A repost from my old Friendster blog, dated 25 March 2006. Amazing, this insight I had back then.

If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it is that to forget something — anything — you have to START with hating it a little. It's something that's hard to do, especially since I don't think it is part of human nature to hate. But how else can humans cope with hurt? Besides, if you start hating something, or start thinking about how you hate it until you actually hate it, will you actually want it back? I think not, because by hating it you have already learned to associate it with something bad.

The next step is to try to see as little of it, and everything that reminds you of it, as possible. If zero sighting can actually be managed, it is for the best. Seeing anything that you associate with it will cause you to remember, to replay certain scenes in your mind, and it will make you miss what you vowed to forget. It will make you feel how good the old days were, and it is likely that you will be lulled once more by the familiarity of the past, especially if you are currently in a storm. When you see no way out, the easiest thing to do would be to just plunge into the abyss, wide open and waiting. You must also never look back, no matter how tempting it is. It is not possible to go on a trip down memory lane without remembering all the emotions that went with it. Package deal yun.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. It's probably because I'm trying to remind myself how I did it once, because I desperately have to do it again. It sucks, but I'm sure I'll get over this.

Practice makes perfect.

Maybe there is hope, after all. Whenever I look into his eyes—so clear you could lose yourself in them—and instead find myself there, the maybe becomes just a little more probable. I throw caution to the winds, bask gloriously in that moment eternal and leap onto a cloud, convincing myself that he just might feel the same. Despite knowing intuitively the kind he likes, knowing definitely that I don't fit the bill.

So maybe there isn't much hope anyway. When he fails to act as I have expected, crushing the notion that I might be more special to him than I am special to him, the doubts flow in, washing me back ashore. I'm back to where I've started: a friend, never mind how good a friend, still a friend.

Maybe it's enough. And despite those screaming protests in my head, insisting that it will never be enough, maybe it ought to be. Maybe to wish for something more, to wish that he love me, is just a little too much, and there won't just be enough. There won't be anything.

But maybe if I love him more, he'll come to his senses and realize that he's loved me all along. Just like I have. Maybe if I work up more patience, I can understand him. Maybe I can even wait for him. Maybe if I could be more gentle, more honest, more trusting, more rational, I can convince him that we're meant to be.

Though maybe we aren't. Though the stars and the cards and people with sufficient wisdom say with certainty that we aren't. After all, not even alchemy can convert a firecracker into a candle, steadily burning and steadfastly giving light. But maybe the candle will be willing to spark that firecracker, over and over again, and maybe the firecracker can persist and burn just a little bit longer?

Maybe I should move on. Maybe I should unlearn these feelings of sublime happiness, of rightness, that I've come to associate with him; to extricate myself from the notion of a consuming love that makes me unable to imagine life without him. Maybe it will do me well to remember that I've seen this happen to quite a number of girls before, that I've laughed myself hoarse at thinking I might ever fall into the same trap of believing something extraordinary existed in the most mundane showings of affection. Maybe I should learn to stuff the genie back into the bottle, toss it adrift so that I never will find it again, stand in place until the waves wash the memories clean so that when next I look at him, I see nothing but the wonderful friend he is and remember nothing but a vague warning to look no more beyond that line of vision.

Come to think of it, maybe I don't even really love him! It may be that I have this tendency to be jealous, possessive and demanding, and maybe I see him as mine, but maybe I cherish him as nothing more than an object. A symbol of stability, a personal treasure of constancy. Maybe it is laughable, what I've been rationalizing for over a year now, when it's all just been blown out of proportion. And maybe in reality I love the idea, the story, more than the person.

But maybe I love him. Maybe I love him because my head hurts at the very reminder, ready to explode with all the reasons I have and have not put into words. Maybe I love him, whether or no there is hope, whether or no I should change to mold myself to him, whether or not we are meant to be, whether or not I should move on.

Maybe I just love him, whether or no. 

Too many times in my life, I've cared more for people who cared less about me. I've suffered in silence or screamed in indignation, bent over backwards to please them, only to end up losing them anyway.

For a person whom everyone thinks is cold and ruthless, I can be quite the pathetic specimen.

So on this day, in celebration of my twenty-third year, I resolve to let go of the people who really shouldn't matter. I let go of them not with hate and scorn, but with indifference. Yes, indifference, as insignificant and as unreliable their regard for me is, for I know now who my true friends are. Who love me just as much as I love them, and maybe even more, regardless of what I do or how I see things.

It's about time I focus on them and return with gratitude what they've shown me.

Happy birthday to me. :)

*******

Thank you:

To my family.

To Tere, Fae, Lei, Fatima, Kristina.

To Andrea, Joshua, Kevin, June, Angeli, Kathleen, Clint, Glai, Biji, Arjay, Cynric, Kent, Titus, Blessie, Theresa.

To Ces and the sisses who I'm sure are also my friends.

To Argie and Andro.

To Jeff, Viki, Sheryl, Ardynne, Mark, Mik, Weng, Aya, Jared, Miggy, Bob, Kitel, JM.

Friendship, indeed, is the most wonderful gift we most often take for granted. If there's one thing I wouldn't do, it's that. Ever.

Everybody has secrets.

It was the title of the Korean film I was watching the night before, but the phrase stuck. Everybody does have secrets. And even if there's someone you think you've told all your secrets to, there are really always some you're going to have to keep to yourself. If not now, then soon. Or later.

And I can't believe I'm stuck in the worst cliché ever. This is even worse than all the irony in the world combined, for at least then there's some striking realization, a metaphor, a new way of looking at life. At least it'll make a better story.

For me, there's just this. I'm in love with... With the one person I shouldn't feel this way for. No, it's not a married man; even that would be better, perhaps. Anything would be better than best friends. Because in the latter, I don't only run the risk of losing myself. I run the risk of losing him.

And one of the worse things about it is that, with the confidant the secret, I'm really not allowed to say anything. It's difficult, pretending everything's still how it used to be. The line's there, it's oh so near, but I dare not cross it. And it's difficult because all those times in the past when I was feeling this way, he was there by my side, not on the other side of the line.

When the past comes rushing back, and with the future trying to steal him from me, I wonder, what will I ever do without him?

So I suck in the hurt at his every mention of her name, never letting the flash of pain linger in my eyes for longer than a split second. I swallow the bitterness, chalk up a smile and concentrate instead on his voice, all the while cursing and thanking her for not seeing the man he's worth.

If I must endure this to keep him, I will. I swear I will.

*******

The few people who know the extent of what I feel keep asking me what I intend to do about it. I ask: what can I do about it anyway? What are the options?

I see none, other than continue to love him.

For the meantime.

I should be preparing for the 3 Radiology exams I have tomorrow, but it's very difficult to study when you have a broken heart.

Earlier in the day I had managed to take control of myself, shutting part of myself down so that whatever pain I was feeling was numbed. I was already very good at dissociating myself from myself, and today was no different, but the memories and the implications this day's knowledge had kept rushing back in a drowning torrent. Even the wall I had built for so many years couldn't defend me, despair finally whelming my being.

Perhaps what made the pain easier to manage initially was that it didn't have a sharp, stabbing quality to it, the one that could make me catch my breath. Oh no. It was a dull, gnawing ache, as though something essential had been lost, the abyss unrecognized until later. Far later. And then how could all my mind-conditioning strategies mend that hollowness when it had nothing—nothing!—to start with?

Now that I've thought more about it, the pain was dull in the first place because the information did not come as a surprise. I suppose I had always known all along; it was just that I was too happy, too spirited to believe otherwise. It was a long time coming, inevitable even; but despite this muted expectation, the truth still hurt. It hurt much more than I would ever admit to anyone.

I want to run away from this... Permanently. I want to run and hide somewhere safe, never mind the cold. Where I can regroup and calm my frantically racing heart, where I can steel myself sufficiently so that when I emerge, I shall be strong. Chilling as the frost and yet resistant to warmth. Calm and serene, no matter the storm brewing within, and ruthless regardless of my wrath unleashed. Would that all the power, the control, of emotions be in my grasp!

Alas, I fail. At the end of the day, after thinking and rethinking everything, turning over the facts and feelings and rearranging all the pieces of the puzzle thus far, one conclusion remains unchanged.

At the end of the day, I'm still me. A weakling desperately trying to hold on to some pretense of strength, an infinite sadness cracking through my flawed veneer of nonchalance. A girl with dashed hopes and a heart resigned, painfully aware that despite everything that had transpired today, she still loved him as she had loved him all along.

Undeniably.

Instead of studying for my Radiology exams this week, I engaged myself with watching Korean movies. I had shifted from Korean period series (Jumong, Kingdom of the Wind and Queen Seon Deok) in favor of the movies that are easier to finish and are no less entertaining.

I have watched five Korean movies thus far this year. The first Korean movie I have ever watched was The Art of Seduction, starring Song Il Gook and Son Ye Jin. It's no wonder why I chose this film; it's Song Il Gook, after all! This film's basically about two self-proclaimed experts on the art of seduction who have decided to make each other a conquest, and it's a duel of sorts till the end. I never thought they wouldn't end up together, although that was a nice twist.

The Case of Itaewon Homicide is about a real-life murder of a high school student back in 1997, which remains unresolved until now. I downloaded this film because the chief prosecutor was played by Jin-yeong Jong, who amazed me with his performance as King Yuri in Kingdom of the Wind. I've had the copy since December last year, but I have never had enough courage to watch it in full, since the opening music is just too creepy for me. Maybe after my exams this week?

And then I watched Cyrano Dating Agency, starring Eum Tae Woong, who also starred as Kim Yushin in Queen Seon Deok. Here, Eum Tae Woong owns the Cyrano Dating Agency, which specializes in getting people together for a hefty price. He, however, runs into trouble when a client demands that he be set up with one of Eum's ex-girlfriends, someone the Boss has not quite gotten over yet. Funny and insightful, I keep on watching some parts of this movie over and over again.

Thanks to one of the interns I had befriended during my Psychiatry rotation, I was given a copy of the romance movie The Classic. It starred, much to my surprise, Son Ye Jin and Jo In Seong. It's a complicated story to summarize, but it's about two stories of love about two generations, both of which come full circle only when Son Ye Jin and Jo In Seong got together in the end, united through the pendant taht survived their parents' love.

And then, surprise, suprise! I stumbled across A Frozen Flower, a period movie set in the Goryeo era. It's about a homosexual king who, because of the pressure to have an heir, commands his chief of guards (coincidentally his lover) to "serve" the queen. However, troubles arise when the chief of guards, played by Jo In Seong of The Classic (I knew he looked familiar!) begins to care more for the queen (played by Song Ji-Hyo of Jumong), much to the fury of the king (Ju Jin Mo). Minus the sexually explicit scenes, which I believe were overdone, it's a good film.

Because I so loved Ju Jin Mo's acting in A Frozen Flower, I looked up other movies in which he had starred and ended up with 200 Pounds Beauty, in which he was paired with Kim Ah-Jung. Kim Ah-Jung played Hanna Kang, an ugly and fat ghost singer who, after surgery, became so pretty and was taken on by Ju Jin Mo, who played producer Sang-jun. Hanna had forever been in love with Sang-jun (Heavens, who wouldn't be, with those eyes?), but Sang-jun wasn't too keen on having a "fixed up" girl.

I have already prepared a list of the movies I'm going to watch next weekend. On the list are Portrait of the Wind and the The King and the Clown, and who knows? I might have enough courage to watch The Case of Itaweon Homicide as well as those scary and violent films recommended by Paolo (like the Vengeance trilogy) when we were on Psych duty together.

Sigh. Watching movies is a good salve for the heart, no matter what emotion is weighing it down.

It is no secret that I am unhappy, that I have been unhappy for the past several weeks or so. In fact, should I be given the leeway of diagnosing myself, I'd say I was bipolar, shifting between episodes of depression and mania. The clinical symptoms are all there, and the stressors are understandable.

And yet, nobody knows. Except for the joke people make about it, nobody really knows but me.

There's that feeling of wanting everybody to know and yet dreading the pity, the scrutiny. Especially since lately, it seems like I don't really care much about anyone. Except for my family, of course, and a few select friends. Otherwise, I realize that all my other relationships are superficial. These relationships are contemptuous, they are contemptuous, but then again they are a necessity, if only to make me remember and appreciate those special ones.

I cannot wait to get on a plane to Canada, to home. It's the most awful feeling, putting up with all the stress and having no one to comfort you. Or spending weekends alone because friends have gone home to their families.. That or they don't include you in your plans.

Perhaps this is why I have returned to blogging, to ease some of the pain. Writing the words make everything seem more real, but at the same time the paper takes the brunt of my emotions, inevitably comforting me like no one can. Save my mother's hug, of course.

But if she knew how much I was missing her, them, they'd all demand that I be on the next flight home. Or she'd rush here. We can't have that; I can't ruin all our plans just because I cannot manage to be happy, or to even contain and control my loneliness, for Merlin's sake. This is my sacrifice; hence, I have to do it well.

Sigh. Just one more month of slugging it out.

Detachment is one key; pretense is another. I have the talent for both, but a performance everyday is exhausting.

But then again, like I once have said, isn't life one big stage; aren't we the star of our own meldorama, aren't we always performing?

Pray that this unhappy act draws to a close.

For all my talk, I never really say anything.

Gone are the days when I used to talk openly about how I feel, the emotions etched plainly on my face. Anger, sadness, jealousy, happiness... I show them still today, to some extent, but not all of it. Never again all of it.

I always remember to keep some to myself.

It's fascinating, really, how I've mastered this over the years. The sudden flash in my eyes that I can quell in a split second, the wearing of a bland mask (sometimes accompanied by a small, contemptuous smirk) certain to irritate whoever it is that I'm facing. There is much satisfaction in knowing that a part of me is always safe, somewhere, and is untouchable. That no matter how intensely I rage or how I cry, how incredibly I laugh or love, people will never be privy to the real depth of my emotions. Not my friends, and not even my family.

Even more fascinating is the idea that behind every emotion displayed, behind every action is a thought. Always, a thought behind the emotion. A motive. Always, to manipulate. And always, to an end. To aim for a reaction, be it kindness, pity, humor, dislike, hatred.

And what is sincerity, after all? Sincerity is merely the concordance of thought with emotion and action, no more than a strategy to reach that end. You can be angry and sincere. You can wish the person ill thoughts and be sincere. You can lie and still be sincere, as long as it suits the end you've planned in your head.

And here should be mentioned that faking of emotions, something I might need lessons for. Concealment is rather easy, for it is rather like draining yourself of feelings, but to compound it with an additional step complicates matters. How people succeed to do it then is a study in itself. It's something I hate, but considering the world I live in, it probably is a most useful tool.

Regardless, it's comical, really, when people say I'm transparent. The joke is that they don't know that I do it on purpose. And even then, they're so absorbed in themselves that they don't notice that veil; they assume they see it all. Ha! if they only knew.

But really, even if they knew, what could they ever do about it?