My mom told me I was born 15 minutes past 5 in the morning after a whole night of labor. In her own words, Mura ko'g mamatay (It felt like I was dying). Can you imagine where all that pain can be channeled to, right after my birth?
My name. See, my first name's JOY. Yes, J-O-Y, down in my heart, deep, deep down in my heart.
She wanted to turn the painful experience around by giving the baby a name as far removed from pain as possible. Don't say painless or anesthesia. She also wanted something beautiful. (Right! Labeling starts from birth. This is worth years of therapy had I turned out straight.)
Well, I guess my name sums up all the beauty in me, nowadays. Hehe. All the beauty in the world reserved for me has been used up on that fateful day on my name. Remember A thing of beauty, is a joy forever? That must have been where she got my name from.
I personally find it funny. Reserving all Freudian meanings, I sometimes feel like my life has been an expounding journey of my name. So what's in a name?
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I'm harboring all these thoughts as my birthday looms in the horizon. Yes. Looms, as in an imminent or menacing event that's threatening the peace in my world. I have always found birthdays overrated (excluding my 18th birthday when my UP friends surprised me with 18 candles and 18 wishes after I took my bath and was just in a towel - their very thoughtful way of telling me I can have my debut, too).
Back when I was a snotty kid, every birthday was a cause of dread. Everyone had their best celebrations after the holidays. I can still remember my classmates and I comparing notes about what we had for Christmas, telling each other tall tales about how our fireworks and bomba (the Kawayan or bamboo version of a bazooka) are more powerful and louder than the others. And when everything starts to die down, and the new toys were all set aside once again, the news of my birthday is being spread around faster than the Bubonic plague. I always panicked.
Unlike other families, our family celebrations are concentrated unintentionally every December. I have two brothers (I'm the middle child, the unica hija) and their birthdays are four days apart, the 5th and the 9th. My parents also celebrate their wedding anniversaries (they wed twice) on the 15th and the 20th. Of course, there's Christmas and New Year. You know what's next - my birthday.
Just when people feel that they somehow have overspent for the holidays and start to scrimp on things that they need to buy, my birthday comes near. This is especially true in our family. After 6 independent celebrations warranting at least a simple feast, my birthday always feels wanting.
I remember one birthday I had, I guess I was 9, one girl friend of mine offered to make me a simple Pineapple Upside-down cake. If not for that delightful gift, I wouldn't have had a birthday cake that year.
My name. See, my first name's JOY. Yes, J-O-Y, down in my heart, deep, deep down in my heart.
She wanted to turn the painful experience around by giving the baby a name as far removed from pain as possible. Don't say painless or anesthesia. She also wanted something beautiful. (Right! Labeling starts from birth. This is worth years of therapy had I turned out straight.)
Well, I guess my name sums up all the beauty in me, nowadays. Hehe. All the beauty in the world reserved for me has been used up on that fateful day on my name. Remember A thing of beauty, is a joy forever? That must have been where she got my name from.
I personally find it funny. Reserving all Freudian meanings, I sometimes feel like my life has been an expounding journey of my name. So what's in a name?
################################
I'm harboring all these thoughts as my birthday looms in the horizon. Yes. Looms, as in an imminent or menacing event that's threatening the peace in my world. I have always found birthdays overrated (excluding my 18th birthday when my UP friends surprised me with 18 candles and 18 wishes after I took my bath and was just in a towel - their very thoughtful way of telling me I can have my debut, too).
Back when I was a snotty kid, every birthday was a cause of dread. Everyone had their best celebrations after the holidays. I can still remember my classmates and I comparing notes about what we had for Christmas, telling each other tall tales about how our fireworks and bomba (the Kawayan or bamboo version of a bazooka) are more powerful and louder than the others. And when everything starts to die down, and the new toys were all set aside once again, the news of my birthday is being spread around faster than the Bubonic plague. I always panicked.
Unlike other families, our family celebrations are concentrated unintentionally every December. I have two brothers (I'm the middle child, the unica hija) and their birthdays are four days apart, the 5th and the 9th. My parents also celebrate their wedding anniversaries (they wed twice) on the 15th and the 20th. Of course, there's Christmas and New Year. You know what's next - my birthday.
Just when people feel that they somehow have overspent for the holidays and start to scrimp on things that they need to buy, my birthday comes near. This is especially true in our family. After 6 independent celebrations warranting at least a simple feast, my birthday always feels wanting.
I remember one birthday I had, I guess I was 9, one girl friend of mine offered to make me a simple Pineapple Upside-down cake. If not for that delightful gift, I wouldn't have had a birthday cake that year.
The same thing goes every year after that. When I was in college at UP, thousands of miles away from home, my mom sent me a gift check so I can get several dozens of donuts for my friends. I wanted to die!
I have always cried on my birthday. Not just because we never seemed to have enough, but even when I was already working and earning my own money, I couldn't shake out the heavy feeling I seem to carry every year.
Is it just me or is this normal?
All the small things seem to get unnaturally complicated. I remember one time when a friend forgot to greet me (I haven't thought of inviting this friend out, by the way) and we bumped into each other doing errands somewhere. My friend and I were talking and five minutes into our conversation, I felt sure he doesn't have an inkling about what a special day it was! I gave him a quick excuse and left. Several days after, I made sure he never forgets my birthday again.
I'm not normally this bratty but it seems like my birthday brings out my inner bitch. Which brings me to my birthday this year. Now that I'm back home and most of my friends have gone on their lives without me in their daily orbits, my annual emotional nadir is fast approaching. Looking deep into myself, I find that I personally do not feel overly excited about birthdays - they seem to happen at least once every year anyway, but the thought that even if I wanted to have the party of year, or my parent(s) finally decide to give ME the most lavish celebration I can think of, it remains wishful thinking.
Honestly, it's not a big deal. It's just my birthday.
I'm crying again.
I have always cried on my birthday. Not just because we never seemed to have enough, but even when I was already working and earning my own money, I couldn't shake out the heavy feeling I seem to carry every year.
Is it just me or is this normal?
All the small things seem to get unnaturally complicated. I remember one time when a friend forgot to greet me (I haven't thought of inviting this friend out, by the way) and we bumped into each other doing errands somewhere. My friend and I were talking and five minutes into our conversation, I felt sure he doesn't have an inkling about what a special day it was! I gave him a quick excuse and left. Several days after, I made sure he never forgets my birthday again.
I'm not normally this bratty but it seems like my birthday brings out my inner bitch. Which brings me to my birthday this year. Now that I'm back home and most of my friends have gone on their lives without me in their daily orbits, my annual emotional nadir is fast approaching. Looking deep into myself, I find that I personally do not feel overly excited about birthdays - they seem to happen at least once every year anyway, but the thought that even if I wanted to have the party of year, or my parent(s) finally decide to give ME the most lavish celebration I can think of, it remains wishful thinking.
Honestly, it's not a big deal. It's just my birthday.
I'm crying again.
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