It Only Took Him a Day

We were already the last two people left drinking in the resto-bar when my male friend tells me about getting over his long-time girlfriend in a day.

I repeat: In a day.

Ignoring the “WTF”-look plastered on my face, he continues going on about how ready he is to enter into another relationship because he isn’t afraid of getting hurt again.

(Ladies and Gentlemen! I now officially change my answer to the common survey question, “What super power would you like to possess?” It’s always been the automatic “I want to fly!” response. But after speaking with this amazing freak of nature, and admiring his superhuman-like ability to get over heart-break that fast; I was all ears and ready to learn like an eager Padawan!)

“I think most people, instead of focusing on moving on, focus more on re-living the memories… and staying in the past,” he casually says before taking a drag off his cigarette. The confidence in his voice cloaking years worth of experience got me hooked in an instant.

“But wait, you have to go through that process!” I protested.

I have always thought that experiencing heart-break was the most painful thing in the world. (And that’s not just because I’m a hopeless romantic.) I also strongly believe that one cannot skip the grieving stage, the in-denial stage...and jump straight to parading around the hook-up market with floating hearts and promising cupids.

What my friend meant though, was not brooding too much on the past and acknowledging how everything will eventually be alright. In other words, shutting the heart up and accepting in his mind that whatever happened was for a reason. Simple as that. No But’s. No If’s. No rocket science. No Mandarin translations.

Metaphorically, you can’t keep looking at the rear-view mirror while driving. The focus should be on the windshield – wiper stains, splattered bugs and all.

But in a day?!
My skeptical mind still won’t shut up.
Is this a Men are from Mars thing?

Is moving on simply a matter of the mind’s strength?

I mean, I admit to brooding over my failed relationships -- the countless Kleenex boxes, the replays of “One More Chance”, the unpublished emo blogs, the hard partying… (and crying in the bathroom stall after getting seriously smashed), the torture of playing love songs over and over again, the re-reading of lovey-dovey text messages, the staring at old pictures, and last but not least, (the one 90% of girls I know have been guilty of) – the waiting for that one text message from that unknown number you know is his, which you’ve deleted from your phone-book to keep yourself from calling or texting him, only to realize you have it memorized anyway. (Haha!) So I’m a chick, and we estrogen-filled creatures thrive on all that futile, pathetic drama…

I kept this to myself of course, in fear that my friend from across the table would curl his upper lip at me in disgust.

“So what was the shortest time it took for you to get over an ex?” he quickly interrupted my thoughts.

I paused for a while. “Shortest? Um… three—no, wait! Two months.”

He looked at me steadily and cracked a small grin. “Wow. That is long…”

I guess I will never arrive at an absolute answer to my question. It must be qualified to tailor-fit the experiences of different people and must be applied on a case-to-case basis. I, personally, found it helpful to go through the “slow but sure” process of drowning myself in my tears, denying how single I’ve become overnight; only to later find peace in accepting how I shouldn’t put all the blame on myself or how I can get comfortable with calling him an ass.

Not all people have the same emotional strengths. Some may find it better to let all the baggage and pain beat them up in a day, only to promise themselves they’ll be back up on the horse by the next day.

That being said, I clinked glasses with my friend; secretly wishing a day was all it could take for me too.

In Singing my First Year Blues

“I am such a failure!”

It was as if those words were put on repeat at the back of my mind yesterday. Not only was yesterday the last day of my first year as a law student, but yesterday was also the day the secretary of the Dean told me I failed in my Obligations and Contracts class with a seemingly apathetic shake of the head, “I’m sorry…”

I will not say her statement surprised me, for my almost-innate defense mechanism had me expecting the worst in all situations. Though I must admit, I did expect a little. I was in feeble hopes my efforts would be recognized after all those attempts to recite (revalida style) better and bounce back from the preliminary examination. After all, Dean Aligada couldn’t be that bad, right? I mean, though he was only known for arbitrarily passing 3 students at a time in all his classes, the demigod seriously couldn’t be that bad.

Wow.

How wrong was I?

The possibility of getting debarred is probably the biggest fear of any law student, next to not passing the bar examination after graduation. To me, it was that and failing to meet the expectations everyone had on me – my parents, my relatives and my friends.

And hearing “Aww… Sayang naman…” (“Aww… Such a waste…”) from my mother did not help. To me, that struck harder than the secretary telling me I failed my 5-unit subject. Mom had other words of encouragement but for some reason, her previous statement filtered them. I love her to death and still think I have the best mom in the entire world; but could she not have told me she was proud of me for at least trying my best? Then again, she was a frustrated lawyer.

Every single day is a fight and a struggle with the constant and desperate attempt to stretch my worth 256 KB mental capacity of a brain in memorizing statutes, understanding doctrines, looking up (to-sound-smarter)-Latin terminologies, and reading bulks and bulks of cases; topped off with hard-core commuting to fill my already weak lungs with more Manila pollution everyday. Looming over me was an ominously heavy feeling I wasn’t going to meet the expectations people had on me, despite my best efforts to pass that particular class.

So I went out with my law school friends last night, poker-faced and ready to drown out my sorrow with some hard partying. I was in desperate need of diversion from the oppressive loneliness that was beginning to eat me up.

A little more than 10 shots of tequila and 2 bottles of Red Horse later, I was already looming over the washroom garbage can, puking my guts out in all my Catholic school-uniformed-glory. This continued 10 minutes later at the parking lot with my guy friends telling me to “let it out” while rubbing my back. I had never gotten to the point of bad drunk-puking (let alone in front of 5 other people and for academic problems at that! WTF, right?) until last night. And the best thing about puking, I realized, is how you have every excuse to let your tears freely fall.

Funny how it was with those tears and waking up ten hours later to read text messages from concerned friends that I realized the things that mattered more than excelling and breezily passing in life…

(And it’s that damn cliché I keep forgetting.)

It’s in knowing that you are not alone in what you go through, because you still have the people you need to tell you to it’s okay to “let it out” while rubbing you back, albeit seeing (and smelling) you at your worst. It is in knowing that it’s okay to stumble because you have certain people to catch you when others won’t, and it is in knowing that winning can be but a mere shallow fruit of a feat when you don’t have people witnessing and embracing you at your failures first.

So here's an open thank you to those who still believe in me and in themselves...