To My Dear And Unhappy Wife, Mommy,
I’m writing this here in Calambâ, La Laguna, in a dark internet shochrip a few meters away from José Rizal’s house. It’s exactly 12:00 noon. I’ve been here in this historic city since early dawn. I went here, egged on by a spontaneous urge from within the back of my head to move out if just for a very short while from urban Metro Manila.
Remember the last time we had a fight? You forgave me, and then I suggested that I might need a short vacation, to somewhere nature-filled, a place conducive to my healing process. I’m taking that opportunity today since I think that it’s impossible for me to take that vacation. My back is still hurting from that unknown injury that has been bugging me since last year. But nothing will hurt me more than the mere thought of losing you in my life…
I’m not sure if I’m beginning this open letter correctly. How to apologize, is what I mean. I’m so ashamed at what I’ve been doing to you. We’ve been through this several times. I won’t be surprised anymore if you’re already numb, if my apologies seem unemotional to you anymore. But, God willing, I pray that this kind of apology that I implore would be the last of its kind. If you’re fed up with this same scene, I want you to know that I share your sentiments.
By now, I think you already know that I sent several disturbing text messages to several of our friends and officemates (including our beloved Mama Beth) about our marriage problem. Well, I didn’t exactly tell them what the trouble was between the two of us. I still remember some of those sent text messages: “Our marriage is on the brink of collapse. And it’s all because of me. My friends, please, help me…” “The air is tinged with jasmine and poison ivy. And the air is thick with melancholy I could even see it! Farewell, cruel world…” “Please console my unhappy wife and kids when I’m gone…” “Morir es descansar… (to die is to rest)” “Thank you, my friends, for everything. Goodbye!” And a lot more of that wasted, twisted stuff.
In view of the foregoing, it’s not difficult to surmise that I was planning to take away my life. But in reality, I couldn’t. If only I don’t have any morbid fear of seeing my own blood flow from my emaciated body, nor if my tolerance for pain is strong, I wouldn’t have been writing this, for I would’ve been dead since last night. How? I don’t know. I didn’t even have anything handy to kill myself. Sometimes, whenever some crazy idea like that comes into mind, I thought of maybe grabbing an unprepared security guard’s shotgun and aim it right onto my skull. Or perhaps jumping off a high building will do the job. But, like what I’ve said, I chicken out easily because of the abovementioned fears. Thank goodness for them. Besides, I realize that the greatest fear that I have is fear of God.
But the damage has been done. So many people already knew what’s happening between us. Whenever we’re together, they think of us as a perfect, happy couple. And I take pride to know that some of them are jealous that we are such a perfect couple. But I know that deep down inside you, you are no longer happy.
And it’s all my fault.
* * * * * * *
Flashback: we never had a beautiful beginning, anyway. What started out between us was not love nor infatuation nor any of that sort. It was lust, pure lust. We were friends back in college, yes. But I thought that was all. You had your love life (or, as you admitted to me during our barkadahán days with Christian, et al, your several liaisons). I didn’t mind that. You were beautiful, yes, so many horny college assholes and gentlemen alike are after you. But not me. In my eyes, you were never really a friend. Please, don’t get offended, but it was only Christian who I considered my friend, considering that we were spending so much time together. Besides, I think you knew my intellectual pursuits during our college days. I always wanted to be a writer. And a rocker (haha, how immature). I idolized Christian’s mom, the late great but unheralded Amelita Málig. My hands were full with the Liga Ng Sosyalistang Kabataan (LSK), with my guitar, with my writing. And problems with my mom. Never was there a time for me to court girls. I did, with Jerbeck (everyone in our barkada knew). But I should be truthful not just to you but to myself — I just forced myself to court her. Yes, I just forced myself. I hope that you won’t think that I’m gay or something, but I never really saw myself holding some girl’s hands during that time. It was all literature that I was thinking of back then. It was all rock music, and teenage angst, and rage. Rage and hatred towards my mother, for all that she did to me. You know that I’m a battered child. Even Mama Beth used that term when she was conversing with Mrs. Málig over the phone. But going back to my what I was trying to explicate, you were beautiful, with a promiscuous life. But I never cared about that. You even bother me with your kakulitán. But although you were not considered a close confidant, I considered you a barkada. Just that.
Jokingly, you mentioned that you’ve always wanted to have a brother, because you never had one. You told me how you wish we were siblings. And so I started calling you Ate Jheng since you’re more than three years my senior. It was kind of cute. I was also open to the idea of having a beautiful and kalóg Ate, so that in a way I’d be the envy of those who wanted to have you. But really, I never fell for you.
We were getting more close to each other. Don’t we miss those days that you were calling me up over the phone? I was usually reading my books (normally after a bitter scolding and beating from my mother) and you were getting dressed up to have a date with Sonny. And you just kept talking and talking and talking while I was pretending to pay attention, with one hand to the headset and the other holding my book. But there was a quality in you that made me listen to inane stories.
At first, I had my suspicions. You struck me as odd, so friendly, so amiable. I thought that maybe you had vile intentions althought I never had any idea what were those. You had for your barkada some of our college’s well-known names, and I was a little uncomfortable why you were befriending me. Christian assured me, though, that you meant no harm, that you were a plain and simple friendly lass who gifted books to Mrs. Málig to extend rapport (Christian’s translation: good grades). And by the looks of it, you befriended me to garner good grades as well, coz I helped you out with our assignments and projects. Oh, those were our young, makulít days. I kinda miss them.
Many of our friends and classmates started to tease us coz they’ve noticed we were always together. But we kept on denying –me, vehemently, of course– we took refuge over that showbiz defensive one-liner: “we’re just friends.”
Much later, you started confiding your love life to me. Although you already had a boyfriend, I was aghast to see you with our classmate Dominic. But I never asked questions. Neither do I talk about it to Christian. Like what I said, the only things that mattered the most was my literature. And during that time, I was already planning to escape from my mom’s sadistic attitude towards me.
Although I was never interested in you, sometimes you made me wonder. You said you were independent, a working student, but you were a mystery for me. Even your boyfriend was an interesting mystery for me when you started telling me that he’s already a working professional.
And you always had lots of money. I’ve been hearing that you were treating some of our classmates to drinks and snacks as if the world’s running out of food. But during some times that we’re together, I was the one treating you (hahaha!). Later on, during our relationship, you’d look back to that and praise me that I never used you the way some of our friends and classmates befriended you because of your snack and drinking treats for them.
During the course of time, I didn’t have the slightest idea that you were starting to have prying eyes towards me. This I learned later on from Christian himself, to whom you confide (a trustworthy guy, indeed, especially since he acts as if he’s some kind of fag, LOL!). And I didn’t know that you’ve been telling your barkada that you wanted to have me, a virgin, despite my rough psycho-rocker/activist/weirdo attitude. They even discouraged you, since it would be very difficult for a weirdo like me to be had even by the most sexually liberated chick in the world. But, as your adage goes, “what Jenny wants Jenny gets”.
And so you did get what you wanted. And more (careful what you wish, for you might get it!).
Prior to that, if one were to ask me, I didn’t have plans of getting married. Fucking various bitches was the least of my priorities, even. All I ever wanted was to be a fucking famous rockstar/poet. That’s all. How immature, ¿no? But, sadly, that’s how it is with today’s Filipino youth (oh how Rizal must be turning in his grave right now). And by the time that we were getting close, I was starting to become agnostic, no thanks to the influence of Marxism and to the atheistic philosophies of our extremely liberal student paper columnists.
And my relationship with my mom was walking on a flimsy thread. Although I have forgiven her, I think it’s best that I narrate here as well the reason behind our enmity.
But that’s another problem: there’s supposed to be no enmity… because I’m her friggin’ son! The emotional and psychological hurt she instilled in me still permeates from time to time, no matter how I try to forget: how she humiliated me in front of the public whenever she gets irate, even though I had nothing to do with it; how she blames me for bearing the surname of my dad –her husband– just because I spent some years of my childhood with my dad’s siblings –as far as I know, up to now she still hates my dad’s family members for reasons that are beyond me; she never fails to use every word that there is in the lexicon of hate whenever I do something wrong, even the slightest of errors, piercing words that are not even fit to be used for criminals for humanitarian purposes: “¡Hayop cá!” “¡Animal cá!” “¡Hindí ca pa mamatáy na pútangina cá!” “Cahit mamatáy cá, hindí ca malaquíng cawalán; iisipin na lang namin ng Papá mó na natalo siyá sa sugál!” All this and more. And it was a RARITY that she didn’t hit me. Impossible. And such a fiesta it was for our neighbors, thus robbing me of my self-confidence.
This abuse has been going… AS FAR AS I CAN REMEMBER. One of the most horrible things that she has done to me –a crime, I believe, towards a child– was when she forced me and my brother to get out of the house naked! It happened in my dad’s hometown. She and Papá had a fight. And she vented her anger towards us. I was already turning 11 years of age. The memory still remains.
That was not the first time she did that unspeakable thing. First was in her hometown, during the wake of a dead relative. me and my brother were quite young. We were still naughty, as to be expected of young boys too happy to be out of their prison-like home (our parents were very strict to us whenever we ask to play outside. Of course, it was out of sheer concern for our safety). Our naughtiness and annoying behavior got into her head. After beating us with her violent hands and any object that was near to grab (as she is wont to do to me even up to my marriage with you), she stripped us naked and sent us out. I never played with the kids in that neighborhood again. The second time was when she made us stand naked for about half an hour on our front door, in our apartment compound in Greenheights Subdivision, Parañaque, in full view of everyone living in that compound, playmates and friends included. I was never the same again in my dealings with my peers.
Whenever she gets angry with us, especially with me, she didn’t give a hoot if it’s a church of a public market. She’ll yell at you as if it were New Year’s Eve. And she’ll hit you like a worthless vermin in front of a throng.
Yes, I did wrong things that made her tick. But I was young. As Jessica Zafra put it, I was young — young people are expected to do stupid things.
Sometimes, if I have to reason peacefully and respectfully over an accusation of hers, she’d never listen to me. She’d rather have her violent fists and her wide array of throwable furniture and other hurtable stuff do the reasoning. Throughout the years of her violent attitude towards me, I got fed up of crying for mercy and parrying the throwables. I just let her hit me. And her rage brims to overflowing whenever she sees me not shedding a tear nor breaking into sobs.
One time, I found solace and peace under Eli Soriano’s Dating Daan. She warned me that she’d attack me there if I don’t stop attending. And that she’d hurl invectives at Soriano, not knowing that the latter was already a national celebrity (looking back, I just wish that she did it!).
She never appreciated my talent. Once, I showed to her a short play that I did when I was in Grade 6. She ignored it. Sometimes, I tried to understand her. I said to myself, perhaps maybe because she didn’t have enough schooling, thus the behavior. But Mama Beth was as unschooled as her. As a matter of fact, it doesn’t necessarily mean that an unschooled person tends to be violent towards his or her child. At that point, I was wrong. Whatever the reason for her sadistic approach towards me, I really don’t know. I suspect that she’s suffering from some mental illness, but I’m not really sure.
Upon graduation, I told her my intention of enrolling in UST’s Conservatory of Music, as my guitar playing was getting better by the day. She never gave it a serious thought. Instead, she even accompanied me to Mapúa Institute of Technology. Naturally, I dropped the entrance exam. I was never good in Math.
One time, late at night, I was typing a piece of poetry in our garden. I was doing it outside so as not to disturb them in their sleep. Mamá suddenly got up to take a pee. When she discovered what I was doing, she got angry again. I think she found that what I was doing was quite weird. She rudely ordered me to stop, without, of course, having that pass by without a violent slap to the face. To this very day, I’m still living those disappointing moments.
Being the writer (?) that I am, I envy my idol, Pepe Rizal. All his artistic pursuits were supported all the way by his parents. In fairness to my parents, we were not as rich as Rizal’s family. But I don’t think that what I was doing back then, i.e., writing poetry late at night, etc., doesn’t merit a beating or a dignity-breaking slap in the face. No.
Several times have I thought of killing her. But my educated mind kept telling me that I will have a bright future. So I didn’t do it.
Sometimes, I was tempted to disclose to my father’s family members my mother’s vilifications toward them. But fearing a family feud between my mom’s clan and my father’s clan, I restrained myself from doing that. I just endured the harsh words and brutal blows, and quietly sobbed in my room.
Although I may have forgiven her, I still couldn’t forget. the physical scars of her beatings are gone, but what she did to me emotionally might never heal. I wanted to forget, but I couldn’t. I wanted to forget, but I couldn’t.
I wanted to fucking forget, but I fucking couldn’t.
There were happy days with Mamá, of course. I will never, ever deny that. But her brash and violent dealings with me immediately erase and ovewrwhelm the happy memories.
I had thought of running away. But whereto? Despite my unhappy life with my very own mother, I didn’t have the guts to leave; I was still lured by the comforts, the amenities, of our house. I couldn’t see myself independent.
In one LSK meeting, me and a dear comrade, Dan, were given an offer by LSK organizer Gerry to start training for the RPA (Revolutionary Proletarian Army) somewhere in Central Luzón. I found the offer tempting, not that I was totally absorbed by Socialist ideals, but I was trying to look for an escape from my mom’s wrath, and to further sharpen my social awareness by joining such a group. I had a very adventurous air.
But all that changed when you came into my life.
It wasn’t myself, nor the RPA, nor Dan, who saved me from my wretched state. It was God who took pity on me, and He used you. I know that He loved me, and seeing me join a useless and violent organization won’t do me any good, and is not according to His plans.
How ironic. I once told Christian in a chat over at the school library that I never wanted to have kids nor raise my own family. But look what happened.
The rest is history.
* * * * * * *
I know that it didn’t start out right, or shall I say normal. There was no courtship or any of that sort. You know the story. It was after an evening class, and we decided to have a few drinks in some karaoke bar. The whole drinking gang of our class was there. We got drunk, I stayed in your place, and that’s it. I never had any idea. You took advantage. It was a betrayal of friendship. To you, it meant nothing. You’ve been doing it since you were seventeen. For me, it was a first.
The second time we did it, I naturally consented. I am a male. Of course I couldn’t say no to such an act. Strangely, though, we both considered what had transpired between us as a mere joke, a natural experience for the flesh. No big deal.
To paraphrase The Cranberries, everybody else is doing it, so why can’t we?
But more strangely, since that magical night, we became more attached to each other.
Our first night together turned out to be a big deal, after all. You started to distance yourself from Sonny and Dominic. I started to do the same to my pal and bandmate Jason although I was never a part of your intimate life when you were with him.
* * * * * * *
In one phone conversation, deep into our “intimate relationship”, we have both decided to become an official couple, choosing September 13, the night when we sang “Endless Love” hours before we drunkenly made love for the first time. A few months later, you got pregnant, and that’s how our family started. And that is how I became emancipated from my mom, at long last.
* * * * * * *
It was a rough ride during our early years of marriage. So many people wanted to separate us, not to mention the unavoidable circumstances, which, if all of it were written here right now, this letter would become a novel. But what I’m trying to point is, we’ve been through a lot. This coming September 13, we would have been nine years together – if we’d be able to pass through this latest storm in our relationship.
I know that while you were reading my history with my mother, something strangely familiar comes into mind: my attitude, my behavior, towards you. It’s as if I have transformed myself into Mamá whenever I get angry at you, and you’re the new me. There has been no more respect. I love you, Mommy, but I don’t know what’s happening to me.
Yeah, I don’t hurt you physically, but the emotional wounds that I inflict upon you hurts more than a thousand lashes. For that I feel guilty…
I couldn’t escape from the past. What’s more bizarre is that I couldn’t accept your past. I couldn’t accept you, a very exquisite, a very beautiful woman, could’ve done all those promiscuity. But why should I bother myself with that? I was never there during that time. I wasn’t yet a part of your life during your past relationships. But in a twisted sort of way, I’ve always wanted to make you feel guilty, feel guilty for having done those things, for not having known me at a much earlier time.
But what could we do? We were never in control of our past lives. The past is past.
But it wasn’t even past for me. I’m living it every horrible day of my life. They’re like zombies running after me. I wanted to think, to act, normally, to get away from them. I couldn’t.
What you’ve done in the past is already done. I know that you’re trying to help me, by not mentioning anything anymore about your past relationships. And I appreciate you for that. But it’s my fault. It’s I which brings it back to life. Many of them inadvertent, but still, they are resuscitated. I still need time to heal, I think. But during that process, I don’t want to lose you.
* * * * * * *
It is for that reason why I fooled you in the past. Yes, I had women to smite your past. To get even. You had fourteen men. But I only had one — you. I wanted to have vengeance over something that didn’t do me any wrong. It is such a queer thing that I don’t understand. Yet, just by thinking about it, it fills my emotion with indescribable rage.
* * * * * * *
I am not slow to anger. And that is unhealthy because I know it’s killing you. It’s killing you. Deep inside me, I wanted you to kneel in front of me and apologize, apologize for not having me as your first and only boyfriend. It’s crazy, I know. Is it because I’ve never had any relationship at all before you?
It shames me to no end that my male friends have had several relationships in the past. Sometimes, in drinking sessions or in small talk, I lie that I had several girls, telling them of sexcapades in my youth that never did happen. Shameful. I think I’m being bothered by a male chauvinist phenomena: we are raised in a society wherein man should have everything, and that a woman should have nothing at all but his man.
In our relationship, it’s the reverse.
* * * * * * *
“The past hurts,” said Rafiki to Simba in The Lion King. “But it’s all in the past.” And he adviced Simba not to run away from it, but to face it, learn from it.
That is what I’d have to do. I’ve tortured you so much during our almost nine-year relationship. Although I didn’t mean hurting you, that the surge of anger suddenly barges up from within without warning, I’ve still caused you a world of hurt, nonetheless. I don’t want to happen to you what happened to me with my mom.
I got tired of my mom. I don’t want you to feel the same way I felt towards her.
I’ve asked you so many times before to give me one last chance. I do not know anymore how to ask one from you again.
I’ve prayed countless prayers to God to help me heal, but still, I’ve failed you. And I failed God as well.
The reason could’ve been simply me.
Everything’s supposed to be under my control.
* * * * * * *
They say artists live bohemian and strange lives. And often, they have failed relationships. Damn it. Mommy, I don’t to happen to us what has happened to the families of several other artists.
So let me take back the words that I told Christian in our school library.
I wanted to have a family. In this case, I already have. I just want to strengthen and fortify it.
If I was godless once and I was able to overcome it, why not our relationship. I will heal. I will heal. Please Lord, I will heal.
Mommy, I will heal, I promise you, I will heal. Please help me heal. All I need are your constant kisses, your embrace, your soothing words. Only your kiss, your embrace, your soothing words and caress can put out the fires of rage that I still have.
Mommy, not only am I afraid of losing you and our kids. I’m afraid of myself already.
But I know God is watching and guiding us. He never made this family for nothing.
I shall not be afraid anymore.
* * * * * * *
Enalteceré nuestra familia para la gloria más alta de Dios. I shall ennoble our family for the greater glory of the Lord.
God is with me. I shall never fail. I will not be afraid. I shall not falter. No more will I harbor ill feelings. No more will I allow a worthless past to sting
my brain.
Mommy, you have done your part to help me –to help us—forget our past, or whichever that may remind us of unsavory thoughts. You’ve been doing well. Thus, I should compliment it. It’s my turn to do much better. It’s my mess. I will clean it.
It’s not enough to forgive. One must forget as well. And I will also stop thinking that such things are easier said than done.
This I will do to save my sanity. Or better still, to save my family, more than anything else worth saving.
The family is God’s institution. So if I hurt any member, I offend God as well.
I shall live true to our family motto: “¡Enaltecer la familia para la Gloria más alta de Dios!”
Love, Daddy
