my shallow limits. Your relationship has inspired me more than any other I've come across. I am free, no longer bound by ancient, outdated Filipino norms (well, almost).<br />
<br />
And Gabby- it is not you who is lucky to be part of this marriage. It is me. You and your Kuya Paolo learned to accept the truths of universal, equal love way before your 42-year-old mother did. I realize now that in order to teach you to have no prejudices and biases, I have to start with me. But it's not too late. I now see it, celebrate it and am enriched by it.<br />
<br />
P.S. Gabby did tell a friend bravely about the wedding of her aunt to another woman. Her friend thought it was weird but Gabby didn't care.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>(This piece was written in 2013 after the wedding reception but was never published. I have since had many more happy and enriching moments with my sisters.)</i>24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-41720665662260200202014-08-20T12:55:00.003-07:002014-08-20T13:07:19.801-07:00Getting Lost<div class="p1">
I arrived a few days ago from London where I visited my husband, Allan, who was temporarily assigned there for work. So while he was slaving away in front of a computer, I bravely went on adventures around and outside of London by myself. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
One morning, on a whim, I decided to head for Windsor to see the castle. Without telling Allan, I planned my day trip and boarded the train for the 30-minute ride. I had it all mapped out- I would arrive in Windsor by 11:30 am and be done with the castle in two hours. Then I would have lunch in a tourist-friendly restaurant and then spend another hour walking around this beautiful town more than 20 miles away from the heart of London. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
While I was on the 10:50am First Great Western train, however, I sat near a very noisy family. Wanting so badly to soak in the sights, I tuned them out with my music. Unfortunately, I not only tuned the family out but I also failed to hear the announcement instructing passengers to change trains at a certain station. I stayed on the train and headed to Oxford instead of Windsor. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I realized my blooper as soon as the doors at the Slough station closed. Initially I panicked. How was I to get back to Windsor when the train I was on was heading further and further from Slough? I decided I was going to hop off on the 2nd next station (because I was yet still too stubborn to get off that 1st station after Slough) and ask someone how to get back to Slough. I would pay for the fare difference, if needed, and ignore the added cost and lost time.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
The more detailed I got into the recovery planning, the more I was filled with courage and strength that I never felt before. I sat in the train and grasped the enormity of my dilemma. I was lost in a foreign country where I’ve encountered not too many helpful folks. It was bad enough that I charted a course towards a distant destination, now I was headed to another more distant, more unfamiliar location. Years ago, I would have shuddered with fear and anxiety. But not today, I sat there a little scared but went back to listening to my music. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I eventually got off on the next stop (Reading) looked for a Customer Service kiosk and asked a lady for return directions. It wasn’t going to be tough, she said. Just another train ride going back, no extra fees, just an additional one hour to my original travel time. “Don’t miss your stop this time- SLOUGH,” the woman said smiling.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I got to Slough alright and didn’t miss my transfer this time. I was in Windsor in ten minutes, maybe less. The deviation added an hour to my trip and changed my itinerary. i was unable to have lunch and didn’t get to explore the town as much as I had hoped.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrIjYSJG3Gp6XX3Gk7BEU3NGTL83e6iFifCUM-Q38u30OPSB13HcODlR5QnkxNx1L4qjSaCHBNfC-TTSdF53giih6I8HxMaIS4uwXNH4buYMNzjRlLD_46tx5ZZV_gUzXhVNjtknyrQ7Y/s1600/10557493_10152657354749577_1222103207013131766_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrIjYSJG3Gp6XX3Gk7BEU3NGTL83e6iFifCUM-Q38u30OPSB13HcODlR5QnkxNx1L4qjSaCHBNfC-TTSdF53giih6I8HxMaIS4uwXNH4buYMNzjRlLD_46tx5ZZV_gUzXhVNjtknyrQ7Y/s1600/10557493_10152657354749577_1222103207013131766_o.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pardon the selfie. I was alone and had to document my adventure.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Sitting here, jet-lagged at 3am, I remember what the Customer Service lady said when she found out that I missed my transfer. She had a worried look on her face and said, “OH NO!” I just smiled and said, “it’s okay. It’s part of the adventure!” </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
In my midlife, I learned to embrace the unexpected. I am now bolder as I face new challenges and adventures. It is actually true. When you’ve gone through so much in life, you are strengthened and hardened. In the greater scheme of things, what is getting lost in an English-speaking country compared to raising a baby in college? Or even handling separation from your husband in your mid 20’s? What is more scary- having no food to feed your child or asking directions, ready to use your cash or credit card? </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrDRrfHYSqDS5JlCjM1TsbzBsXrU4nX1ZApq5FF4I57mZCPqp-XB6jLwGss29bJeLcO7Vpuzo-OViVJj7htBqlPPyoThO4xpkGFpO6WIk-9Xlcb6HiC607ycP_JSIFMXSYim1mPMffp5E/s1600/10505241_10152657806359577_1777651122197228098_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrDRrfHYSqDS5JlCjM1TsbzBsXrU4nX1ZApq5FF4I57mZCPqp-XB6jLwGss29bJeLcO7Vpuzo-OViVJj7htBqlPPyoThO4xpkGFpO6WIk-9Xlcb6HiC607ycP_JSIFMXSYim1mPMffp5E/s1600/10505241_10152657806359577_1777651122197228098_o.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Finally at the Windsor castle. Boy, was it worth<br />
the trip!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
In traveling as with life, we get lost. How many times have I tuned out directions/instructions (from my parents, perhaps)? How often have I stubbornly chose to tread another path, another train line because I felt it was the better way? How much were the added costs I incurred for missed connections, wrong transfers, wrong planning? It is normal for people to get lost but (ask my parents) I’ve had more than my fair share. I did not only get lost, I was often “lost.”</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
It must have frightened my parents immensely, for example, when I had a two-year relationship with a man I fondly (not!) call SCARY. Scary face, scary personality, scary (lack of) morals, even scary use of the English language! At that time, I not only abandoned the train of my (first) husband, I even decided to get on the no amenities, cargo train called Scary. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
While I was on the ride, I had major adventures like hand-washing a man’s underwear for the first time in my life. What about having no money for food and so Scary had to gamble our few pesos to raise funds for our next meal? I guess the worst was using my car for hire just to raise gas money. That was the lowest. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But I stayed on the train too long, two years. I hoped to reach a beautiful destination like Jamaica eventually but what I got was the tour of the city slums over and over again for two years. I experienced telenovela level drama like when he lied and said he was separated but was really not, so the wife came to my parents house and caused a scandal. There were some unbelievably corny plots such as when he came home very late one day and said that he was involved in an NBI shootout with his friend and I believed him. I even had some violence on the side- some crazy knife grabbing/struggling episode. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Oh yes, it was scary. Scary was scary. My Scary episode was so mind-boggling that some of my friends thought I was a drug addict for going through it. I was not, of course, but I stayed in that relationship so long because I wanted it to finally work. I wanted to have my happy ending at last. But I didn’t and many years later I still did not find happiness. I took many more trains and got lost over and over again.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
After years of getting lost, I eventually got it. The mistake is not that I lost my way. The tragedy was that I kept on getting on the wrong trains because I refused to listen and pay attention to the signs. In my rush to meet Mr. Right, I kept ending up with the wrong guy- Mr. Immature, Mr. Insecure, Mr. User and, yes, Mr. Scary. The journey took a lot longer than it should have. And the costs were enormous. But then that was another lesson learned.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I may have deviated so often in life. I may have lost myself many times. Looking back now, though, I don’t see misfortunes and catastrophes. I see them as adventures (some more “Indiana Jones” than others). What mattered was that I kept trying to get back on track. I kept chasing my ideal. I kept looking, hoping and praying for my happy ending.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
I don’t know if I’m done with my journey. I’m in a good place right now. There’s not much more I can ask for. But my experiences have shown me repeatedly how uncertain the future is. The tracks may shift. I may already be in the Maldives now but may one day suddenly wake up in a less desirable place. 43 years of adventures has shown me that just like getting lost on my way to Windsor, I know I will always get myself back on track. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiglvf0TeqB3StW25W7JqwHHV6TXld988xOdKH3n3kh6zgC8RzsbMF6vygIAW1nLdCjF6cY3r_5-dXUGuO2NpNe1Uul3xmsze5JhAoD1LkdMbCk40NcmEiGrBB7wJ6S8VIVlQz5Ga6DNUM/s1600/10360542_10152653856154577_29787935958995363_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiglvf0TeqB3StW25W7JqwHHV6TXld988xOdKH3n3kh6zgC8RzsbMF6vygIAW1nLdCjF6cY3r_5-dXUGuO2NpNe1Uul3xmsze5JhAoD1LkdMbCk40NcmEiGrBB7wJ6S8VIVlQz5Ga6DNUM/s1600/10360542_10152653856154577_29787935958995363_n.jpg" height="320" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe next time I'll hop on a train to Hogwarts.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1255108715319621447.post-69258076351554494322014-08-20T12:44:00.003-07:002014-08-20T12:44:36.118-07:00My Midlife CrisisMost of my teenage and young adult years were filled with whining, self-pity and selfishness. For decades, I prayed (more like complained) to God about my problems. I questioned my self-worth. I cursed the world and the people around me for hurting me and for pushing me into my sorry state. I remember vividly my “crazy” days- when I’d sit in front of my mirror for hours talking to myself and crying (I was recently shocked when I was told that this was not “normal”). The world around me was expected to stop because I was having an emotional crisis.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLUyIHUpXljYHRoy8mEmunH_kh-WezOUskJrGxJs0oh__IqptusesHo4eOVhKbr4Rm9NCx50gpsd-5TEKVNoKoxmBTe9q8ly_1sHcxzGWRJAVmii4WXKO3Ii05k8FwHcjyzc2sJqjDAk/s1600/teenage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfLUyIHUpXljYHRoy8mEmunH_kh-WezOUskJrGxJs0oh__IqptusesHo4eOVhKbr4Rm9NCx50gpsd-5TEKVNoKoxmBTe9q8ly_1sHcxzGWRJAVmii4WXKO3Ii05k8FwHcjyzc2sJqjDAk/s1600/teenage.jpg" height="320" width="268" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was a drama queen most of my life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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It was when I moved to the United States that I started to let go of (some of) the craziness. Because daily life was so hectic and stressful, I eventually found it harder and harder to succumb to sadness. I remember one day when my daughter was a few weeks old and I was depressed I began to “emote.” I began crying about something I no longer remember (I’m sure it was minor). I tried to push myself deeper into the emotions, like I used to when I was younger. I wailed for only a few minutes because my baby began to cry too. So I stopped crying. My tears had to wait until my daughter was better.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1PsPAywuusTtuuUzwneddkv-Nvq2hDWAtbbBRo31SwokzUV7sLrXSKHMe0P5j8PXWrXUrI2tvdoFgAUTa6KkbQz9FsGnCtgLd1zqyQsrPhV7cAvtCCw5p14BzLJaV2ouDEkCfOE9ZLd4/s1600/DSCN0638+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1PsPAywuusTtuuUzwneddkv-Nvq2hDWAtbbBRo31SwokzUV7sLrXSKHMe0P5j8PXWrXUrI2tvdoFgAUTa6KkbQz9FsGnCtgLd1zqyQsrPhV7cAvtCCw5p14BzLJaV2ouDEkCfOE9ZLd4/s1600/DSCN0638+copy.jpg" height="320" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First-time motherhood in America was so tough that<br />
I decided to chop off my hair. (Hmm, I had my regrets :) )</td></tr>
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Parenthood does that to us. We put our children’s needs first, as it should be. But what happened to me was the extreme. After a while, everyone’s needs were first. My wishes were less important than the rest of the family. My needs could wait. My dreams could be abandoned. I built my life around my family. They became my life. Being ME could wait until they were all better. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPAIwjxpsddVzvsoeUnkr7-iY4JiAPnQwKf8DfX7rSf5JasI2ieoEhictg_WtY1OTYIS1T2YCE2WC74mmbE_QQkBwsc63XkJKryK8iydW9tuo0AAuBH8D55GJX_SGcA-8gwTvHepc2QY/s1600/IMG_4911.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikPAIwjxpsddVzvsoeUnkr7-iY4JiAPnQwKf8DfX7rSf5JasI2ieoEhictg_WtY1OTYIS1T2YCE2WC74mmbE_QQkBwsc63XkJKryK8iydW9tuo0AAuBH8D55GJX_SGcA-8gwTvHepc2QY/s1600/IMG_4911.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">At 38, I looked much older (and honestly, uglier) than my<br />
66-year old mother (rightmost).</td></tr>
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I remember when my American friends were talking once about spending a weekend in Vegas for R&R. I thought, “how selfish! Why go on a vacation without the children? Families should be together as much as they can.” I spent a decade like that. I took care of everyone except myself. </div>
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When my son, Ton, was diagnosed with autism, I was all the more convinced that my happiness and wellbeing would have to wait. Ton is priority. Then the other kids. Then my husband. Then if there’s still time and energy, maybe me. But there was rarely any left for me and even if there was, I felt too guilty to seize the opportunity.</div>
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I don’t regret those years that I put everyone else first. During those times, it was what was needed, specially by Ton. Because I put my needs last, I was able to push full-force battling Ton’s autism. I was able to obsess about helping him get better because nothing was more important. I did not resent him nor the rest of the family for the time and energy I spent on his intervention. I didn’t even feel I needed to be rewarded for being such “a great mom” (as my close friends and family would call me). I did it all for love.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZU-aERybdiuEAY_2ClbM14gq-iHwz5S8HtwVWcZuFXtKcoBSLJSLVCgKGc_W9CAgX-2UTrnd0uXM7gdXXk647ys2PlyeD76uAzmQB0A0BECrBGpxuAJOtJ2GTrSXN7KbvJ5dwYS7ZZQ/s1600/Picture+528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOZU-aERybdiuEAY_2ClbM14gq-iHwz5S8HtwVWcZuFXtKcoBSLJSLVCgKGc_W9CAgX-2UTrnd0uXM7gdXXk647ys2PlyeD76uAzmQB0A0BECrBGpxuAJOtJ2GTrSXN7KbvJ5dwYS7ZZQ/s1600/Picture+528.jpg" height="269" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His happiness came first. It still does.</td></tr>
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For years after Ton’s diagnosis, I kept giving my all. Until one day I realized that there was none left for me. When Ton started to get better, he needed me to be less obsessed with intervention and more trusting in his ability to overcome the autism. The other children also started to be more independent and needed me less. My husband eventually settled into his OFW status and our long distance marriage. </div>
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One day, I was actually bored and I began to feel depressed again because I was 40. I was “old,” felt fat and ugly and I had no life of my own to speak of. I had abandoned my hobbies. I rarely socialized. Without my family to obsess about, I realized that I knew little of who I had become. But unlike in my youth when I would sit in front of the mirror and cry, I decided to simply do something about it (or maybe I just didn’t have enough mirrors in my house).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha9XiL33ranBCwtRqRW_jHgWu-HKENAaM9IsjS3CBWdfBESrOH5uhglvl1PJ0C_-_VqyZzhZzLEIDe9HyghbCsS8MxBeOxCsjpnBkfJ0xz_TDoPqXaOndVRE3NchQNUgVzz2EsFEqgx8E/s1600/IMG_0436.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha9XiL33ranBCwtRqRW_jHgWu-HKENAaM9IsjS3CBWdfBESrOH5uhglvl1PJ0C_-_VqyZzhZzLEIDe9HyghbCsS8MxBeOxCsjpnBkfJ0xz_TDoPqXaOndVRE3NchQNUgVzz2EsFEqgx8E/s1600/IMG_0436.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For years I kept telling myself, "nevermind if you're fat, at<br />
least you have a happy family." Eventually, that excuse was<br />
no longer enough and I became very unhappy with myself.<br />
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I vowed that by 41, I would look decent again. I enrolled in the Cohen program and after dropping 65 pounds in six months, I had never felt better physically. The weight loss allowed me to pursue my old hobbies and interests, my favorite of which was ballet. I enrolled in Ballet Philippines’ ladies ballet class and wanted to cry with happiness during my first class. I was pursuing my childhood dream after all, though not professionally.<br />
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Dropping ten dress sizes allowed me to fit into nicer looking clothes. I had already stopped crying in front of mirrors years ago. Because I had dropped from a size 16 to a size 6, I no longer cringed when I’d look at myself in the mirror. I began to feel pretty again. I decided that I would put in more time to fix myself. I bought a whole new wardrobe, worked out, went to the spa and salon regularly and am trying to slow down aging (I finally used moisturizers and lotion at age 40!).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzEZnUm-rrhv8rDbkBZoaQBJnjqRg3uhzguWfHa8mKi5i0T4JxPSBSHq4CjJ168DGKGaedKwCT6MkMOOn31068QvLgGdsBX6G2O6b-eVhNaTZme5Tyt-f5mL_NcCuWeJHU5eFxsDYSb4M/s1600/fatthin+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzEZnUm-rrhv8rDbkBZoaQBJnjqRg3uhzguWfHa8mKi5i0T4JxPSBSHq4CjJ168DGKGaedKwCT6MkMOOn31068QvLgGdsBX6G2O6b-eVhNaTZme5Tyt-f5mL_NcCuWeJHU5eFxsDYSb4M/s1600/fatthin+copy.jpg" height="320" width="203" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I've always loved ballet but in my 40s<br />
I discovered my love for boxing.<br />
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<span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Because I started to feel comfortable with my appearance, I then had more confidence to socialize. My husband and I would go on weekend dates and I started to meet up with old friends occasionally. It also became easier for me to make new friends because I was no longer worried that they would think I was ugly or fat. In fact, it has now come to a point where I no longer care what people say about my appearance. I am happy with the way I look. Mine is the only opinion that matters now. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4ZxWO6YpX7i5laHriFs85ElHCHXwvPuo6zJtfNU7nhCqSS34fKDp5whu_bEK14-sj7n8ygwdWKf5sQ3hb414ukPUbNpKWeuejPjVNgH0pjpeQEnYgMuFI9ycEEFf1p7PHWbVh8mTJew/s1600/1275693_10151851897759577_836742678_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4ZxWO6YpX7i5laHriFs85ElHCHXwvPuo6zJtfNU7nhCqSS34fKDp5whu_bEK14-sj7n8ygwdWKf5sQ3hb414ukPUbNpKWeuejPjVNgH0pjpeQEnYgMuFI9ycEEFf1p7PHWbVh8mTJew/s1600/1275693_10151851897759577_836742678_o.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">When I was bigger, I shunned social events. Not anymore.<br />
I actually look forward to getting out of the house and just<br />
laughing (here with my sisters).</td></tr>
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At 43, I became the happiest I had been in a while. I felt that I knew myself better and was empowered once again. I had a confidence that I never had before in my life and I felt that I finally knew who I was and what I wanted in life. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZKHr2DMKV9KtCHrS2DS34pPYlNpp6Zs4AzT8pSUVTbltGAxZCGIvkSg7AOsM9f23-uaO6ygWhoeoOSYOxhrznSPzKWCgG_FH19Nk9aafLRqNxqMey6vCeSujamD9gvrUSwQ5SKDmh2Qs/s1600/1530522_10152188746319577_1078800465_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZKHr2DMKV9KtCHrS2DS34pPYlNpp6Zs4AzT8pSUVTbltGAxZCGIvkSg7AOsM9f23-uaO6ygWhoeoOSYOxhrznSPzKWCgG_FH19Nk9aafLRqNxqMey6vCeSujamD9gvrUSwQ5SKDmh2Qs/s1600/1530522_10152188746319577_1078800465_n.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Having a birthday mojito</td></tr>
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Of course there were times when I’d feel guilty. At the start, I’d feel bad about the few hours I’d spend in the gym, spa or salon every week. Eventually, though, those times had become sacred rituals. They became my ME time. The family found it hard at first to adjust to Mama not being available all the time but they got used to it in the end. I think it was because they saw how happy I had become in the last few years. </div>
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THAT was what I never realized before. By being selfless and putting everybody before me, I deprived them of the fulfillment of allowing me to be happy as well. Everyone became selfish and entitled because I allowed them. By asserting my right to happiness, my children have learned that, sometimes, even when they don’t get what they want (and mom does), they can be happy too because they see someone they love happy. </div>
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Many joke that people who decide to makeover their lives in their 40s are going through a midlife crisis. Mine was not a crisis but a metamorphosis. I evolved. I left my shell. I was no longer just wife and mother, there was finally a self I unearthed from beneath the roles that I’ve portrayed all these years. The beauty of it all is that, though the changes cause me to take time away from family, our home has become better because I now value myself. Again, as I said before- by being a better person, I became a better mother (I don’t know about “wife,” you’ll have to ask my husband :) ).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi63VGnE6J0_ItGahfdS0ysaaCcW9DKBYMHV4J-YX-EwXs0VvGpv6OysnCiyv9uU4QXy6CowJ90u43fyjXQIeezyID8uIYpEUZClmmVcwb_W0BL_DLYJkEFvgBiRLWkA8CBwERts_nGTsQ/s1600/10500549_10152583056579577_5155793466180127683_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi63VGnE6J0_ItGahfdS0ysaaCcW9DKBYMHV4J-YX-EwXs0VvGpv6OysnCiyv9uU4QXy6CowJ90u43fyjXQIeezyID8uIYpEUZClmmVcwb_W0BL_DLYJkEFvgBiRLWkA8CBwERts_nGTsQ/s1600/10500549_10152583056579577_5155793466180127683_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfmfOk_WTBDxfNFpSBaV17Pc9oL6cg8LOF2zqj32v0OOAKZUKZ7A7UHbzNsddxqJncPghoWLtQcLk4JlWAk_nZlb_itjpnn8w4RQwfI4F9Qy4b7ZVPf0jXrXlducP1FgGAtXDsUVKkBfE/s1600/IMG_2771.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfmfOk_WTBDxfNFpSBaV17Pc9oL6cg8LOF2zqj32v0OOAKZUKZ7A7UHbzNsddxqJncPghoWLtQcLk4JlWAk_nZlb_itjpnn8w4RQwfI4F9Qy4b7ZVPf0jXrXlducP1FgGAtXDsUVKkBfE/s1600/IMG_2771.JPG" height="320" width="294" /></a></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">My husband and I have discovered that we enjoy<br />
traveling without the children sometimes. Long ago,<br />
I would have considered us "selfish."</td></tr>
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Life is not all peachy. We often make adjustments because it’s like there’s a new family member with her own schedule and needs. Sometimes old habits pop up. Sometimes I’m the one who feels entitled (and my husband has to keep me grounded). In the end, though, I have no regrets. There will always be challenges and conflicts. Unlike in the past, however, I am now strong enough to assert myself. Nowadays, the resolution to any problem will definitely take into account what is good for me too. </div>
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From the extreme selfishness of my youth, to unhealthy selflessness of my early motherhood, I have now found balance. In my 40s I found my center. Now if only I can stop talking to myself in the mirror about my happy thoughts… :)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD2rn6E-UHvAEC6uauq2Q4Yx0LFgP57bu_NoawiqK740qbJeAs9kGyEaCeFkICK9p0XhGmWH-MkVdYPjY0g30pGFJDcgUFNUp07zxYA_LeFFgx8b-KAjLytDl6aaIdOWxL1x1Fl3coSW8/s1600/IMG_2264.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD2rn6E-UHvAEC6uauq2Q4Yx0LFgP57bu_NoawiqK740qbJeAs9kGyEaCeFkICK9p0XhGmWH-MkVdYPjY0g30pGFJDcgUFNUp07zxYA_LeFFgx8b-KAjLytDl6aaIdOWxL1x1Fl3coSW8/s1600/IMG_2264.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The crazy girl has found balance.</td></tr>
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24/7 momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04814460658402458856noreply@blogger.com0