By Gabby Kabigting
It’s a Sunday, and the sun is barely out, but the crowds are busy– shuffling to and
from the gates, moving bags, luggage, and bodies all around. There are clueless
children, seemingly half-awake, unaware of what’s happening around them, and
their frantic parents, looking for them in all places– save for the obvious. I see
some passengers on the floor, their legs crossed, their eyes glued to their phone
screens, then some fast asleep on what I would consider excruciatingly
uncomfortable benches. The uneven ridges hugging their backs and the bright
airport lights glaring in their faces.
And there’s me.
I reach the airport at around five in the morning. I just came from Quezon City,
dropped by our empty house in Pasay, and went straight to the airport– the smell
of sex, alcohol, and one too many cigarettes lingering on my fingertips. The hoodie,
unkempt hair, and dark circles under my eyes already speak volumes to the long
day I’ve had, which, unknowingly, would become much longer.
My footsteps were a little heavy, but my heart was light. I was going to see my
mother after months of being apart. Even if it was only for a few hours, I was
excited (and palpably anxious) to see her.
The escalator took me two flights up, and before I even saw her, I already heard
her. The sound of my name rolling off her tongue and the warmth that came with it.
To my right, I saw her smiling and gesturing for a hug even when I was still a few
steps away.
I sat beside her and greeted her with a warm hug. The usual small talk proceeded– I
asked about her flight and if she was excited about the conference she would
attend in Bacolod, how my brothers were, and the like. Question after question, I
could feel my heart ache a little more– I was still trying to avoid questions that I
could no longer run from. So, with a deep breath, my hands carefully folded on my
lap, I asked: Nay, am I still going to med school? Silence.
The lack of an answer is an answer in itself. In a moment, the dream that I have
relentlessly chased, wanted, and worked for moved worlds away. What I thought
was at the edge of my fingertips could no longer be reached. I hold back my tears
and look down at my hands, still carefully folded on my lap.
A week later, it was Tuesday. The streets are once again filled with the sounds of
students and employees getting ready for the commute. In our house, my kuya was
already awake. By the table, he sat with a cup of coffee and his vape, nothing more
than the routine morning.
I was already dressed and ready to go– my bag, shoes, fare– everything was set. I
just needed to get my laptop when my kuya broke the silence: I need to tell you
something. This phrase is commonly followed by random stories, something to
laugh or think about throughout the day. But he says it again: I need to tell you
something.
In literary criticism, we know that repetition is an element to note. It stresses an
idea the author wants the reader to pick up on. I thought the same about my kuya’s
words. So, I sit.
He fumbles for words and dares not to look me in the eye. The anxiety was already
creeping at the back of my throat as if choking me, as if twisting knots in my
stomach. Slowly, he opens his mouth again, lips forming out the thoughts, and in a
single blow, he says: I think it’s time for you to move out. Silence.
I have learned that silence echoes. It does not eventually become quiet; it only
grows louder. It remains like a shadow that looms over you, and when the day is
done, and the world shuts off, it will be there. It, unfortunately, is there.
My kuya asked me to move out of my first home in the metro. The place where I
pieced back together most, if not all, of my heartbreaks, would now become home
to one of the most painful ones.
I am the type of person who follows a plan. The events of my life are carefully
curated to fit a schedule, meet deadlines, and be ever-present for everything that I
choose to go to. I do not take it lightly when my plans get derailed. As much as I
account for the possibility of mishaps and alternatives, these paths still branch out
from the main plan. In a way, they are accounted for. The idea of completely
scrapping the plans I’ve worked so hard to pursue for years was absurd to me– but
here I am, back to square one and grasping for whatever hope I am given. The
empty pit in my stomach roars, and the feeling of being lost consumes me.
I won’t pretend like I don’t lie awake at dawn, asking God too many questions:
Where did I go wrong? Was I not a good enough child to be given a shot at my
dreams? Have I not tried hard enough? What makes these questions more difficult,
more frustrating, is the fact that I know the answers, but still, why am I here? And
to that, I say: I do not know.
Though, I agree with what most people say: the silver lining to hitting rock bottom
is that you’re left with only one direction to go– up. You might have to fight tooth
and nail to get up and reach for the light at the end of the tunnel, but if you fall, it
won’t be the first time, and you will know that it will certainly not be the last. This
is not to say that familiarity makes the pain feel lesser because it won’t; rather, it
will remind you of the strength it once took to climb the mountains and scale the
trees. It will remind you that you have done it before and will do it again.
I recently rewatched the movie Meet the Robinsons (2007). I remember the part
where the family had just concluded dinner, and they were about to eat dessert– a
peanut butter and jelly sandwich– but the machine got jammed, and the spread
wasn’t spreading. Wilbur pushed Lewis to help and fix it, but he could not.
Immediately, he apologized for what he believed was an utter failure. But to his
surprise, the Robinsons were wearing big smiles, cheering him on as if he had
invented the machine. One of the family members says something very impactful:
from failing, you learn; from success, not so much.
A struggle, I believe, that is common to everyone is feeling like a failure– this is
evitable, but it will never feel like this. We buckle from the pressure of family,
friends, peers, society, and of course, the self, so it becomes so easy to believe that
failing is the only thing we are capable of. If there is one thing I would like to lean
on when my plans are derailed, and the sun seems too far away, it’s that: [I] keep
moving forward. I echo these words until I believe them to be true. I say it out loud
like a mantra, a battle cry, a prayer for the universe, and all else to hear: keep
moving forward.
This does not mean to be a cliche about failing seven times and standing up eight.
But, rather, how it is completely acceptable to hit rock bottom and not know what
happens next; how it is completely acceptable for plans to get derailed and to
make new plans. At the end of the day, what bears weight is the fact that even after
rock bottom, when we’re ready, we choose to move forward.
More weeks have passed, and it is once again Monday. The heat is blazing, and
lines of cars flood the streets of Makati. I am– on another Angkas ride, scouring the
sea of traffic for interesting plate numbers. I breathe in and let it all out. Today, I
choose to move forward.
This piece was previously published in The Philippine Daily Inquirer.
Gabby is a nurse by profession but a writer by passion. Over the years, she has been frequently published in The Philippine Daily Inquirer. As a nomad, her pieces are centered on observations of humanity and the interactions of our inner abstractions with the world.
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