Whenever I try to write, my hand freezes on the keyboard for a full two minutes before I can come up with any concrete thing to write. It’s either I’ve become too lazy or too rusty…or I’ve just ran out of things to say. Writing has always been the outlet for my emotions but lately even when very tragic things happened to me, I haven’t been writing. There could only be two plausible reasons for this, either I’ve found another outlet or that I have blocked my emotions.
Maybe an observation given to me was right, that I’ve grown numb.
When I was young (not that I am old, it just felt like eons ago), I used to really feel things bone-deep. But feeling or letting my emotions have their way took so much of me. Somehow, I had to protect myself or else I’ll be hanging myself in no time. It’s not that I’ve really grown numb, it’s just that I made myself become numb. Let me show you how it is like for me to feel. I’ll let loose my emotions for a while so you can understand the depth of its run. Now, listen…
My eyes see too much. I don’t just see what most people see but I see what most people have so triumphantly blocked from their sight that even if they try to dig in deep within their conscience, they still would not be able to conjure up any images. What do I see?
She is not just a child selling you Sampaguitas. She is a child that carried the flowers in her hands and hope in her heart that tonight she’d be able to sell it all so she can bring home a huge amount (which is not really huge) so there would be food for her and her siblings. I could see that she made her way to the streets with only her torn slippers as shield against the long journey and the cold concrete road. I could see in her eyes cynicism which does not fit her tender age. And I could see her future, dark, bleak, and dreary.
He is not just a child roaming aimlessly at the streets and inhaling rugby. He is a child who grew up without ever experiencing love. I believe, even almost certain, that he doesn’t really understand the meaning of it. I do not see his coarse manner as deplorable, I see it as something he had to develop to survive in the harshest of jungles. I see him growing up into…no, I could not see him growing up. I refuse to see. If I try to see more, I’m doomed. Let’s just look at another picture.
They are not just a homeless family. They’re a family whom people call lazy but really, they just lost hope. The parents die a little each day knowing they could not feed their children even if they too don’t eat. They can’t provide the basic needs of their children, no shelter, no food, not even clothing. That little kid sleeping beside his mother on the street without mat, without blanket, without shorts was just as big as my baby. Maybe he wasn’t as young since he could already sit up by himself, but he was so tiny, he was just as big as my 3-month-old baby. It breaks my heart.
I’m stopping now or else I’ll be rambling about the injustices that the powers that be impose upon the wretched of the world.
When I let myself feel, I feel too much that it not only drives me to feel pity and do charity but it drives me to feel pain and revolt.
Now that I am tied to the responsibility of being a mother and wife, I have to curb my emotions. Right now I’m working for a foreign capitalist company; I have to feed my son and help my husband. This is not where I really want to be, this is not what I really want to do with my life, this is not what I believe I live for…but I love my son with a love that only a mother can give (well, I am his mother). So, instead, I re-channel my emotions, I pour it all out towards my son. Not that I’ll be spoiling him; I’m a firm believer of the saying that goes: “Sometimes, you have to be cruel to be kind.” I’m willing to teach him a lesson even if it would be the hardest thing that I would have to do just so he would grow up to be a man—a real man.
Speaking of a real man, I’m beginning to suspect that I have two sons: my baby and my husband. In some ways he is a man…maybe…uh! But in more ways, he is still a child. Sometimes, I have to ask the question: “Is he really seven years older than me?” At first, I thought he was responsible, strong, reliable, and has firm good values… I used to think that he really loves me and cares for me…but he did something that hurt me deeply…not infidelity or something like that, but still it hurt me and the people I love (although indirectly), like my son and my mother. When you speak of love, you would never do something that could hurt those you love or do things that would make them suffer or drive them away. When you love someone, yes, you do make mistakes but you don’t repeat it over and over again. When you truly love someone, you would move heaven and earth just so that person you love won’t suffer or get hurt. When you truly love someone, you would even fight your own demons; you try to be the best you can be just to be deserving of that person you love.
If I let my emotions run deep, if I cease to be numb, it might result to a broken family…but I love my son so much…ironic, right? Because I feel too much like loving my son so much, I’m blocking my emotions so that I can’t feel pain so that I can keep my family intact.
These are just rumblings of a confused soul.
