How to be interesting

I have no free time. I work out at 3 am. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, Francis and I cook food for our small vegan delivery business, while on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I relieve Mama from her kitchen duties to make the family’s breakfast. From 8 am to 5 pm, I am at the library. (I am a librarian by profession.) After work, I have church duties or catechism. By 8 pm, I will have to be in bed for my six- to seven-hour sleep. I can say that lunch break is my only free hour where I either eat, sleep, or squeeze in some social duties. Nonetheless, every hour of my day is well-accounted for. (I am typing this in between processing books.) Sometimes I find unscheduled free time on weekends, during which I read books or practice baking or play with our dog. These are rarities.

This was not always the case. I was never productive. Twenty four hours seemed too long. I watched a lot of TV. I Facebook-ed too much. (I disabled the app on my phone and only take a short peek to check job-related announcements on a closed group. Now even scrolling on Instagram and Youtube have gotten boring. And nothing on Netflix is interesting enough to give up a little bit of my time for.) I was bored. I was boring.

Well, it’s not that the things I do are “interesting” by today’s people’s standards. I’m not a billionaire or an Instagram influencer to afford to travel a lot. My middle class job requires me to be a stereotypical librarian. (Seriously. My college friends manage to make librarianship look glamorous.) I’m not even adventurous as a person so don’t expect me riding the rapids or diving off planes on parachutes. I’m also not doing a lot of activism or goodwill. My IG feed is not even curated. Because… right? For today’s audience, these are what makes someone interesting.

But my life is interesting according to my standards. I am doing the things that give me joy and meaning: making vegan food with Francis, being a stereotypical librarian who happens to love books, being a church reader and a local catechist. I also love looking after my physical self by working out, eating well, and getting enough sleep. I am not forced to do anything that I don’t love.

Most of all, I love everyone who gets access to my life now. I have let go of trying to please everybody and wanting to be everyone’s friend. And the haters and the naysayers? I don’t even have the time to think about them.

I don’t strive to be interesting. I just do me.


Hi, people. I have an eating disorder.

(TRIGGER WARNING!  If you suffer from an eating disorder and feel you might be triggered by a detailed retelling, please do not read.)

Hello, people.

Yesterday, I managed to catch the last few minutes of a friend’s radio talk airing on Facebook Live.  There, she discussed whether it’s better for emotions to be hidden or revealed.  I did want to leave a comment but the show ended before I can even complete half a sentence.

But the question hit home and I spent the rest of yesterday’s waking hours thinking about how I would’ve answered if someone asked me face-to-face, “Are emotions better hidden or revealed?”

My siblings would definitely say I’d reveal.  As far as they know, it really is that hard for me to keep a secret.  (That’s why they don’t tell me their secrets because I’d surely tell our mother.)  That’s also as far as I know.  Keeping secrets has always exhausted me, emotionally and physically.  I tend to feel intensely, and one disadvantage of being me is I can’t discriminate between big and small things: for me, everything is a big thing.  It’s exhausting.  Keeping secrets is as if I’m giving something more merit than it’s actually worth.  Putting words to it – either by saying it out loud even to just one person or writing it down – reduces its intensity.  It significantly lessens the burden of having to carry it inside.  Get it?

But one thing that I have hidden is that I’ve been suffering from anorexia for a long time.

For those who have heard it for the first time or know little about it, anorexia nervosa is an eating disorder characterized by obsessively limiting the amount of calories taken and encouraging activities to utilize these calories, for the sake of being thin.  According to my research, I fall under anorexia binge/purge subtype.  (I haven’t had an official diagnosis, though.)

And yes, it is a mental illness.  And it kills.

Many times, I hinted or told family and friends that I wanted to see a psychiatrist – because I knew something bad was happening to me.  But mental health is still stigmatized in the Philippines that either they didn’t take me seriously or they told me, “No, you’re not crazy.”  Because I wanted to be liked – and nobody likes to be around sad people – I decided to pretend.  (And also because, honestly, I thought I can’t afford treatment.)

All the while I was suffering and self-hating, but on the outside, I appeared happy and full of sunshine.  In office fellowships, I hopped from table to table, danced, and sang a lot so I could avoid eating altogether.  And if anyone caught me having a handful of nuts or chips or drinking sugared water?  Rest assured my dinner later was a glass of water with two packets of psyllium husk to flush it all out.  My meal the next morning would be two HIIT sessions.

I was the girl who’s scared to get hungry because I brought lots of food on trips, but I’d exercise it all off in the room.  Also, they’re all full of fiber, low-fat, and low-calorie.  And when I get home, the fasting would begin.

I’d be grateful for any situation that kept me from going out with friends or co-workers because it kept me from having to eat.  I’d make every excuse – restroom, need to get something I was pretty sure would be hard to find, too tired – when with my family at restaurants.  Even now that we have started our lunch delivery business, I dread being forced to taste the food and eat the leftovers.  I’m late a lot at work because I would jog 8,000 steps to burn the calories.  My waking hours are 100% predominated by thoughts of food, specifically, how to survive every day without needing it.

You know what makes me happy?  Being told that I got thinner.  Or that they envied my discipline.  Or that they wanted to do what I do.  But then, these doesn’t give me contentment.  Instead, they would push me to go further.  I’d eat less and exercise more to be thinner, to be more disciplined, and to never be beaten.

On the other hand, one thing that distresses me is being told to gain weight.  I remember telling well-intentioned people, “What are you talking about?  I gained an inch around my waist!” or,  “You just don’t see it but I look horrible without clothes.”  The other is seeing other girls losing weight faster than me.  I’ve learned that these two are typical behaviors of eating disorder sufferers: a distorted view of their bodies and competitiveness.

I wish I could tell you how it all started but the truth is, I don’t know.  Maybe it’s going through adolescence getting called ugly and fat, or having feelings that were not reciprocated, or not fitting into beautiful clothes.  Maybe it’s growing up in front of the TV and seeing all the advertisements that said I had to be thin to be accepted and liked.  Maybe it’s all those physical check-ups that required me to line up with girl classmates who were most interested in comparing weights.  Maybe it’s hearing people who make fun of fat people.  Maybe it’s being noticed by guys only when I started losing weight.  Maybe it’s this ridiculous expectation – that may or may not be espoused by the community itself – that vegans have to be sexy.  Maybe it’s all of these and other things I don’t consciously think of.

But I could tell when I decided to stop.  It was a Tuesday night from many months ago and I found myself laughing at a good priest because he is obese.  I stopped, shocked, and I muttered to myself,

“Who are you, monster?”

I never thought I would say something like that.  Growing up looking different, I knew how painful it is to be judged for something I have no control over and I can’t change.  I made the decision a long time ago to see only the beauty in other people.

Then, I laughed at someone for not being thin.

I realized, painfully, that I have been looking at others that way for some time.  He got fat.  She lost weight.  Her arms are huge.  She’s so thin.  I know I never wanted to be like that.  I never wanted to be this vile person who defines someone else according to her/his weight.  It was unacceptable.  That’s when I decided to put a stop to this.

You may ask, if I’ve been aware of my eating disorder for a long time, why haven’t I stopped it at the onset?  TRIGGER ALERT again.  I’m going to be brutally honest: I didn’t because the eating disorder is like a badge, a trophy.  Every step further down is a testament to my discipline and determination.  Most people can’t achieve what I have achieved.  Most people can’t do what I am able to do.

In my case, it was also sort of an illicit relationship.  It’s like the eating disorder is seductively whispering, “Look, everybody thinks this is all effortless.  But only you and I have to know of all our hard work.  This is our dirty little secret.”

But secrets lose their intensity once we put words into them.  As words, someone else can see them.  Now, we can see them as they are.  They lose their illusion.  They lose their seductiveness.  They lose their power.

I haven’t recovered yet, mind you.  I still find myself binge eating and purging.  I still find myself obsessively exercising to burn every possible calorie I have taken in.  My relationship with food is still unhealthy.  I still find myself labeling food as good and bad.  I still find myself finding excuses to skip meals.  I still feel bad that I ate at all.  I still look at myself in the mirror and want to change parts of myself.

But I’m trying.  I’m trying really hard.  And it’s hard.  There are times – like right now – that I cry because I have to go through this illness and ask myself why I can’t just be normal and carefree like everybody else.  There are times I doubt if I even do want to recover from my eating disorder, if I’m ready to lose all my gains now that I’ve gone this far.  But I remind myself that my mental health is most important right now.  My eating disorder made me acceptable to other people, but it cost me my self-respect, happiness, and what would have been beautiful memories.

I’m relearning to respect myself, to nourish my body, to accept my genetics, to accept the fact that I’m never going to have a social media-worthy bikini body, and that’s okay.

Typing this post had been hard and painful… but honesty is supposed to hurt, right?  I hope I made it clear how important it is to be honest with our feelings.  Others may not understand.  Others may not accept.  Others may judge.  Still, say it.  Our peace and happiness are worth much more than someone else’s reaction.

So, to answer the question, definitely, to reveal.

And then I’m thirty.

Looking back, I was always excited to turn thirty. I know, that’s weird. Other women get offended when asked about their age. Me? Throughout my twenty-ninth, I told people I was thirty, sometimes by mistake, most times deliberately.

I’d envisioned my thirtieth birthday as a grand celebration. I didn’t have a grand debut. On my eighteenth birthday, I was in college, and I just had KFC delivery – I wasn’t vegan yet – for me and some friends. Also, my parents didn’t have the money and they didn’t raise us to expect grand celebrations. But since I’ve now been working for almost nine years, I thought I could finally have the Disney princess party I’d always dreamed of.

I didn’t.

Instead, I woke up to cook food for our lunch delivery business. Francis did surprise me with a dozen vegan donuts from Green Bar – and I’m eternally grateful for his effort of traveling thirteen hours to get them. It’s the first time someone gave me that much effort. Then, I set off to get my professional license renewed but failed to accomplish that. I went home, washed, and slept, accomplishing nothing but getting another year older.

I don’t get it. I never really felt anxious about my age before. But now, I kind of hate myself that I am thirty and I am still… this, here.

I haven’t been to Japan. I haven’t seen Hey! Say! JUMP. I haven’t worn bikini in Bali. I’m not a millionaire. I don’t have a camera. I still haven’t reached my dream body. I haven’t published my romance pocketbook. I haven’t even changed my darned bed.

It’s like, now I have to have different, more serious goals for my life and yet I haven’t accomplished anything.

Now, my body doesn’t like Japan’s weather. Now, I’m too old to fangirl for Japanese boys. Now, I’m afraid no matter how I work out and eat healthy my metabolism is starting to slow down and I won’t ever reach my dream bikini body. Now, I don’t think the romance book publisher still accepts manuscripts. I even cringe at teenage romances now.

Now, I don’t even know what I’m supposed to want.

I’m not a regular (future) mom.

Can I not send my children to school? Because I’m not a regular (future) mom; I’m a vegan (future) mom. I don’t want them to be lied to that certain animals are born for human consumption, or that the main source of protein is animal carcass, or that dairy is good for them. I don’t want to risk them being uninformed subjects to animal-tested synthetic medicines, egg-containing vaccines, or milk supplementation programs. I don’t want them to be forced to thank large corporations for donating stuff to show that they’re good when they’re not.

I’m not a regular (future) mom; I’m a feminist (future) mom. I refuse to put them in colors and uniforms and classifications that are based on their sex. I refuse to have them indoctrinated to ideas that certain chores and jobs are for males and others are for females. Or that doing male jobs make females sexy. I refuse to have them conditioned that girls are dainty and soft, and boys strong and tough. I prefer that they all know how to change tires, or fix the plumbing, or bake lemon cupcakes, or teach others as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

I’m not a regular (future) mom; I’m an anarchist (future) mom. I want my children to govern themselves. I don’t want them to fear positions and ranks. I want them instead to see every single being as an equal – neither superior nor inferior – and they don’t have to bow to or be bowed to by anyone. I want them to judge people according not to their status or their salary grades but to their principles. I don’t want them to compete with their peers but instead compete with their past. I don’t want them to be fixed to the idea that they have to study to get a job to have money to get married to have children who will study to get a job to have money to get married to have children to have the same things over and over again. Instead I want them to study because they know there’s no room for ignorance in a free society.

Moreover, I don’t want to place them in positions where they would be bullied, questioned, and judged harshly because of their principles and coerced to abide by the status quo.  I can’t imagine seeing my future children growing up powerless over the school system.  That, for me, is scarier than giving birth itself.

You see, I’m not a regular (future) mom. I’m a (future) mom who watched V for Vendetta one too many times.

I Ain’t Pretty

I’m slowly teaching myself to love myself – pores and all.

I lost my confidence in high school, the story of how still too painful to recall. Since then, I loathed how I look like: the long face, small eyes, upturned nose, brown lips, long chin, huge pores, huge legs and wide feet. And in the few times I felt kinda pretty, there was always a voice that reminded me of that hideous comment in high school.

No, I wasn’t pretty. I was never going to be pretty. Even believing the contrary was a crime.

Then, as I started earning my own money, I discovered the magic of make up. Suddenly, I have between my fingers a magic wand that made my eyes appear bigger and more alive. My pores disappeared at the lightest touch of creams and powders. My lips were my favorite shade of pink.

And the shoes. Beautiful shoes whisked me to beautiful places. On my high heels, my unshapely legs took shape, my feet didn’t seem as wide.

I had shoes and I had make up and I was happy.

And then, last year during Lent, I decided – or rather was forced – to fast on make up and heels. For the forty days that led to Easter, I was to be bare faced and on flat shoes.

I died, indeed. Letting go of the only things that made me feel pretty was hard and painful.

But by Easter, I discovered something: that feeling – feeling pretty – was an illusion.

At the end of the day I was still the girl with the long face, small eyes, upturned nose, brown lips, long chin, huge pores, huge legs and wide feet.

Then I realized I had spent all my money on things that fed that illusion. Then I’d spend more money on makeup removers and facials and foot massages to alleviate the after effects. Being pretty was unnecessarily strenuous.

Just like what Pistol Annies sang: Being pretty ain’t pretty at all.

I seldom wear makeup and high heels now and I only do so when forced by special occasions. When people tell me “mag-lipstick ka nga,” I’d smile and walk away. After all, people who want to be with me will still be with me even if I don’t look like Barbie.

In addition, most makeup I used to use either had animal-derived ingredients or tested on animals or both. I can’t continue using them anymore. There’s vegan makeup, of course, but they’re ridiculously expensive and I’d rather spend my money on food that nourish me from the inside.

I have given up on being pretty. I’m trying my best to cut off the chains that bind me to the influences of mass media and the industries. I’m trying to reclaim myself. I may not always like the woman I see in the mirror but I’m learning to love her in spite and because of the flaws.

I may not be pretty. But this – pores and all – is me.

Of Love

Let’s talk about love today.

This morning, I went to Mass, and Father L said humans are created out of love.  Thus, our nature is not to hurt but to love.

Something that’s always bothered me is why people become bitter when relationships end.  They would say mean things to their friends about the ex, smearing her or his image in the process.  Calling them names.  Why do they do that to the people they supposedly loved?

I’ve been called idealistic many times before.  (I also wonder why being one is such a bad thing.)  They meant it in contrast with being realistic.  They accused me of being ignorant of real-life experiences – because they misrepresent me as a pampered princess growing up – to understand the realities of this world.  They called me naive.

But sometimes being idealistic or ignorant or naive could be positive.  For example, today’s question: Why do they do that to the people they supposedly loved?

Having grown up without real difficulties or serious responsibilities, I had all the time in the world for thinking.  Many years ago, when I experienced heartbreak for the first time, I was surprised to discover that I cannot say any bad word about this person who hurt me.  On the second time, despite all the trash talk people who were supposedly consoling me said, I can’t get myself to say or think bad things about him.

I wondered if that was because I didn’t love them enough.  But this would be untrue because I know in my heart there was nothing more I could have done or given at that time.  I also wondered if that was because what I felt for them wasn’t true love.  But that would be wrong because the very reason I can’t be cruel even to their memories is because I loved them.

Admittedly, I’ve been bitter over some people.  I’ve had my fair share of trash talking to friends.  And that is because I didn’t truly love them.

Because to truly love someone is to set them free.  Of course, it’s almost impossible not to ask of something from the other person – I can’t imagine a truly unconditional love by a human being.  You can only hope that you’d be enough for them and they’d choose you and stay with you forever, but that is something you can’t force or manipulate them to do.  If you can’t set them free, that means you love yourself more than you love the other person.  That means you love the things you do, the happiness they give you, the emotions they stir, or the future you envision with them… more than them.

Think about God for a second.  He gave us free will.  He loves us.  He gives us everything.  He nurtures us.  But He doesn’t force us to follow Him.  That decision is up to us… because we, his beloved, are free.

To love is to place the other person’s happiness before our own.  (But take note I do not in any way condone staying with sociopaths and psychopaths.  If their happiness is torturing and destroying you, by all means, leave.)

To try to give unconditional love is a tough choice that requires hard work but it will always be worth it.  When you set them free, you are set free.


Now every February, you’ll be my Valentine

It’s our first anniversary month. Last year, I posted a list of things I love about you on my blog. I still love all those things but of course things change in the course of one year. So… why do I love you?

1. You sacrificed your obsession with cheese for the animals, for the Earth, and for the greater good of all mankind.

2. You’re loyal to the things you believe in. Even if that means you will not shake hands with the mayor. Or sneer at other frats. Or go into arguments with anti-Catholics. Once you even spat out the mock tapa I cooked because you thought it was for real.

3. You can make fresh coconut milk using your hands. I can only imagine the endless possibilities in homemade plant milk career

4. You have this enchanting public speaking voice that turns my knees to vegan jelly all the time.

5. You put God first… just almost everytime, because on some days we oversleep.

6. You’re so adorable when you show appreciation for yummy food.

7. You’re my type of funny.

8. You don’t shy away from correcting my mistakes, but only do so in private.

9. You think highly of your mom, which is always very important.

10. You cook better vegan kaldereta than astigvegan. And you don’t use boullion. Hahaha.

11. You’ve seen my Sleeping Ugly before yet you still chose to love me.

There’s still a lot more, you know. Don’t think for one second this is all. But I’ll reserve the other elevens for the next gazillion anniversaries we’re spending together.

I love you.