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To anyone still interested in reading about my "life"...

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Heartbroken Notes: Day 12

Day # 12 (April 22, 2011)

Flipping through the cable channels, I stopped on HBO. It was one of the few channels that didn't have annoying Spanish dubbing. So there was the glowing animated character of Jim Carey in Bruce Almighty. I felt the side of my mouth curl in delight upon the strong confrontation of his over-the-top, ridiculously cartoonish acting onscreen. It was already a little halfway into the film when I found myself finally placing the remote down.

Gnawing away on the now browning apple slices; I re-familiarized myself with the movie remembering that though I had seen it a while back, I had forgotten most of the scenes.

Then came this one scene that turned me into a pathetic sap. The "I Want Her To Be Happy" scene towards the end that made my heart writhe in pain and eventually bawl. I swear, tears ran down my cheeks like I was two years old again.

God: Grace. You want her back?

Bruce: No. I want her to be happy, no matter what that means. I want her to find someone who will treat her with all the love she deserved from me. I want her to meet someone who will see her always as I do now, through Your eyes.

God: Now that's a prayer.


I cried because (like any other hopeless romantic douche crying over a RomCom), I knew deep inside that I was this character...

I knew that I was Bruce.
And his prayer was my prayer.

I'll be gone for another good month, and I hope he realizes what truly makes him happy. Now if it means that I can no longer be part of the picture, I will die a thousand times -- but I will accept it... because I only want his happiness in exchange for my absence...

And that's how much I truly love this man.

Heartbroken Notes: Day 11

Day # 11 (April 21, 2011)

So today I had McDonalds for the first time in an entire month... and it reminded me of him and how much I truly missed him.

An immediate flashback of quick memories viscioulsy sliced through my chain of thoughts before I could even attempt to take my first bite. Trying to ignore it all, I slowly sunk my teeth into the soft bun. The lettuce slices spilled from the side of the burger, and it reminded me of the very slices that used to spill on my lap while I fed him his double-cheeseburger in the car as he drove down the Edsa highway like a lunatic.

My thoughts immediately transported me to a place and time tucked away in the corners of my memory.

I was back in the moment when my man and I did away with dining-in (like proper adults) because we were both in a hurry to get to our classes together.

There was a sequence to feeding him:

1. I would tear open the ketchup pack and dip the fries into them by twos before shoving them into his eager mouth. It made me happy to wipe the ketchup off his lips while he busily manueverd through the lanes, trying to avoid traffic.

2. I'd bring the burger up to his mouth, saying in a sing-song manner "Open wiiiiide!" only to be amazed at how fast he could actually chomp away on all those carbs.

3. Every now and then, I'd take his Coke and bring the straw up to his lips so he could take quick sips in between bites.

Yeeeeeeeeaaaaahhh... I totally babied him. And I loved it. I loved the feeling of taking care of him, spoiling him... and I'm pretty sure he loved it too... Because this became a very common EZ activity (albeit dangerous.) Infact, it became so common I learned to time myself feeding him, so I could get to my food in less than 30 minutes.


Wow. I can't believe I got so emo with the cheeseburger just now, it's not even funny.

Heartbroken Notes: Day 10

Day # 10 (April 20, 2011)

So I went to a spiritual retreat three days ago (Um, yes I really did.) and freely shared my problems like I was a legit rehab patient during a big group session. "Hi. My name is Elly, and I'm a bitch." (Okay, so I didn't really say those exact words -- but the people know I'm in pain for my own act.)

Surprisingly, I bagged home a big pile of Godly enlightenment after much meditation, praying, and prancing around the lush flowery blanket of nature which was now slowly vanishing with the strong appetite of dry autumn leaves.

I also watched the first part of Eat, Pray and Love like a bonafide heartbroken chick in search for 'meaning' and realized that I am the permeable membrane being talked about in the film. Which means... I easily lose myself in the person I'm in love with. The passage goes like this:

"To have issues with boundaries, one must have boundaries in the first place, right? But I disappear into the person I love. I am the permeable membrane. If I love you, you can have everything. You can have my time, my devotion, my ass, my money, my family, my dog, my dog's money, my dog's time—everything. If I love you, I will carry for you all your pain, I will assume your own insecurity, I will project upon you all sorts of good qualities that you have never actually cultivated in yourself and I will buy Christmas presents for your entire family….I will give you all of this and more, until I get so exhausted and depleted that the only way I can recover my energy is by becoming infatuated with someone else."
 - Page 65, Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

I've been doing everything I can do learn to walk again on my own...

And I did it! I reconnected with friends, got all the rest I needed, watched all the good movies, sung like a superstar in the shower, and danced in my PJs while ironing my dad's polo shirt. I walked around the city, took pictures of everything beautiful to marvel at, and smelled the flowers.

But you know what?

I'm still praying for a miracle.

I want to stop hurting deep inside. I want to let him go. It's the most difficult thing in the world. Because I still love him very much. Every minute of every day.

And I know somehow deep inside that the miracle I'm truly praying for (besides being happy in myself)... is being with him again...

And being completely happy...

Heartbroken Notes: Day 6

No one reads this crap of a blog anyway, and I badly need an outlet.

Today I shall begin the series of "Heartbroken Notes" (Sorry, my grieving neurons couldn't come up with a better title) -- a collection of entries putting down on "paper" my thoughts and feelings as I journey through another road of being a Heartbroken Miss.

It should be helpful for me. We'll see.


DAY # 6  (April 16, 2011)

I sit here alone with very mixed feelings and a very crumpled face. It doesn't help that his face is smiling up at me from the picture frame positioned right next to this laptop.

God his smile's fucking amazing.

So here's the dilly:

Six days ago, I tried to beome a "bigger person" by telling my boyfriend we should probably stop having a relationship. For the past couple of months, we have been treading very unhealthy waters. And it came with such a suddeness that we both did not know how to deal with it. Though crippled, we still tried. God knows we tried, but we just keep misunderstanding each other and fighting like our lives depended on it.

Anyway, I did it for him. I felt he'd be happier without me in the picture. It sounds all so simple now, but God knows it was the hardest thing to have the courage to even just consider. He loves his job, and I am just in. The. Fucking. Way. Of. It. All.

So why do we fight?

My side: I want him to prioritize me over work. It's as simple as that. Especially since school vacation has kicked in, and since we've been dealing with a particular haunting issue together since time immemorial.

His side: He's giving his time to me but I just don't see it. He's been doing everything he can to help me deal with my long-term issue, but he's got to work too. A lot of work! Round the clock. 'Cause he's a pastor.

Hold it.

Yes! He's a pastor.

And no!

Not those Bible-pounding, overly-energetic, constantly-in-a-trance types you see when the cable channels go up in the line of six (6). I hate those. I'd never date any of those. My baby's the very cool, laid-back type. He's ridiculously calm and collected; and he blends in with the rest of the world like a chameleon. He's the last person you'd imagine to be a hardcore servant of the Lord.

Anyway, I love this guy to death. Even the fact that he's a pastor. He's my everything. Truly the first man who made me realize there are so many more beautiful things to life, and that includes being with him. Forever, if given the chance.

The relationship isn't the easiest because being with him sort of calls for a 'conversion' of some sort. Now I made it very clear since the beginning that I was never going to convert from Catholicism to Christianity. But somehow, functionally -- just by trying to be a wonderful girlfriend (meaning going to Sunday services, trying to serve in church [OMG. My friends sometimes swear they no longer know who I am anymore.], and adjusting to a new circle of friends) -- I am somewhat slowly converting to Christianity... without knowing it. As a girlfriend, I became a chameleon.

Now am I happy about that set-up?

I have to be honest: Not always. I mean, what the hell? It's so different from who I am!

So why not let-go of the relationship?

Because he never forced me to do anything, and I want to make him happy. With a little compromising, I am happy to see him happy. And when you truly love someone, you just want to keep the other person as happy as they could possibly be.

So it's been Day 6 since the big break-up. I've moved all the way here to Santiago, Chile to do the grand, dramatic "soul-searching". (Which is mostly true... I also missed the cold weather and the hot baths.)

Anyway, my mind told me to initiate it. I feel like I've always been holding him back from being the best pastor he could possibly be -- picking fights with him or what not; and so we parted ways on Skype... I felt like dying. I seriously did. You know, like there's an invisible hand punching through my chest and unmercilessly crushing my already-beaten heart. Yeah, that's how I felt.

And you know what my mistake was?

I e-mailed him!

Not once. But thrice!

Fuck! What happened to the independent person in me who could handle anything, who flung herself out to the world in the hopes of rescuing heartbroken damsels in distress everywhere?

Perhaps my heart finally caught up to my mind. The pain was just to intense that days and days of thinking about it made me realize... Fuck. I still want to be with this man forever. And I shouldn't care if it's hard because I love him!


Well that's the truth anyway. Up to today. Day 6.



Picture life without him. And try to like it.

Wish me luck.

"Buy Me Napkins!"

I had a choice whether or not to throw a bitch-fit over a really bad case of PMS.

And I chose not to.

So I ended up dragging the poor thing my boyfriend all the way to a drugstore-slash-department store with me before having our dinner. I needed my ibuprofen fast before all hell broke lose.

Pushing my way hurriedly and impatiently through the entrance doors, the light-bulb above my head suddenly lit up. I glanced at his unsuspecting face, and told him the three words men just hate to hear...

“Buy me napkins!”

A look of confusion fell upon his face, and he immediately stopped in his tracks. He gave me this puppy dog look, which always felt like a punch in the stomach – so consequently, both my feet remained glued to the floor. My stupid pain receptors could wait.

“Uh… Could you at least…” he began to mutter, gesturing with his hands. “Like, what—?"

“Anything with wings!”

(** Having been together for six months somehow made it easier for us to understand each other through non-verbal cues. Like when I start texting away furiously mid-coffee date, he knows I just need attention. Or when he doesn’t engage in banter, I just know he needs to be stuffed with a double cheeseburger within the next thirty minutes...)

I gave him an assuring smile, “Surprise me!”, before running off to buy my medicine.

I fell in line in front of the pharmacy counter. After telling the attendant my choice of brand, I looked behind me to see where he had gone.

Three seconds later, I saw his familiar head from behind the aisles of toiletries. From the way his head slowly moved, I could tell his eyes were panning across the frightening wall of all the feminine hygiene products neatly stacked before him.

I felt my heart skip a beat.

You see, he's such an Alpha Male. I could never imagine him walking a poodle, carrying my handbag for more than an hour… let alone, choosing which menstrual pad would be right for me. So seeing him truly making an effort to read each and every pack and box – being stripped completely of all masculinity and consciously choosing to violate an article or two under The Bro Code – I was had. Completely.

He eventually made his way to the cashier, motioning for me to wait for him outside.

I made my way out, and watched him through the glass panel. It must’ve been the hundredth time that I felt the way I did: smiling to myself and falling in-love with the poor thing my man all over again.

"For it is told: He who shalt not deprive the woman of her napkins
shalt forever be like gold in her eyes!" 
- The Book of Elly

Mom's Cellphone

I used to love playing with my mother’s cellphone for two reasons:

     1.       She always bought herself top-of-the-line Nokia units, and
     2.       She never really knew how to use them. (And didn’t really care.)

Secretly lamenting over the fact that I couldn’t spend cheese on myself that time, I always found myself borrowing her cellphone and tinkering away on the gadget like it was mine. This happened almost everyday when we went to visit the parentals in Chile, and couldn’t watch anything understandable on cable TV. Even watching the muy guapito Enrique Iglesias clone take out the trash every other day got boring.

Anyway, back to mom’s cellphone. I was most proud of filling her phone gallery with pictures of hot, half- naked Asian men in jest –  if only to hear her giggling in the other room four days later and squealing “Ang laki naman!” (“It’s so big!”).

Next thing I knew, this was her wallpaper:

So proud of her... *tear*

Ofcourse this was all supposed to be one of those little inside jokes between the two of us. I didn’t really anticipate occasions where my 5’1” sweet-looking  old mother would bring her cellphone to the nearest mall, in need of assistance when she didn’t know how to insert her new sim-card.

Accompanying her to a cellular shop, I kept a steady eye on the Spanish attendant as my mom handed the phone over to him. Having waited impatiently for his reaction, I burst into laughter when I finally saw it. It was priceless. His serious veneer suddenly relaxed to belt out a big cackle. He immediately tapped his colleague on the shoulder and showed him my mom’s wallpaper. Mr. Colleague laughed as well, exposing the gap between his front two teeth which made me laugh even more.

(Shut up. As if you’re so nice.)

Then my mother teasingly said, “Mi novio es guapo, noh?" (“Isn’t my boyfriend handsome?”)


So you see, I loved borrowing my mother’s phone. And here's my third and final reason:

     3. She always had the most vibrant and playful spirit.

Optimistically Disenchanted | TNB