For Agape

April 10, 1995 On this day, the psychiatrist told me to write this journal. Share my thoughts as if I were talking to a real person. And if I don't have any thoughts, write about the happenings of my day, even my freaking routines. So here I am, lying on the floor, enjoying the smoke of Mary Jane while holding a pen and writing. I don’t think writing any of this makes a damn difference. Like this could fix my fried brain or this life that’s already wrecked beyond repair. I don’t even know when to stop — so I don’t get why I’m even writing right now, while still taking hits from the bong pipe. Maybe there’s some pathetic part of me that still wants to change, get my s**t together, and finally face whatever reality decides to slap me with. April 15, 1995 My dad dragged me to rehab when I was 17 when he discovered I was using coke. I accidentally dropped the sachet of coke in front of him while checking the pockets of my pants for f**k*ng coins. He was shocked, of course, and angry at the same time. But he didn't ask, hindi man lang siya nagbigay ng oras para alamin kung saan ko ba nakuha yun. Or kung ano ba ang nag-udyok sakin para gumamit. He didn't give a single fck; the only thing he cared about when he found out about that drug was his reputation. Fck dad. Fck my life. Fck these fcking flashbacks that keep running through this useless brain of mine. April 29, 1995 I’m in the back seat of my dad’s Mercedes-Benz, and I’m glad he’s not with me. Just me and his driver, heading to Batanes. He thinks staying in some peaceful province will somehow heal my mind — that being surrounded by pretty views will magically make my drug addiction disappear. If beautiful places could really cure an addict, I should’ve been clean a long time ago. I lived in Canada for almost eight years. The scenery there was just as good. Didn’t do me any good either. It cost me nothing but anxiety and regrets. April 30, 1995 Life in the province isn’t really my thing. The irritating crowing of roosters, the loud-ass voices of the neighbors next door, the chaotic mix of animals being chased around — I hate all of it. It feels like electricity is crawling into my ears and frying my brain. It’s only my first day here, and I’m already cursing this place. This is not the medicine I need; this will cause additional damage to my mind. May 2, 1995 "Kumain ka na ba, iho?" That was the first thing I heard when I stepped out of my room this morning. I was high. I spent the whole day yesterday smoking weed; I didn’t even bother to eat or think about food. I was too busy puffing the smoke of Mary Jane. Nakasanayan na ng katawan ko ang magkulong sa kwarto ng ilang araw at lalabas lang kapag wala na akong mahithit. Who cares? Wala namang nagbabantay sa’kin. Ang tanging trabaho lang naman noon ng katulong sa bahay ay maglinis at magluto. Wala nang iba. But this hag was different. I felt... touched by her question — because even my dad, my only parent, never asks me if I’ve eaten or not. Her simple question made me think this was worth writing about. I enjoyed my breakfast for the first time in a long while and mouthed the words "thank you" to the maid — words I had never said to anyone. May 4, 1995 I used to stop only when the weed ran out of the bong pipe. Now? Even that line’s been crossed. Napatigil ako sa paghithit when a short girl with pale skin and dark curly hair enters the veranda of our house. She was smiling widely habang tumatakbo palapit sa katulong namin. She's neither beautiful nor attractive to my eyes, pero ng makita ko siyang masayang iwinagayway ang supot ng plastik sa harap ni manang nakuha niya ang interes ko. I had a hunch that the girl’s happiness was shallow na kaya siyang pangitiin at pasayahin ng isang supot lang ng puto na binili niya raw sa palengke. Why is it so easy for other people to find happiness, while I feel like I can never seem to grasp it? I just stared at her while she was talking to our maid until she stepped out of the house and rode her cheap Vespa. May 7, 1995 Mom died of stage 4 cancer when I was 7. I didn’t know back then that the falling of her hair was one of the effects of her medication. I asked her about her hair once, and she told me she was a lady with a curse. A witch cursed her for falling in love with a man she shouldn’t have loved. In return, the witch made her lose her hair — to make her look ugly. When I reached 10, I realized what my mom’s “curse” really meant. The witch she was talking about was my aunt — Mom’s sister — and Dad’s sort-of real love. That affair wasn’t something a kid like me should’ve ever witnessed. But thanks to a stomach ache that day, I stumbled right into their scandal. I was only supposed to find the ibuprofen syrup in my parents’ room — terrifying already, since the taste of the drug wasn’t yet appealing to me. But I found something even more horrifying. I wish it had been a monster. Or a devil with fangs. The child in me would’ve just run, cried, and found comfort in Mom’s arms — and the fear would go away. At least you can hide from monsters. But you can’t hide from the truth. Their sinful whimpers and moans haunted my innocent mind like a horror bedtime story, as they devoured each other’s bodies. I was just a kid at the time, but I felt like the world was against me — pushing me slowly down the cliff of disappointment. May 10, 1995 Another day, another weed. The psychiatrist told me to stop using this junk, but what can I do? This is the only thing that stops me from thinking about the sht of life. Last year, I quit using coke ‘cause I got caught. I was a minor at that time, and rehabilitation was the option. And the years I spent there made me realize that Mary Jane is far better than Coke. The effect isn’t long-term like the latter, but at least it makes my whole body calm and helps me travel beyond our cosmos. Don’t worry about my dad. How could he have noticed it when he was so busy doing his job as the fcking mayor of this town? Brought me an advantage, really. Instead of letting me stay in rehab, completely drug-free, he opted to bring me to this province with him and covered my addiction with his public service. F*cking ironic, right? One of the goddamn people in the world who can clean dirty clothes and sell them as silk May 11, 1995 She was here. This time, she did her own tour around our house kaya nakatanggap siya ng kurot ki manang sa pagiging maingay at pakialamera sa mga furnitures na nakita niya. I was watching her through the window in my room, and I couldn't stop myself dahil sa ingay niya. She saw me. Instead of being surprised, she waved her hand at me as if I were her long-lost friend.