Dear Lost & Confused Me,

“Thank u so much, elly! Ur the best talaga…swear!hehehe! :)”

I stared at the Arial letters glowing from my cellphone with this weird feeling. Well… mixed, to be more exact.

I was happy to have helped another damsel of a friend with her relationship concerns. For weeks I empathized with her (“Fuck yeah! Let’s get wasted!”), listened to the detailed accounts of her story (“Wait! I’m crossing the street! …Hello? Okay, go on.”), and encouraged her to do what she thought was right. (“Just so you know, I know someone who knows someone who's cousin knows a hit-man.”) I was also honest about giving advice from that unbiased, third-person point of view (“Seriously, he’s an asshole! And you know it!”) and constantly assured her I was just a few digits away if she needed anything. (“Yes, you woke me up! So start talking!”)

She found her way through eventually, and got around to taking the first step in the moving on from heartbreak process. Like a single mother ready with her camcorder at some piano recital, I was very proud of my friend.

And now here I was – lying in bed and staring up at the thankful text message she had just sent me.

(** Buzzkill! This is the part where I get weirdly serious...)

Paired with feeling happy for my friend was that little side of me that somewhat felt empty. And I knew it was because I, too, wanted so badly to benefit from my own words and advices.

It didn’t take much for me to realize how helpless I always seemed to be when I went through dating boo-boos and pangs of heartache. Here I was thinking: I was always ready to help people out, but why couldn’t I be that same person to myself? It was so easy when my friends needed me to play Oprah; but when it came to me facing my own predicaments, I shut down. Countless were the times I found myself not knowing what to do with the simplest of problems made answerable with the most “duh” of solutions.

Despite not knowing why I was disabled like this, I was certain about not being the only person who sucked at taking her own advice. I guess that’s why even the most independent "I-got-this-I-always-do!" people still need other people to hear them out. Because sometimes, hearing a voice other than the one coming from the back of your head is better. It’s that extra push to do or not to do something. It’s that validation of your thoughts. And sometimes, it’s that smack on the head you need to bring you back to reality. ("Sweetie, he's just not that into you. Now, slowly... step away from the phone.")

Shifting my position in bed, I replied to my friend’s message with a “No problem! :)”. Then after seeing it register under the Sent folder, I laughed.

Because my message was too damn ironic.

J-j-j-jaded!

"I am jaded."

Or so I thought.

Till the guy I was dating one Saturday afternoon asked me if I ever had an abortion.

I swear the beer almost shot out of my nose when he asked me that.
*mental scream: Dude! What the fuck?! What type of women have YOU been dating?!*
He was surprised with my bold statement, as I was surprised with his bolder question.

So there I sat, flabbergasted. My face was synonymous to that of a fish caught on a hook. “Okay mister, I’m not that hardcore. Nor will I ever be.”

Mr. Yes-There-Is-Such-Thing-As-A-Stupid-Question laughed at my reaction, placed a hand on my knee and started asking why I thought of myself that way.

I answered with a shrug, and he just gave me the look a father would give his 7-year old daughter for wearing red lipstick and fishnet stockings.

My ears started tuning out his words subconsciously as my thought process shifted from “My drink needs more ice” to the question: “Am I really emotionally worn-out?”

Nothing surprises me anymore. There are too many ironies in life, especially when it comes to love and relationships. Alanis Morissette shiz like “You meet the man of your dreams and he introduces you to his wife” or some ka-ek-ekan like that…

Having come from a series of different relationships, all different in color and all leaving me somewhat scarred in their own ways; I’ve come to realize certain things: Men cheat left and right. Men are after only one thing. Philandering men are macho, while "curious" women are perceived as whores. Be fragile with the male ego or the Playboy subscription number replaces yours. Marriage is “relatively” over by the second year. The cynical list goes on and on; and having tons of male friends while living in an Asian country didn't really help much.

God knows how much I wish I didn’t think this way. Those who have known me for years will understand the shit I’ve been through. Many people will easily point out that I’ve just been dating the wrong men. Pfft! Whatever. All I know is, I can’t help but think the way I do. That light coming from the end of a tunnel's actually a train, people.

So as a defense mechanism, *insert muscle flexing action* I’ve developed the habit of blocking out optimistic thoughts with anticipation for the worst. “He’s cute!” (…and has a psycho-ex’s number on his caller I.D.), “He’s smart! (…and will be an ass when you try to give him directions when you two get lost), “He’s sweet! (...and we both know it’s only going to last till the third month.)

I always made room for doubt, even when the moment spent with another person seemed almost perfect. (Yes, there are some awesome guys who manage to slip under the radar!) Generally, I could be in the middle of getting swept off my feet – (a.k.a. witty repartee with a funny guy sitting across from me) – and I would be thinking of every single stupid reason why it wouldn’t work out between us. (*gasp* He doesn’t own a pink shirt?!)

Yes. It sucks.
I suck.
I will be modest enough to admit that.

But until I find a compelling reason to make me believe otherwise, I’ll keep my shades on and laugh along with life’s ironies...