Celebrating Introversion

If you google the definition of introvert, you will immediately be lead to a small box of description that reads: "(1) a shy, reticent, and typically self-centered person,  and/or (2) a person predominantly concerned with their own thoughts and feelings rather than with external things. Oxford defines the term almost exactly my google friend had put it, but specifies #2 as described in psychology.
 
Back in the day, I participated in labor union rallies along with other bravehearts of a telecom company as we lobby our concerns to authorities in the mid-90's. In 2002, I joined a group of American advocates of pro-life on their campaign against abortion and women's rights in the heat of RH Bill proposal into law. We were on the road for several days; went to a few key remote areas in the Philippines to promote culture of life. Before I became a writer and a teacher, I practiced corporate training for a good 7 years in 2 fashion retailer giants. I was constantly learning and delivering new programs with expectations on ROI.
 
Having said that, you might be inclined to think that I'm this tough, hard-shelled, highly confident woman, when in reality I'm NOT. 

I've always been more reserved than others--growing up and as an adult. For the most part, I don't open up at once to a stranger or a person that I just got acquainted with, or even to those whom I have become friends or familiar with eventually. It's just not my thing. I'd rather listen than talk. I carefully think and analyze things before I speak (softly). I'd kick myself in the butt everyday if I said something foolish.   Don't get me wrong, I'm neither particularly nor acutely shy at all. I can talk to people quite easily almost anything under the sun (except for US SBA), but I won't engage in trivial matters of social small talk. I find it very uncomfortable and self-depleting--not because I don't have the wit--but simply because it's self-violating. I couldn't wait to go home and be myself again.   I remember a conversation with my husband's cousin from India last night. She told me to speak a little louder so I can be understood better--firstly because my accent is very different from them, and secondly, both our English are comparatively varied. The latter is totally understandable--and doable! Except the former. I told her if I were to speak louder than my normal voice, I would develop hernia! (Pardon the pun).   I love to read. I've been a bookworm for as long as I can remember. When I was young, since allowance was as elusive as my father, I found satisfaction in photocopying all the pages of a borrowed book from the library. I don't do that now thankfully. But, I still feel sad putting down a book once I've read it from cover to cover.   These days, writing has become my most valuable and enjoyable form of solitude. I feel more energized as I become deeply introspective as opposed to standing and drinking cocktails in a party. Writing is the by-product of the mind and emotions fused together resulting to, at times, significant articles. And that's what makes it all fulfilling to me. You see, when I want to be alone, it doesn't mean I'm depressed. I find it more rewarding to spend time with myself and my family. I'm happy in my seclusion because I'm at my most productive state when alone. I'm aware of my strengths, and I'd like to think I make better choices on who I want to be around with. I'm proud and content to be an introvert.

Hafu

"Mom! Mom!" yelled my 6-year-old as she saw me at the lobby of the karate center. She strutted along with her other friends toward the place where parents wait, and gave me a whale of a hug!
 

"Ali, who is she?" asked a very curious little guy next to her.

"She's my mom." Alisha replied.

He looked at me as if sizing me up, scratched his head, and told me his name. "Nice to meet you, Mrs Banerjee." (What a nice little fella!) As though an ice breaker, his mother and I began to speak to each other. We spoke briefly about some motherly stuff, and a few minutes later went our separate ways.

I can't count the number of times I've been asked by children and adults alike whether I am the parent or nanny of my daughter. I used to be overly sensitive and would cringe inside as I grit my teeth while thinking why they would even ask. These days I've learned to incorporate humor in the scenario. I juggle between "As far as I know" and a straight forward "yes or no." Some stutter and leave themselves open to correction, hence, try to  retract their words. I can't blame them though. We live in the Middle East where majority of Filipinos are known to be  domestic helpers--including nannies, drivers, cooks or all-around helpers. Don't get me wrong. I have so much respect for these people who chose to work in this field. I don't pass judgment on them. Most of them are educated, some less, and come from good family backgrounds, but for one reason or another, chose to support their families back home in this way.

Being biracial is not a new phenomenon. We now live in a generation where there are more kids born to parents with different ethnicities. Alisha is one of those great kids. She has indistinguishable Indian features. She didn't get anything from me except the straight hair and the not-flat nor high-bridged nose. Those big round eyes, long lashes, thick brows, and beautiful caramel skin are all from her dad. My mom would always tell me, as if a broken record, "Alisha is a little Indranil." I would laugh because it's true. And I'm glad she is. 

She had taken her father's citizenship since birth, so she's holding an Indian passport ever since. Whenever we travel outside Bahrain, the passport and security control officers from here and the Philippines don’t quite get it. They look at me and my daughter, from my daughter’s passport to mine to hers and then back to mine again, and try to figure out how my daughter is related to me and why she is with me at all. Every summer vacation to Manila, I would always be held longer for more questioning, like, ""Why are your last names different?" And, "Who is her father?” And, "Can I see her father's passport copy?" And, “Where is her father?” And, “Do you have a letter from the father saying you can leave the country with her?” (Consulate services here require a no-objection letter from the father in obtaining tourist visa to the Philippines. Please don't take offense. I’m uber glad and thankful they do check rigorously, for kidnapping reasons. They do quite a great job in that aspect.)

Alisha had been asked, too, by many on different occasions, what her citizenship is. She'd reply without hesitation, "half-Indian, half-Filipino." Every now and then people would further probe which food she likes best, which country she likes to visit most, and push a little further more if she had more Filipino friends than Indian friends. I mean, c'mon, guys. My child is aware she can have the best of both worlds! Chicken Biryani one day, Chicken Adobo the next. We, Filipinos, at most, eat six meals a day. My husband being a Bengali and a foodie himself, doesn't mind adopting that concept at all. Alisha enjoys variety just as much as her dad does. It's actually a surprisingly, comfortable set up. As to how many friends Ali has...a lot! She has no problem mixing with different kids of different nationalities at school.

There are many layers that make up a culture. And that makes both my husband and I unique on our own. What we bring to the table as far as our family is concerned are set of values that are centered at the solidarity of our family.

People are interesting. I will never try to attempt to change how people think nor what they should expect or accept. I choose to have it easy.

Welcome to Apartment Life!

My family and I have been urban-dwellers for the past 9 years. We have transitioned to new countries integral to my husband's job offer, and have lived in a variety of apartments over the years--except for one posting which was in Ghana where we enjoyed this huge space and privacy of a villa. It's a pretty sweet life. Really.

 

Anyway, there are a lot of advantages living in a tower block. No driveways to clean, no lawn to mow, no need to worry about maintenance, and, the best part, housekeeping service once a week. The gentleman does a good job with this domestic science. No complaints at all.

 

But there are drawbacks, too. The noise.

 

I probably have mentioned a lot of times in my blog about me suffering from insomnia. I have a problem falling asleep, and if at all I did, there's a bigger problem staying asleep. A faint rustle of sound alerts me like a megaphone would to a large crowd. That's how pathetic it is!

 

So, this recent hoo-ha that kept me up all night was another one of those nights where top floor neighbors didn't care much whether they live in a make-believe rowhome  or sound proof wood floors. Beginning with a pleasant noise as a party probably started; came guests, then it became too loud too late for a little girl past her bedtime. The boisterous laughter turned into almost shrieking, then to raunchy. You knew a few more girls joined in. Ah! It was aweful!

 

There will be elephants above your apartment. It's a given.

 

Ultimately, we called the watchman of our "luxury" apartment, and reported the loud noise upstairs. But, just like any other day, his promise of action is another written in the sand.

Only now did I notice in scrutiny the fire evacuation layout posted just opposite our door. The building actually has fire escapes at each unit, so it's likely there is no fireproofing between floors, and hence no sound barrier. The building has thicker walls, but thinner floors. (No, I'm not that smart. I read it somewhere).

 

At this point, I reckon it isn't still that bad, really. I hear them now and then, but it's not like they're doing anything other than living and enjoying life. I'm only asking for a little consideration so we can co-exist peacefully. They wouldn't want us cause them the same amount of stress, would they? Besides, I love this apartment. It's the most beautiful and most spacious flat we've ever moved in.

 

However, I know it's just a matter of time a loud party like that would happen again. I guess, it's best to consider moving out. As Albert Einstein said, "Beauty is but skin deep, ugly lies the bone; beauty dies and fades away, but ugly holds its own." Awkward metaphor. I know.

My Little Praying Angel

"Train up a child in the way he should go; even when he is old he will not depart from it."-- Proverbs 22:6

I asked my daughter three nights ago if she could lead the prayer that time because of my throbbing head brought about by insomnia. She politely obliged, and was quiet for a while. I figured she wasn't quite sure of what to say, so I suggested she can tell the Lord anything her heart wants to --including what she feels and what she knows.

As if a big weight was lifted instantly, she began praying, "Thank you, Lord, for this day--for our food, our house, our car, our fridge, our shoes, our clothes, my dad's job, my mom. Please forgive us for the bad things we've done. Please help my mom sleep tonight because she needs to cook a lot of food for me and my dad. I also like her to have a good day after that.

Whoa! Wait! I was really surprised to hear that. I thought it was so sweet and well-timed because insomnia has just had its rebound for the nth time. It felt really nice to be prayed for.

By the way, Lord, thank you for the Eiffel Tower--wherever country it is--because it's really beautiful. Thank you for these huge curtains that shield me from the bright lights of that hotel in front of my room. For the birds that wake me up in the morning, for the big blue sky, for the animals in the wild, for the dinosaurs that lived hundreds and hundreds of years ago because I would have died early if we lived together...

I can almost hear a hint of our Lord's laughter while she's praying all these. It just went on and on, until, "Thank you for loving me and protecting me as I sleep, Lord. In Jesus' name I pray, Amen."

I was touched to hear all of it. I thought it was a beautiful prayer.










God Be Praised!

"I am the Alpha and the Omega--the beginning and the end," says the Lord God. "I am the One who is, who always was, and who is still to come, the Almighty One." --Revelation 1:8

 

In 2010 I was wheeled into emergency care three times on different dates due to hypertension. My blood pressure shot up to 160/100 on the first episode while my husband was out of Bahrain. I was given nitroglycerin, baby aspirin, a shot in the arm, fitted onto my chest some electrodes for ECG test, put me on oxygen, and sent me home with 2 weeks of meds 2 hours later when my blood pressure was stabilized.

 

Five days later, I checked myself in to the hospital due to dizzy spells and tension on the chest. My blood pressure registered to a dangerous level of 190/100. I was administered the same procedures, and, thus, saved me from that life-threatening stage. I was sent home stable the same night with new sets of drugs.

 

A few days later I came back to the hospital for some required lab tests. Results revealed that I had blocked arteries that required 6 months treatment of cholesterol-lowering drug (the brand I forgot) along with Concor (beta blocker) 5mg once daily to target two issues: (1)  high blood pressure, and (2) angina pectoris. My doctor said to me that my heart was "tired", and has been working so hard for some time. That, I guess, I can attest to because prior to my first emergency care, I could hear my heart beating outside my shirt even while my body was at rest.

At the back of my mind I knew then my body was telling me something was wrong, and I didn't pay attention to it at all. As a mother and wife, I have set priorities that were (and still are) more important outside of myself, so anything that discomforts me and can inconvenience others does not raise a red flag--and that has always been my nature.

 

The third time I had to be wheeled in back to the hospital was due to dull headaches, cold and numb fingers and toes, and chest tension. The latter was so intense to a level that I thought I was gonna die. My blood pressure was again high at 160/90 despite regular medication. My doctor  increased the dosage of Concor to 10mg--5 mg in the morning, 5 in the evening. He told me, too, that the feeling of "going to die" is one of the symptoms of panic attacks apart from other physical manifestations such as shaking and palpitations. He discussed a prescription drug that can help alleviate  it can potentially cause a patient to be physically or psychologically dependent on it. I refused to take it, simply because I didn't want to go through another horrid process of painstaking recovery after recovery.

But, you know what, I went back to him and asked for the prescription meds. He gave me on limited basis, since the drug can't be issued liberally. He discussed to me that it's important, on the onset of the panic attack, to stop understanding what's going on. He taught me that palpitation is not necessarily contingent to an alarming high blood pressure. And that it can be caused by caffeine or foods I eat. Education and lifestyle change were key.

 

He told me to reduce its severity, I should eliminate stress out of my system slowly or by force--mentally. In other words, I should decide to take my life back, not how but when. And it's solely dependent on me.

 

It was a difficult task to embark on especially at a time when my husband was still mourning the death of his father. It would be impossible for someone to reach out from a black hole of despair. He himself was broken. I will never have understanding of sheer depth of grief losing a parent because mine are still living. Therefore, I allowed him to transition at his own pace.

 

Braving the path to recovery, I have had tremendous ups and downs along the way. It was never easy because I had a little girl to take care of with my limp body. I tried my best to be as attentive and as nurturing to her as I possibly could. Upon seeing my struggles, my husband hired domestic help to take care of the things I couldn't while recovering.

 

Some days were good. Some days weren't as much. The physical side effects of medicines altered my lifestyle, and worse, perspective. I felt weak in almost all areas of my life. I got scared of stepping out of the house or riding the car. Astonishingly, the most intense fear was when the day turned to dusk. It felt like, to me, the sun was not going to shine--ever. Irrational! Totally irrational fears! I would succumb to this useless fear as if there was a deadline to death. I would cry out, "Jesus, Jesus, help me!"

 

One night I heard Joyce Meyer on TV saying, "The One that is in you is greater than he who is in the world." I was stunned. It felt like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water on me. The times that I thought I could rely on my own strength was a failure. God is in control!

 

She further quoted Revelation 1:8, "I am (Jesus) the Alpha and the Omega--the beginning and the end," says the Lord God. My heart pounded, not because I was having another panic attack, but because I knew the Lord was speaking to me! It meant so personal. Jesus has the first word and the last word about my health, not my doctor (as wonderful as he is). I searched the bible and discovered verses after verses of God's word telling me not to be afraid. Psalm 27:1, "The LORD is my light and my salvation-- whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life-- of whom shall I be afraid?"; Psalm 118:6, "The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me?"

 

Day after day I would write down on pieces of paper other great scriptures that talk about courage, healing and restoration. I would tuck them in my book, put them inside my pocket, paste it on my journal, so I could read them and be reminded of how good the plans of our Lord is to me. I owned each promise to myself. Visualized myself healed and free. The more I read the bible, the closer I get to my healing. Within 2 months, I was totally free from panic attacks. Glory to God!

 

As I was being restored back to health, God has already been blessing me with unlimited opportunities to join and teach in CBSE, British and American curriculum schools in various degree of successes. What a gift!

 

I'm happy to tell the world that my blood pressure has been  stable even before Christmas of 2010, and never fluctuated under any circumstances since. My God is faithful:-)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rio

Five days ago we said goodbye to Rio, my 6 year-old daughter's hamster pet. He was only 7 months old. We thought he'd be around longer to love him and play with. 

 

Rio was such a cute Syrian hamster. He was very shy at first when we brought him home, but didn't take long for him to be comfortable with us--especially Alisha. He liked lettuce and carrots, and enjoyed his brown bread with low-fat yogurt once a month. He enjoyed cage clean up time because it allowed him enough ground play. Like any hamster, he's nocturnal, but once up, he'd be very active running around his 3 storey cage. Alternately, he'd be busy constructing his borrow despite the fact that his cage is indestructible; chomp on his cage bars, and vacillate riding his wheel with full rodent might. He was Alisha's bundle of joy.

 

Rio looked flaccid and acted differently earlier that night. He used to greet us with his Jagger move every time we'd visit his cage, but it was amiss. We knew something went awry. A few minutes later my husband declared Rio died of choking.

 

Alisha was shocked and in disbelief initially. She tried to deny Rio's death by doing pranks with me and her father. She called out on her pet a number of times as she would normally do when feeding or playing. She clowned around for a while until it was sleeping time.

 

As I was tucking her in, she told me her heart was broken into tiny, tiny pieces. Her eyes filled up with tears. She loved Rio. He was her friend. She told me how Rio was helpful in exam time or when she's having a bad day. "Rio listened to me all the time, mom." She started sobbing. She was overcome with a great sense of loss. As a mother, I couldn't think of any word that can possibly console her. I just cried with her.

 

The next day Alisha seemed composed, but quiet. Going to the kitchen she couldn't avoid notice the empty cage. She looked at it for a while. Regaining her focus, she went about with breakfast clamped up on the couch. Loneliness was drawn all over her face. It's heartbreaking to watch.

 

Grieving is not exclusive. Some mourn openly, others mourn in private. There is no right or wrong way to grieve, no set time to end it. Most importantly, it is absolutely OK to grieve the loss of a pet.

 

Our lives settled into a normal pattern a couple of days later. We signed up Alisha to a karate class in the hope of keeping her mind off Rio. She's enjoying new set of skills in martial arts and seems happier.

 

Did she forget about Rio? Of course, not. She told me it's impossible to forget her pet, but she has accepted the fact that he's gone. At least this time, she calls this out with ease sans the tears.

 

"Hamster, hamsterrrr...You hungry? Naughty, naughty, Rio. Where are you? There you are!"

The Labeling Game



Photo by Joanne Wellington

"My feeling is that labels are for canned food. I am what I am--and I know what I am."--Michael Stipe

We all know we can't change the past. The irony though is the predilection of people toward it, and their seemingly insatiable feat to throw labels at you the way they remember you years ago. Oh! Their audacity!

 

In an attempt to curtail my apparent tendency to dwell on the affect of opinion of others, I've opted to put the language on paper--in this case, my blog. As the saying goes, pain is inevitable, sufferring is optional.

 

There's a thin line that separates foolishness from naivety, and that to me is a misguided youth. Parents who don't rebuke or lack the initiative to guide their children other than exasperating them for the responsibilities supposedly their own, create rebels in their own home. I was one of those kids--young and parochial, almost apathetic. I had an obdurate impression of life as a young child that poverty was the root of all evil. 70's and 80's were the most turbulent years in the Philippines economically. My parents impressed on me at a young age to work and labor. And that's all I knew growing up.

 

I have relatives who were born to privilege, and I feel there is something sacrilegious about it because it blindsides them of the sufferring of others. Actually, I'm confused whether their wealth or personal hubris made them feel superior. Nonetheless, they were the object of my envy. Poverty was the source of my rebellion, and yet it became the very source of my awakening, too. 

I struggled a lot in my childhood until early adult years. While I finished college for free through scholarship, the daily provision for transport and food were the main problems. Therefore, I did odd jobs to cover living expenses and school projects in college. In my country, one of the ramifications of being born to a poor family could mean denial of education. I didn't want to be a part of the statistics, so I tried very hard to balance work and school at the same time.

I did the unorthodox in a society where norms and values contradict each other. Coming back home past 10pm from school was anomalous to some. They didn't know I had to work from 6am to 3pm prior to that. I was labeled many names. To their dismay, I graduated with honors 6 years later. My life changed drammatically ever since.

The drudgery of my everyday struggles was seen as culpable to many who wanted to put me in a box. I was always criticized. I was deeply hurt, but the most machiavellian response I could afford was plain silence. As young and as callow as I was, how would I know how to frustrate their ill judgement?

The world offers a generous number of shrewd people who finds pleasure in criticizing and labeling people. Thing is, I hardly would have thought that such labeling has the power to wound a person this long a time. I think people label others to cover their own insecurities. As for me, I can't keep on burying them under the sand because the ground will eventually shake underneath me. They all have to go--for good! Even if it means severing ties.








 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And The Winner Is...

I have a disclosure. I'm 41. Should that depress me? 

Today, all arrows point to the vast array of changes happening in me--physically, emotionally, and spiritually. Let's not forget decrease in intellectual capacity too.

I have fine lines on my face which if I pull both sides of my lower cheeks upwards, I look 20 years younger. Only surgical corrective procedure can keep the gravity at bay but I don't have the massive amount of courage to go through it. Let alone financing! 

Grey hair and hair loss go side by side too. I treat the former with hair colorants. In fact, I don't even remember my natural hair color anymore because of constant color treatment. I wish I could say I'm suffering from malnutrition to defend my hair color but I'm obviously well-fed. Over-fed actually! The latter I can't do much--except pray that it doesn't fall more than it did yesterday. While my hypertensive medication has its side effects, I can't blame it solely for those changes.  It's simply nature at active work there. 

As we pass through life, we inevitably face personal and professional crises. Some are born with self-confidence and "life strategies" that make their battle either brief or dragging. I was not born with much. When I was younger, I was a dim-wit and very insecure. Problems that seemed easy to solve, which were generally self-imposed, proved to be exigent because of my inane abilities. Life was very stressful for me. Fast forward to being a middle-aged woman, life seems better. I have more focus and control now though my physical limitations are discernible. Call me wiser. 

Spiritually, it has been a roller-coaster ride. When I was younger, I was the god. I was stronger, sharper, and had so much potential. But then again, more stupid. As I grew older, the vacuum inside me grew bigger and deeper. I searched the wrong places to fill it in. Had friendships with the wrong people to complete the void. The "I" god bitterly failed me. All those time I couldn't hear Jesus calling because my emotions were so high-strung. I finally heeded His call in 2003 when a professor at La Salle invited me to a Sunday service at CCF, St Francis. My life was never the same! It's good to be born again. Call me redeemed. 

Should middle-age be depressing? I think it's a mistake to even think of it. Plain and simple. Life can be good depending on how you look at it. You may have wrinkles, grey hair, increased body fat and can't run as fast, but you can choose to be happy with all those extras. Thank goodness it will take another 10 years before they call me an alpha-boomer--hopefully with at least some decent "wealth" to carry me through old age. Those age ranges, they don't matter really. Age is just a number. 

The 4th Page

My daughter is joining a memory competition this morning at school. This is the second competition she has joined in a week. The first one was clay crafts. It's more like a rebound of some sort when she missed school last week of January due to flu.

Memory competition as she explained to me is the ability to write more words as much as possible, time-pressured, in their correct spelling. Numerics included except the numbers per se. She had a dry run yesterday. Given 4 pages, she's able to fill 3. That's "good enough but can be better" according to her coach. As if this remark resonates in her young mind, it was obvious she wanted to memorize more words. She tried to beef up her memory by remembering mnemonics she learned from class--rhymes, action words, stories, addition, subtraction, etc--all in the hope of "filling" the 4th page. I had to remind her not to overdo it.

This morning as we were walking towards her bus stop, she confessed feeling not confident she could fill the 4th page. I could sense that she's overwhelmed with pressure. She told me she might not win this time. I paused for a while searching for the right words to say. I remember Vince in Grease saying, "It doesn't matter if you win or lose, it's what you do with your dancin' shoes." I can't tell her that! What about, "it doesn't matter if you win or lose, it's how you play the game." Neither! She will question both those flimsy answers. Finally, I assured her it doesn't matter if she wins or not, it's how she enjoyed sitting with other kids out of the classroom without the prying eyes of her teacher! Almost instantly, she smiled.  

"The most important motive for work in the school and in life is the pleasure in work..." Albert Einstein said that. My daughter comes home from school and tells me she's nominated to compete in a particular contest. That's great! But never will I insist that she enlist in some competition knowing that she will not have fun.

Movie Watching Club

Halwa, burfi...to begin with! Anitha and I were snacking on these tasty confections in the afternoon while scanning a myriad of channels for movies. We caught a glimpse of Julia Roberts wearing a green saree and thought it's a good movie to kill time. Eat, pray and love. The gargantuan running time proved to be a dismay.

Then came the scene where Javier Bardem was driving a jeep in Bali! Dios mio! Why is this Hispanic guy so good-looking to the point of being delectable?! And wait till you hear his deep gruff voice. Oh si! We totally forgot about Julia towards the end of the movie and got hooked with Javier. Allow me a little Spanish por pabor. Te quiero, Javier, mi amor! Se que estas casado. Hi Penelope!

So back to reality.

I remember him as Anton Chigurh from No Country for Old Men. His character here is so evil that there's no way of comprehending his psyche except that he's hired by his "efficient way" to recover money. In my opinion, this sets the bar so high for credit card collectors. His portrayal is so amazing that won him an Oscar in 2007.

Anyway, we finished EPL gasping and happy without noticing the empty bowls of sweets. Moral of the story: Don't watch a Javier movie side by side confectionery to avoid that extra avoirdupois.

Sleepless in Manama

The conundrum of insomnia has made me guessing since my early 30's. You can do the maths on how many years I've been trying to cope with this sleeping disorder. The problem with insomnia is when you're asleep, you're not really sleeping. And when you're up, you're not really awake.

As much as I would surreptitiously pretend to be not insomniac, it's obvious in the dark circles around my eyes; the lightheadedness; the sluggish feeling almost physically fatigued. Altogether, these make my mind vacuous. Ultimately, cross the whole day--just totally "out of order".

What makes matters worse is when some people would say, "Go get some sleep". If that hadn't been my problem in the first place I wouldn't have been sufferring from sleep loss the past decade! So crassly put by the parochial some!

If science has paved way for shampoos to have special formulation for hair loss, why not for sleep loss? I wonder if science really take insomnia seriously because many of us suffer from this disorder and has never been addressed conclusively.

Tips That Worked and Didn't:

1. Drinking milk before going to bed. It helps me relax and dose off for the next hour only to be awakened by a full gall bladder a couple of hours later. This will never work.
2. Listening to Soft Music. Yanni's neoclassical flavor soothes the mind and drowns the heart. Really helpful in relaxation and helps me think of boring, mushy stuff.
3. Getting a back massage. A gentle back massage especially on the shoulders help ease muscle tension.
4. Sleeping on a firmer bed. This is good for the spine. Eases my back pain. Thus, help me relax.
5. Drinking Iced Tea at night. Not sure how much content of caffeine Nestea iced tea has but it kept me up all night during Ramadan. Never again will I drink one can before going to bed.
6. Walking after dinner. A short walk proves to be helpful.
7. If all else fails, consult a doctor.

I was told I'm a healthy insomniac. Meaning my sleeplessness is directly related to my lifestyle which can bring about stress and anxiety. (Anxiety...probably. Bahrain has been economically unstable since the unrest in February. The fear of losing a job is enough to make one really worry.) I was prescribed over the counter drugs and lifestyle modification which I tried to comply with. Funny how it's categorized as "healthy" when the effects of the same malady are ill and comparatively not effective. Does that make me a chronic insomniac? I'm not sure if I want to laugh or cry at this. Whatever it is, it's a grave state to be sufferring from sleep loss. And I'm not the only one.

Trying to Write When I Don't Want To

It's been 2 weeks since I last published my 25th post. Was busy with a copywriting job. That too, a few days after the presentation was approved, I was afflicted with diarrhea of the pen. Not the montezuma's revenge but the dilemma of a writer whose material tends to have a beginning, a middle,  and if the reader is lucky, an end. Ultimately on the 3rd week, I felt exhausted. My mind went blocked. Thanks to a far remote friend, Malou Eden, who gave me the inspiration to write about something. I cannot promise though that this entry will be of good substance versus the previous ones.

I have always loved to write for as long as I can remember--about interesting people, life experiences, and life lessons. I normally carry around a pen and a small notebook to write down inspirations anywhere I'd be at a certain time (Yes, I'm old-fashioned!). I find it trivial using my mobile's notepad. Makes me dizzy.

Reading all kinds of books evoked my interest to pen my thoughts.  It was accidentally polished when I wrote more love letters and poems in sophomore high more than I did my homework. Reading and writing are two sides of the same coin.  The more I read, the more I want to write. Proving Bill Robinson's study that "an advance in one skill reinforces the other." Hence, English as my major in college. 

As I grew maturely, I had the privilege to work while functioning as a Corporate Trainer from the late '90's to 2004  on what I consider to be important jobs like ghostwriting,  advertorials, copywriting, and writing training manuscripts.

Notice I skipped the year I joined EasyCall (ECPI) in 1993 to 1997. I allowed an insolent immediate superior to treat me with contempt on a regular basis. I put up with her manic-depressive behaviour which was ever so highly evident when she and her boyfriend would have a bad fight the night before. Helpless and depressed, I started believing all the negative stuff she told about me. My faith in myself just flew out of the window--including that special skill.

I breathed for the first time when I was offered a job as a Corporate Trainer for Recall 138 mid of 1997. While I was directly reporting to the HR Manager, I also worked side by side the president for ghostwriting projects. My output spoke of my work and commanded respect from both my colleagues and the management. What a huge difference it makes when somebody believes in you. I was reborn!

I have forgiven that audacious manager from ECPI but I must admit that for a while I kicked myself everytime I remember how and why I put up with her. In retrospect, I thank God for allowing that to happen to me because in God's appointed time, I became a manager to my own training staff. I used the same negative experience to teach me to be more compassionate, encouraging, and a team-player.

Fast forward to where I am now, I'm glad to be writing again. I had to put off writing for a little while because circumstances called for it. Circumtances too brought me back to the writing circle.  Hence, the title of this blog "Immaculate Emancipation." Why such title? Long story.

Apologies for a seemingly an insipid post as this one.

Half-Glass Empty or Half-Glass Full?: Devil-May-Care

According to Wikipedia, Pessimism is a state of mind in which one perceives life negatively.

I have met quite a few of them and I must be honest that I regret almost immediately to have come accross their paths. 

I'll talk about one character at a time.

An old acquaintance I reconnected thru facebook perpetually talks about her financial woes. The moment I asked how she is, she would, as if scripted, respond, "still drowning in debt." No matter how much I try to shift the subject, she gyrates yet skillfully on bringing up the same old pathetic issue. What glory she finds in whining and complaining about how luck seems to have turned away and yet not do anything! Boy, I feel sick after each encounter with her. For my own sake, I have to make a quick decision to end the chat before she drains out the infinitesimal energy left in me.

I sympathize with her but I'm not sorry for her. The state where she's in right now is the choice she made. Since she solicited my advice on almost every occassion, I told her to consider the following:

1. tell her spouse to get a temp job in any establishment for extra income;
2. search for offshore teaching jobs where remuneration is far better than local--online, through POEA or any legal recruitment office;
3. avoid borrowing loans and use of credit cards;
4. live within their means;
5. and, finally, be thankful for everything because she has everything at her disposal--stable career, a loving son, and good friends around her.

It makes me sad when I see pictures of her partying. It's good to be in social events once in a while because this somehow takes off the worry, but to see a post of her "high time" and the next telling me she's broke, is ridiculously insane. I find that unacceptable. No wonder she's still in the pit. 

Steve Pavlina says, "Negative people are energy vampires.  They have an almost endless capacity to dwell on what they don’t want, whining and complaining about their lives while denying responsibility for their result. Their fear blocks the natural flow of energy from within, so they must get it from other people instead.  After spending a few hours with them, you’ll usually feel drained, tired, worried, or stressed.

It makes no difference what particular circumstances negative people blame for their negative outlook.  Ultimately it’s still a choice rooted in free will.  No matter how unconscious the person was when making the decision to sink into negativity, in this moment that person still has the power to choose otherwise.  So if you decide to help such a person, your primary role is to help guide him to make a more conscious choice, one that will likely be much more empowering."

In my case, I guess I tried to help. But her attitude seems as obstinate as her stagnation. And I can't give what I already don't have--patience.

She remains in my prayers. At least in that avenue, I don't need to deal with her in person as God is far better handling her case than I. 

Roller Coaster Ride

I have watched Nanay falling in and out of  sickness since she reached her 50+ years of age. It seems so macabre to suggest that her body translated infirmity as she aged. The once strong woman who took care of 7 kids has been frail for the last 15 years.

I spoke to her yesterday concerning her health since I learned that her blood pressure shot up to 180/90 and pulse rate of only 47 on Wednesday. Lynn rushed her to the hospital complaining of lightheadedness and physical weakness. She underwent a series of lab tests including 2D-echocardiography, carotid/vertebral duplex and other tests to diagnose autoimmune illnesses. She was sent home that day too showing signs of improvement, but with a new set of prescription drugs.

Emergency care was inevitable late evening of Thursday when her blood pressure registered to its most dangerous level of 220/100 with pulse rate of 37. She had to be monitored 4 hours straight until her condition stabilized. It took 2 doses of catapres 6 hours later to bring her blood pressure down. She was released from the satellite clinic a few hours later.

We reckon that stress and exhaustion from taking care of my father from his episode of stroke last February can be imminent, but not to this extent. Sleeping would have been palliative for her but she's also deprived of it.

While she's out of danger now, I think in my carnal mind, based on her medical history that it would just be a matter of time when sickness would attack again. I'm so sick of it!

When sickness invades the life of your loved one, it completely  drains you--emotionally, financially, mentally, physically. It feeds on sadness; robs you of your joy ultimately stressing you out while it slowly depletes your savings. 

The frailty of the human body can cause one to think of a god who can heal and save. I'm no exception. I can cause a tide of prayer requests to Christian friends and ministries until I'm emotionally and spiritually exhausted. Sometimes I find myself spiritually paralyzed especially when the one sick is someone I dearly love. It's difficult to pray when someone is sick, but I know in my very soul that it's the enemy's way to keep my prayer unanswered so I have to keep on pushing.  

I see sickness as a gun pointed at a person's head leaving him or her almost instantly petitioning God to manifest His power right at that very moment. My friend Blenda is right when she said that "God is not moved when we have a need, He is moved by our faith."

Hebrews 11:6, "And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him."

I'm believing God will release her from the bondage of sickness so she can live life as she should--healthy, happy and pain free.  

Special thanks to my friends and prayer warriors Blenda and Mavic from Manila and Thess R from Australia who helped me pray for my mother. 

All is well now. Thank you, Lord Jesus.

Eat Bulaga!

My family and I had dinner at Hot Pot in Gudaibiya this evening. It's a Filipino-Chinese restaurant serving both Asian cuisines but most of its patrons are Pinoys (an informal demonym for Filipinos). There was an on-going seminar for a group of Pinoys at the function hall so we proceeded straight to the fastfood section instead.

We're lucky to have the best seating because I could watch "Eat Bulaga" closer. I grew up watching Tito, Vic and Joey since I was 9. They were first huge household names in the renowned "Iskul Bukol" as Ungasis and Escaleras. Then shortly came Eat Bulaga pitted against Student Canteen. (I know, I'm beginning to sound really old!) They have changed home stations three times if my memory serves me right. But still, I followed through--along with the whole archipelago.



Tito, Vic, and Joey

My intent to describe the comic troika would be personal. As a fan, my personal opinion can be subjective but not necessarily less honorable as I only have pure admiration and respect to these guys.

Joey is the most passionate of the three. I have always liked his choice of clothes--funky, young, yet decent. Known for his frankness, humor and authority on showbiz chismis, he pulled in more audience who can relate to his comic. His impeccable timing is indefectible. Tatay could relate to his jokes better than I did because I was too young then. But when I reached college, I totally get him! Tatay would chuckle longer than I normally would. And that's really hilarious. 

Tito is more of the suave type. Prim and proper. Sometimes when he cracks jokes my lightning-fast mind couldn't get it quite right because his personality comes first. To myself, "Did he really say that?". He pursued public service in the early '90's so his appearance became irregular.

Vic Sotto. What can I say? His name per se has this huge mass appeal. He's the ladies' charmer. I find him really cute. He became my boyfriend as long as I can remember. Only...he's completely unaware of it! He looks so hot to this day no one would guess he's 57. Unfortunately, his lovelife is the very untithesis of his stable career. I wonder though if his being a ladies' charmer has any correlation to this fate.

Since I'm out of the country for some time now, I rarely see them too. I definitely have missed out on a lot of events in their respective careers as well. I kind of missed the trio so I got hooked immediately when I heard Joey de Leon's voice. Man! 30 years later, they still have it--that grip on the Filipino audience anywhere in the world.
 

It will take more than a thousand gladiator effort to outseat them from the number 1 spot. They're so good at what they do that not even a hundred rival shows can come at par with Eat Bulaga.

I totally forgot to tell you what we had for dinner, didn't I? Next post, guys.

Mummy Diaries 101: Peachy

My daughter is at an amazing age where she can't get enough of mummy. She spends a lot of time sitting beside me--at the hall, kitchen or my lap--playing with my hair, my nose, stretching my eyes in the hope of making it big, kiss me on my lips, sometimes all over my face; giving me a deep "haaaaaaaaa" to check if her breath is as fresh as her toothpaste even if she had just woken up.

She thought it's obstreperously funny when she passes gas in a rowdy sound like "frraaaaaaaaaaaapppp". And debates that some farts you can't hear because they wear slippers. I end up getting a whiff on what I prepared her for dinner. Sometimes, her favorite soft toy Tikboy gets the blame for it.

I revel on moments in between her bites of chicken nuggets or while slurping chocolate milk and tell me, "Mum, I love you very much." I'm like butter turning into ghee in a microwave. She would often tell me in the morning when she catches me immersed in writing, "Mum, if your child is awake, you should stop typing on that laptop."  Of course, I willingly oblige. Her wish is my command.

She compliments me "looking pretty" regardless if  I'm wearing old torn clothes. At least in her eyes I am beautiful no matter how flabby my arms are or how big my tummy is. I don't mind her combing my hair that ends up tangled anyway. She actually thought I lack the skill to detangle it and my comb is not the finest.

She has started going to painting class while on school vacation. She has a friend who goes with her to the same class in the afternoon. She adores her a lot. There's a great sense of joy seeing that my child has already stepped into exploring her young world--to choosing her own summer class; having her own friend; and eloquently exchanges ideas about oil pastels, biscuits, chocolate milk and the place we would pass by as the car runs. She and her friend actually talk about anything about the whole shebang. It's wonderful!

Alisha is the greatest evidence of God's blessing in my life. Every little thing she does disposes me enough conviction that no matter how life seems to have shrunk for me, her genuine love will always bring me to full confidence of God's will in my life--to be her mother and her steward to help her reach her fullest potential. 


All I ask is...please, don't grow up too fast.

Nombre Cafe

After dropping off the kids to Kalabhavan Music and Arts Training Center, my husband and I with our friend Anitha and her 2 year-old European-looking son drove around Adliya to look for Cafe Lilou. Famous for its bohemian theme and sophisticated ambience, we thought we could give it a try--after all, it's not an everyday splurge.

Funny how GPS can obscure the truth on highway rules that my husband totally believe it's useless. He would rather look for signages and use gut instincts to search for a place. Unfortunately, gut instincts are not a man's birthright (smile).

You see, I know he hates being told directions let alone asking for one. I keep mum most of the time so as not to add further tension. But to keep quiet is to be stoic--while finding a place that is. Turning right at the junction, we practically avoided the road leading to Saudi Arabia. What a relief! We just had the most boisterous laugh after a few tensed minutes there.

We figured any coffee house we spot anywhere would be alright. After all, we only had a few minutes left to spare. As if luck turned well to our favor, a space was free parallel to the curb just 10 feet away from New York Coffee. Bliss! Finally, we can have cappuccino.

Don't get me wrong. My husband for me is the best driver in the whole world. He adheres to various traffic rules and drives defensively. There were drivers whom we have hired before that loved to "feel" the speed! I ended up nausated more than the feeling of joy ride.

Feeling more relaxed after the coffee, we drove back to Kalabhavan to pick up the kids. This time, we prepared for the best role-shifting while coming to the center--as parents!

Who cares about Cafe Lilou anyway?

Cheers!

My sister and I started the tradition of drinking wine on Christmases and vodka on New Years in the early 90's. I suppose you can guess why the drinks were specific. Christmas is a sweet, subtle celebration of the Lord's birth so wine is the best choice, while New Year is obviously a more exhilerating time so vodka is the one.

Since my sister and I started earning well and can pretty much afford life's simple pleasures, we would make sure that every Christmas and New Year, there's a special liquor in the house. It's a hallelujah moment whenever I received corporate gifts with wines because it's for one a fine choice, and secondly, saved me some bucks.

We liked Bordeaux and Rioja, Smirnoff, and San Miguel beer. The latter we saved for the boys since beer is an acquired taste for us--not until later when Lynn migrated to Japan to work as a software engineer. (What I know is they drink beer or sake first before a regular meal over there). In my case, it took me a lot of facial distortions until I learned to like that yeast-fermented malt! We save Bailey's Cream for last since it's the most expensive and the best according to our simple taste.

I'm married for quite a while now. So is my sister. Only my brothers carry on the tradition back home. However, since our marriage, they modified the celebratory dates to their own respective birthdays so that came down to the normal "toma" with their barkadas. They are moderate drinkers. They know that there is a huge--I mean, huge!--level of nagging issue involved from our mother afterwards. And boy, they can't and won't push their lucks!

Jesus' first miracle occurred at a wedding party in Cana 2000 years ago. He turned large water vessels into wine after knowing that the first batch had been consumed. He's not a kill-joy, wasn't he? He understood that occassional drinking is more of a celebration of life together as a family as opposed to drinking for the heck of getting a buzz.

I have my own tradition at home with my husband. We prepare wine and vodka for ourselves in the safety of our homes on special occassions--particularly on birthdays. We drink with our good friends to celebrate promotions, birthdays, or just simply enjoying the company of each other. 

It is one thing to drink in moderation and it's another when you woke up in a different house with a different person. Tradition or not, one is responsible for his or her own actions. You just got to know your limits. 

  

Mummy Diaries 101:Mistaken to be a Nanny

Evening minima in Dubai is usually around 30-32 degrees centigrade in summer as per my experience. Desert summer in the Middle East can be unrelenting so proper timing is your real buddy. Alisha, only 3 years old then, and I usually went out at dusk when it's less hot.

Our first destination would be Al Talal Supermarket--only 3 blocks away from our apartment building--to enjoy its efficient airconditioning. At its facade were coin-operated kiddie rides that Alisha loved. In my pocket was 2 fils and a few dirhams in case the ride had convinced her it's truly exciting.

As the night fell, more and more mums or nannies with their kids came. I guess those kiddie rides have become a panacea for all of us whose liberty to explore farther places by foot had been constrained because of the sinistrous humidity.

Being in a multicultural city like Dubai, you can expect to see and meet different mix of kids born from beautiful parents of mix race. It's wonderful. Sometimes events could turn hilarious, too.

"Where's her mummy?" A lady inquired while pushing a cart alongside mine. It was an innocous question coming from an elderly lady.

Unfortunately, of all the questions, this one was not expected. I politely replied with a cold smile, "I'm her mummy." "Oh, okkk. Sorry. Beautiful kid!" then turned away. For the first time, it occured to me facial features and skin color can be confusing to other people. Alisha is the splitting image of my husband (with lighter complexion).

Another time at The Mall of the Emirates, a gregarious teen sipping cold moccha approached my child and touched her hair and inquired, "Are you her nanny?" My already chinky eyes could only give her a sharper squint, "No. I'm her mother." 

Many a similar misnomer followed in separate occassions like the airports in Manila, Hong Kong, and, yes, even here in Bahrain. There were times I told myself, "Alisha, pilizzz call me mummy now!", as I noticed a few presumptious rubbernecks.

This time I don't get upset anymore.  Given the numerous times I've been mistaken to be my daughter's nanny, I learned the skill of giving the fastest, most polite, and appropriate reply possible. 

I think it's ignorance more than the attempt to be disrespectful by these inquisitive people. Living in a multicultural society doesn't mean all posh and everybody looks, thinks, and acts the part. Nevertheless, I can survive desert summer.