I’m confused.  I have been a mound of angry muscles, veins, and bones and arteries who if not reined in would go about virtually biting people’s heads off. When you died and been brought back to life, I would think you would be gentler. You would look at the world and everything in a whole new light. Well, I don’t.  I am angry at the doctors for making me go through that when they could have prevented it.  I am angry at my body for being such a messed up clump of cells that cannot even function the way it is supposed to. I am angry at my health for being such a pain in the neck. I am angry at the people who bring work to my door when they know that I need to rest. I am angry at friends who just see me walking around and standing on my own two feet and then assume that everything is fine now and they can treat me without the slightest bit of sensitivity and consideration. I am angry at people who think they are encouraging but actually irritating. I am angry at the dishes that don’t wash themselves.  I am angry at the ants that besiege my plate of cold food because the one who brought it did not think of waking me up when he brought it. I am angry at being always at the receiving end of care that is now becoming forced and tired.  I am angry at the fact that I cannot even play with my son. I am angry at the air for not blowing towards the direction that I want it to. I am angry at people who keep asking questions that I do not really want to think about at the moment like when I am getting back to work (P, exception dito ang Kalanguya linguistic questions. :P).  I am angry at the LIKE button of Facebook.  I hate my medicines with their awful side effects of making you feel as if you are suffering from morning sickness when in fact your body was just emptied out of a baby, reminding you day after day what a rotten reproductive system you have.  I hate the laundry that cannot hang themselves. I hate the pounding ache in my head. I hate the pulsing pain in my eyesockets.  I hate trying to be strong when in fact I am everything but.  I hate my incapacitated braincells, I hate this emotional and overly sensitive state of mind. I hate feeling like this! I hate! Should I even go as far as to say that I am angry at God?  Well, the thing is I know that is stupid and pointless, so why should I do that? After I came to my wits at the hospital, I told God, “I would not waste my energy and both our time questioning Your purpose. I’ll just stay put and wait.” That was one of my sincerest and honest prayers but when the pain and the emptiness brought about by my losses overtakes me, I become an angry heap of emotional wreckage. 

So shrinks talk about the five stages of … I forgot what it is. Is it Loss? I don’t know. But anyway, the First Stage is Denial, the second is Anger.  I guessed, being an extremely literalistic realist, I just did not bother with the first stage, as there was really nothing to deny.  I lost people in my life (everyone does as time goes by, I supposed). I lost pregnancies, I lost babies. I lost parts of my body, parts that somehow make a woman a woman. All those little losses added up to this one big emptiness that creeps up on me when Im alone, or when people are unkind, or insensitive. So how can you go into denial, when death stared you in the face and almost won? So I went straight into Anger and remained there.  I should stop writing because my eyes are going blind with pain. But I have to keep writing to keep my marbles.  I feel literally nauseous about everything!  

Bargaining is supposed to come next.  Even while I lay dying in a hospital bed, I did not bargain. I was just angry for taking them so long to believe me or figure out my diagnosis for themselves so my pain could be eased. I had no thoughts about asking God to spare my life. I just thought that, “Well if He takes it back, He takes it back! If He keeps it for me, well and good, but I will choose to be thankful to Him either way!” I was angry at the situation that I am healthy in every other way but when I am brought to a hospital, I always get one of my feet into the grave, not because my health problem is complicated or impossible, but only just because I am surrounded by people who do not care much. That I, lying there dying have to stir the boat to the right direction.  I’m tired! 

Please don’t come and tell me to be stronger.  Be here or there and be strong for me. Please don’t tell me to pray.  Pray for me. Please don't assume that just because I say something is fun, you'd join in and make fun of me.  Please don’t tell me words like "be thankful to God because He chose to spare your life."  I know and already did, and doing it over and over. Maybe you could show me that you're thankful that I am still alive.  Don't tell me words like “kayang-kaya mo yan.”  It may be true, but that is not the point because all I feel right now is the pain.  Please don’t tell me that I am still blessed because I have Xami, and that I should just focus on taking good care of him. That is true and you would be right but again, that is not the point.  The point is I lost his siblings from this life, and that loss is the most tangible thing for me right now.  Be here and let me ramble about the contents of my mind. Be here and listen to me and help me process what I’ve been and am going through. Be here or there but be a listening ear without judgment or advice. Just be. 

But then no one’s here but this empty white page on my monitor… and a clueless little boy, and a tired man. 

(Thank you for your smiles, little boy. Thank you for your care, his father.)

(I'm saying all that because those were the things that were said to me and I found out that instead of encouraging me, they made me more sad and feel more alone in the suffering. I know they are intended for good but for me, they have the opposite effect.) 

Lots of people prayed, mostly from a distance, and I appreciate that.  Thank you very very much.  But that makes it more sad, because people whom I don't have expectations go out of their way to say encouraging words.  Yet, let's face it, there is a different level of comfort one can get from people with whom one has a personal relationship that one cannot get from the ones with whom one has a professional relationship only. I guess we have more expectations from people whose hands we've held in the past. But oh well, expectation is a killer. Better not to have any, says the drama on tv. 

(This is how I feel now. It does not mean it will be the same feeling I will have for the rest of the day or the week. I guessed that is why it's called a process.)

mY Synapses...


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