BATANGAS, 2018. Since I lost my nephew, I have been home more often than ever because I know my family needs me. But I hate it here. This house is a big ball of misery.
Everything in this house reminds me of my baby, and it’s awfully difficult to be functional, be normal, be sane. When I’m in my room, I imagine him jumping up and down my bed like he used to do, so I moved out of my room. I picture him standing next to my table, so I transferred my work station. I eat out with family much more frequently now because we need to be in an environment where we don’t see that empty seat at the dining table. We changed our routine.
By now I think I know grief well. I think I know how it operates. It’s like an annoying OVERSTAYING GUEST. Like a BAD HOUSEMATE. They were never welcome, but they just let themselves in. You try to avoid an encounter so you leave the house early in the morning and come home late. You try to be as happy as you can outside, away, with friends. You fill your head with work, so you don’t think about them.
For the most part, you’re successful. You come home and go straight to bed, and that’s a good day. But some days, you open the door and there they are, digging into your food, going through your things, trying to engage. But you’re too afraid to confront them, much less banish them, because you know, no matter what you do, THEY’RE NOT LEAVING. Not soon. Maybe not ever.
So you learn to live with them. You live with them.
Anyway, I have just moved back to my room. Barely 10 minutes in and I’m already posting things like this.
Not sure if it’s a good thing.