It Was A Sunday Afternoon, And I Sat At The Dinner Table With My Parents. I Had Been Waiting For This

I was full of hope then suddenly everything went crumbling down.

I’ve been several months away from home living in the cityyyyyy 😭😭😭

i miss going out.

I don’t know if peaches tastes good with condensed milk....

I was wondering maybe...

I deserved better than these clandestine meetings

What do I like the most about my city?

Kidapawan City, once a small town nestled in the misty mountains of North Cotabato, holds a special place in my heart. I still remember being 8 years old when my family moved back to the Philippines, greeted by the cool mountain air and the warmth of this vibrant city, just a couple of hours away from bustling Davao.

Adjusting to the weather here was tough at first—I found myself in and out of the hospital yearly until I finally adapted. The nights were chilly, and the days could be warm, but not oppressively so—just the kind of pleasant warmth that feels comforting.

As I grew older, so did the city around me. We welcomed franchises of beloved fast-food chains, watched hospitals upgrade, and witnessed roads being reconstructed and experienced numerous other developments that have transformed the city. Old buildings, standing proud, were gradually renovated to blend seamlessly with the changes. Progress was palpable.

In the simplicity of life here, I found comfort. I could just walk to my destination without worrying about sunburn, thanks to the shade provided generously by the trees. Everything I needed was within walking distance, fostering a sense of closeness and community.

Kidapawan City isn't just a place to me; it's home. It's where my heart will always reside, where the memories of childhood and the warmth of family intertwine. It's a sanctuary where the pace of life allows me to appreciate the little joys and the beauty of each day.

I am used to keeping things to myself. I am afraid of telling people about how I feel, or what should I do about it. I’d rather deal with it myself. 

There was a time when I tried to open up to people about some of the things I find a burden to keep to myself but then I am ignored and told that I am just overreacting about situations, or I’m playing with my head. They call me a drama queen. I felt humiliated. I tried to trust someone with what I feel but they just laugh at you and ridicule you, just dismiss it like it doesn’t matter.

On social media, some see people with mental issues as people who just love to create drama to be noticed. Even though how much you try to be understood, others will still think differently. 

Sometimes, if I think I can’t handle the pressure, or the anxiety, I break down. I retreat to my room. Write about it and just try to forget it, at least for a while. I don’t know. As long as it’s off my head I’ll be fine. It will just go away, unless something triggers it. It’s a cycle. Goes on and on and you do not know when it will stop. 

April 6, 2024

Day 3:

Grief is a relentless companion, haunting every corner of my existence. It lurks in the shadows, waiting to pounce when I least expect it. Today, I found myself reaching for the phone to share a funny anecdote, only to remember that the one I wanted to call is no longer here.

It's in these moments of solitude that grief truly rears its ugly head. The silence is deafening, echoing with memories of happier times. How do you fill the void left behind by someone you loved so deeply?

"Papa left, but this time, it’s different."

Growing up, I was incredibly close to my dad. I called him "Daddy" with so much affection, and he was always my favorite parent. Whenever I did something wrong and Mom would punish me, I’d run straight into my father’s arms for protection. Every day, when he came home from the office, my sister and I would play hide and seek. It became a ritual. As soon as we heard his car pull up, we’d hide, and the moment he walked through the door, we’d shout, "Where am I, Daddy? Find me!" He’d always play along, pretending not to see us, even when we were hiding in the most obvious spots like under the bed or beneath his writing table. Those moments were a haven of joy and laughter, the kind of memories that seem eternal in a child's heart.

He was one of my first teachers, next to my mom, and he was the first person who taught me to pray. He introduced us to the church, to God, and he was the reason I had faith. He taught me the importance of prayer and how God hears us, even if we cannot express ourselves too much, He can read our hearts. He also taught me to play musical instruments, his voice a constant guide as my fingers stumbled over the keys. In every note, every chord, there was a connection to him, a bond that felt unbreakable.

Twenty-six years ago, our family decided to move back to the Philippines. I thought Daddy was coming with us and staying for good, but he had to leave. Leaving was always painful. He told me that he had to go back to work so we could go to school, have a good life, and fulfill all those dreams he nurtured for us. I still remember crying so hard whenever my dad left, the ache in my chest as if a piece of me was being torn away. I would say a lot of prayers for him, asking God to keep him safe until he could come home again.

He would make long-distance calls once or twice a month. I really don’t remember how often, but he’d call the school to connect with us (my siblings). We would exchange “I love yous” and “I miss yous,” and the inevitable, “When will you be coming home?” But he would never give us a definite answer. Since he was calling from the school principal’s office, I was too shy to tell him exactly how I felt, too embarrassed to let him hear the depth of my longing in front of strangers. So, I kept it inside, a growing well of unspoken words.

He always came back, like he always promised me. He came home every year (?) —at least, that’s how I remember it. There was a time he didn’t come home for two or three years. The reason? I do not know. But with every absence, a part of our bond frayed, and though I tried to hold onto it, the threads began to slip through my fingers.

As I grew older, my love for him matured, but it also changed. I didn’t get as close to him as I once did. When I was a child, I used to sleep beside him, feeling safe and loved. He was my favorite parent, my hero. But as I grew up and found my own voice, we began to have disagreements. I would occasionally argue with him, and we never reconciled. I would talk to him, but I never said sorry for any misunderstandings we had. Stubbornness? Pride? I’m not sure, but I let the distance grow.

That continued for years. He was no longer the parent I adored, and I had become someone he couldn’t quite reach. I changed, and the person I became was colder, less forgiving. April arrived, and I found myself standing beside his casket, looking back and wishing I had been kinder and gentler with him while he had time. Time—my most relentless enemy. I reflected on all the chances I had wasted and desperately wished I could have them back. Despite all the shortcomings, despite the truth that had hurt us both, none of it matters now. When you lose someone, the regrets come like a flood, drowning out everything else.

I am left with memories of what was, and a deep sorrow for what could have been. If only I had known this time would be different. If only I had known that when Papa left, he would never come back.