Employed for fourteen months today. Still alive. Still in/sanely wack. Brava, Monica.
I’ve been living on my own for 8 months now. And I’ve transferred thrice. But perhaps I’ll be staying longer in this new place. I got cooking appliances from the house, stocked up on herbs and pasta sauces, bought furniture, acquired more books, and started washing clothes myself (and let me tell you – that’s a huge thing).
For almost a year, the walls around me have been too bare. Tonight, I mounted photographs, postcards, and magnets on my door. Once I accomplish the feat of getting all my dirty clothes laundered, I’m going to get a succulent. Then maybe flowers. A vegetable garden sounds lovely.
Work has been crazy. I’ve been throwing myself into it more than I anticipated (which is kind of a lie, because I know how attached I get to the good stuff), and most nights all I want to do is do my laundry, read a book, and go to sleep. My quota of human interaction is limited to the hours I spend in the office, and as it happens, once I get off work, there are a lot of times when I do not want to chat with anybody (so forgive me if all I can muster doesn’t quite live up to your expectations, because it’s not you. It’s me. And a *routinary* nonsensical exchange of messages makes me want to retch) unless it’s about something important. Or philosophical. Nights are for recharging myself with the oddities I enjoy doing. But my ukulele has gone to better hands. My violin’s broken string has not been replaced. My paintbrushes have not touched color since I last went on an art retreat.
I’m happy, though. I dream about work all the time, but they’re good dreams. Almost funny, even, at how accurate they are. Most mornings, I wake up to my alarm clock and the storylines fade. All I get to remember are the faces – the same faces I see everyday. It’s the good kind of stress, honestly. I wouldn’t be so passionate about everything I’m doing if it wasn’t.
My whole life, all I wanted was to get a place of my own, settle down far, far away, and be on my own. I knew I wouldn’t be homesick. Lapu-Lapu has been my home for quite some time now. Some nights I close my eyes and think about what trying to be an adult has made me do. I am always thankful that I’m here. But some nights I get frustrated and angry at this independence. I abhor doing the laundry. I detest folding clean clothes. I would rather not cook at all than be forced to do the dishes afterward. Those nights are when the adrenaline bleeds out of me and only the cortisol remains. Still, I walk home, hands stuffed in my jacket pockets, and I drop by 7Eleven for a quick dinner. I put my clothes in the pail for the next morning’s washing. I brush my teeth, wash my face, and curl up for some feel-good FanFiction. I cut online conversations early, and I sleep it off. It’s an exercise in patience. I’m still unsure if I’m getting better at it.
When I was a toddler, my mom would leave me with my grandparents, and she’d send along an hourly time table for me to follow. In school, I had class schedules, and my nights were formed through habits – go to Ayala, have dinner, do homework, sleep, wake up, eat breakfast, repeat. For the past months, my thoughts have been God knows where. I haven’t been the best planner. Schedule, what schedule?!
Last night, I decided to get a grip on this stage of life and create schedules for myself for work, running, swimming, laundry, chores, and art. My brain’s running out of juice. The last poem I wrote was about running. Maybe it’s due to this griping. 8 months, and I’m still adjusting to living by myself. It has its highs and lows, but I wouldn’t give this up for anything (not even free laundry!!!).
What’s the point of this rambling, then? Nothing but to say that I made it through another month. It’s always a milestone. Haha
I’ve resumed writing about my travels. I might finish my piece on Taiwan before November. Hey, a girl can dream! 24 hours in a day is just not enough.
Maybe it’s finally time to sleep.