Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Let it Be.

Tonight I ended a love affair.

A love affair that I had carefully cultivated, put my heart and soul into, and slept with repeatedly; a silent witness to my joys and tears (very minimal, of course) over the last few months. As with all good things, this too had reached its inevitable end. 

The journal I bought back in July, as an August birthday present to myself is now filled up to its last three pages. I took my time in filling them up, I wanted to go slow and to savor the moment. This hard-bound notebook, which I bought from Powerbooks has been one of the best journals I've ever owned. It is pretty, and girly no doubt, with its design of tiny multi-colored flowers lined with gold on a background of light cream, and an inner lining of fuchsia, my favorite color. It comes with an inner pocket, and closes with an elastic pagemarker. 

Turning it over in my hands, I noticed that it's become heavier than when I bought it. 

    From the ink? 

    Maybe, I use a fountain pen to write in it most of the time.

    From the contents of the pocket? 

    Probably. I stuff all sorts of things in it; a 500 peso bill from my Lola who secretly pressed it in my hand before I left for Manila, "For snacks,"she said, a napkin from Chef d' Angelo, a receipt for a chicken meal at Kenny's, a tag from a dress I bought at Karimadon, a receipt for the two application forms for PGH, snapshots of a lap procedure of that Pheochromocytoma patient that I had diagnosed some months ago, and a flyer for Cowboy Grill which a lady handed to me at the mall entrance (which I'll take my cousins to when they come to manila in december) and other odds and ends, as well. <-;-- Don't ask me why I keep these, though. :-)

    From me?    

 Because it's mine, it understandably becomes a temporary extension of myself for the past few months. It contains my thoughts, memories I want to keep, my secrets, entries of pet peeves, likes and dislikes, or commentaries on this and that. A journal just happens to be a perfect purgative. It brings out the best and worst in you, as it offers you safety, and secure safe-keeping.

    My journal smells like a man. A handsome, desirable man, strong and sexy, capable of leaping tall buildings in a single bound...but still "snuggly-wuggly". :-p

    I have this thing for scents. One time I got curious about what a particular scent smelled like, so I asked this guy at the perfume counter to help me. Actually, he seemed taciturn at first, but the story I made up about getting so and so perfume for my [imaginary] boyfriend had him opening up bottles and spritzing me samples (a paper tab of which I kept between the pages, thus the smell), which was very nice of him. I told him I'd think about it, though. He said they offered a discount during the holidays (but this was like months ago.) And no, I'm not being a creepy stalker, I'm just being a curious girl with a crush. lol.

    My family in the house, is pretty much used to the idea of me buying notebooks for writing in, that after the initial comment of my mother, "Hmm...that looks expensive.", I'm basically left alone to indulge in my vice of writing. My favorite spot to write is on the dinner table, where the chair and the table are just of the right height. They don't read my journals (I've got lots of them already in open view in my book-case at home), and I think they would find the deed too tedious.

    (Even I myself don't read my journals on a regular basis. It's mostly only out of curiosity, or nostalgia. And funnily enough, reading what I had written in the past makes me either cringe or chuckle in embarrassment. What seemed like such a heavy emotional burden at the time it was written, in retrospect only seems like a funny anecdote, and you wonder why you ever felt and did such a silly thing.

    i.e. " Even if I won't admit it out loud to anyone, I'm a pathologic believer in fairy tales and all things magical. " (Right. :-p)

    Of course, the stories aren't always pretty. They could be all sorts of things...things you need to keep to yourself because not everyone will understand, or they could be willful, spirited debates inside you that need to be sorted out, and all that.

    Reading about someone in their journal "humanizes" them. My cousin learned more about my paternal aunt from her journals after she died of cancer and left him her house. He later said that she was a totally different person after all. (I hope no one has read any of my journals. It would be absolutely mortifying, I can say that now.)


The end of my current journal also coincides with the conclusion (or near-conclusion) of other things in my life...

My job: Although it lacks for many things, mostly on Logistics and supplies, my one year (almost) stint in a primary hospital was a good way of making me realize how much people needed general practitioners in the rural areas. Most of the time, it is enjoyable and fulfilling. Last duty, I delivered a 17 year-old girl's baby without a hitch, and even got to name the little bugger. And because it was my brother's birthday that time, the kid got Steven (and another name) on his birth certificate. it was a fair deal. Those names were very...manly and would serve him well in the future. (Delivering babies is one of my favorite jobs ever.)

A teacher in Psychiatry that I'm fond of, Dr. Baltazar V. Reyes, who I've written about before, is in the ICU currently. The latest news I've heard was that he had coded, but they managed to revive him. This saddens me greatly, because it sounds an awful lot like the way my grandfather had gone. Just when you've started to love someone, and have them wrenched away from you just like that is cruel. As much as I want him to pull through, and see him again in those early morning teaching sessions on Psychoanalysis, I don't have the heart to let him suffer through codes again and again. He won't ever be teaching again from the looks of it. (I remembered how my grandfather could only contort his face in pain, some time before he died. )

The end of my self-imposed "vacation" is near. Training in the Psychiatry program starts in January. That would mean 3 years of living in Manila and working there to earn my stripes. I'm excited, yes, but it is only now that I've realized that I'm going to miss my family, and the comforts of home. Manila (unlike Iloilo City) is not somewhere they can take the car and drive to as easily. (That is a bit sad, yes.)
(I can picture myself going, "Goodbye, Have a nice life...", with much trepidation. )

I wish I could see my future. Talk to my future self. Anything.

I want to get an inkling of how this "new adventure" will fare.

Pop and I were driving home from my nephew's birthday party earlier this afternoon. One of my favorite Beatles' songs was playing, and we were singing along.

    "When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me,
    Speaking words of wisdom...Let it Be."
Shielding my eyes with my hand, from the afternoon glare, I sang along,
"And in my hours of darkness, she is standing right in front of me,
    Speaking words of wisdom, let it be..."

Who knows what will happen, really. As of this point, I'm just hoping and praying they'll turn out well in my favor.:-)

(Oh, and I also learned that songs shouldn't be taken literally all the time. Sorry.)


For my new journal, I've decided to adopt a Kurt Vonnegut technique. "Write with a particular reader in mind." For him, it was his sister. For myself, I think I'll use...someone I know, a friend I'd want to confide in. He's great, but harmless since he is never going to know about it anyway.


Got work in a few hours. See you all again next time. J



  1. The stop at the perfume counter was sweet, definitely not creepy. Steven is a good name--it was my grandpa's name.

    Three years...hopefully it was pass quickly and you'll have opportunities to visit.

  2. "And funnily enough, reading what I had written in the past makes me either cringe or chuckle in embarrassment."

    I just had to chuckle at this. I once kept a diary when I was 17/18 and it was cringe-inducing to read my younger self and all his drama, his silly fears, his naivete.

    But some of his hopes and dreams still remain, Sonia, as do yours, no doubt. We change, but we never change completely. I find some reassurance in that.

    As for your upcoming new adventures, I look forward to reading about them over the next three years.



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