I'm Living Today

PROLOGUE

'Sana mamatay nalang ako' , sentence I constantly say. I think I say that often than thanking myself for living.

I'm so good at faking my emotions.

In school I'm jolly, I laugh a lot, I make friends a lot but when I got home all things start to crumble.

'Maglinis ka na'

'Magsaing ka na'

'Tulungan mo kapatid mo sa assignments niya'

'Ayusin mo pag aaral mo nang mapagawan mo kami ng bahay'

'Kailangan mong grumaduate para mapag aral mo mga kapatid mo.'

I'm so tired.

Every Saturday my dad will buy alcohol. Whenever I speak up he'll ask me if pinapabayaan ba niya raw kami, if we aren't eating and shit. He said he's drinking because he's 'thinking'.

"Cielo! Labas, bilis!" His voice cut through the silence of the night, laced with authority and the unmistakable haze of alcohol that always made my stomach knot with anxiety. Here we go again.

"Oh?" I responded cautiously, stepping into the dimly lit living room where my father sat slouched on the couch, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand.

" 'di ka na talaga marunong gumalang?" he slurred, his bloodshot eyes glaring at me with accusation.

I fought back a sigh, knowing better than to provoke him further. "Ano pong kailangan n'yo, Pa?"

He scoffed, taking another swig before gesturing vaguely towards the sink piled high with dishes. "Magluto ka nga ng noodles."

I nodded silently, suppressing the surge of frustration rising within me. Cooking was the easy part; navigating his unpredictable moods was the real challenge. As I moved towards the kitchen, I couldn't shake his words from my mind. This was our routine—a twisted cycle of demands and obedience, fueled by his volatile temper and my quiet resentment.

The night air outside seemed to press in, mirroring the tension that hung heavy within our walls. Glancing at the clock, I noted it was only 11:30 PM. The night stretched before me, promising more trials before I could find refuge in my room.

"Here na, pa" I said, fixing the table for him.

He looked at me, "sana naman sumunod kayo agad, yung mama niyo sundin niyo. Nakakapagod na. Mag po at opo kayo, ang gagaling niyo sa iba pero samin ganiyan kayo." He said, anger is visible in his tone of voice.

"You always tells us that—na pagod kayo, kami ba hindi? Just because nag aaral kami kaya bakit kami napapagod? The way you use your words samin. 'Sana patay nalang kami, ginusto ba namin mabuhay? Hindi!" I said directly looking in his eyes.

I heard my mom woke up. "Edi sana umayos kayo, 'di rin namin ginusto na magkaroon ng anak na ganiyan."

The tension in the room thickened as my father's gaze bore into me, his expression a mixture of disbelief and anger. My heart pounded in my chest, the weight of years of unspoken frustration and hurt finally bubbling to the surface. My mother's weary voice cut through the air, a rare interjection that hinted at her own exhaustion with the endless cycle of conflict.

But despite the fear and uncertainty that gripped me, a flicker of something else ignited within—a defiant spark that refused to be extinguished. I stood my ground, meeting my father's eyes with a resolve I hadn't known I possessed.

"I'm tired, Pa," I continued, my voice steady despite the trembling of my hands. "Tired of pretending everything's okay when it's not. Tired of carrying the burden of your expectations. Tired of feeling like I'm suffocating under the weight of it all."

For a moment, the room hung in suspended silence, the words hanging between us like a bridge that could either collapse or hold.

Nothing changed.

The tension in the room had dissipated like mist in the morning sun. As I walked down to the kitchen the next morning, the familiar scent of coffee brewing and the sound of my father flipping through the newspaper filled the air. It was as if the confrontation from the night before had never happened, swept away by the currents of routine and habit.

I glanced at my father, seated at the table with a steaming mug in hand, his demeanor calm and collected. There was no mention of our heated exchange, no lingering tension hanging between us. It was as though we both silently agreed to bury our words along with the night.

I busied myself with making breakfast, the clang of utensils against plates filling the silence that stretched between us. My mother moved about the kitchen with practiced efficiency, her expression unreadable as she prepared food for the day ahead.

As I sipped my own coffee, I couldn't help but wonder if I had imagined the whole outburst. Had I overreacted? Had he truly understood my words, or had they fallen on deaf ears?

The day passed in a blur of mundane activities—school, chores, dinner. There were no further arguments, no deep conversations that delved into the raw emotions of the previous night. Life resumed its familiar rhythm, the echoes of our discord fading into the background like distant echoes.

I retreated to my sanctuary—the small corner of my room adorned with canvases and books. With each brushstroke and each turn of a page, I sought solace in the worlds of art and literature. They were my silent companions, offering me comfort and understanding when words failed to bridge the gap between us.

Writing.

Writing is more than just a hobby for me; it's a lifeline, a portal to a world where imagination reigns supreme and emotions find their true voice. In the quiet corners of my mind, characters come to life, each with their own stories and struggles, echoing the complexities of human existence.

When I sit down to write, I enter a realm of limitless possibilities. It's a place where I can be anyone and do anything, where the constraints of reality dissolve into the fluidity of words on a page. This creative space is not just an escape from the challenges of everyday life but a way to confront them, to dissect emotions and experiences through the lens of fictional narratives.

The characters I create are my companions and confidants. They embody facets of my personality—my fears, desires, and aspirations—blended with traits borrowed from the world around me. Through them, I explore the depths of empathy, navigating the complexities of human relationships and the universal quest for meaning.

Writing, for me, is a journey of self-discovery. It's a process of excavation, digging deep into the layers of my subconscious to unearth truths that might otherwise remain obscured. Each story I weave is a mirror reflecting back fragments of myself, pieces of the puzzle that make up my identity.

My friends will ask me, 'are you okay?'

Of course I'll tell them I'm okay.

Each day is a constant battle for me.

Will I still be able to wake up tomorrow?

I'm. So. Tired.

But at least,

I'm living today.