On Trauma Response and Writing

One of the clearest forms of childhood trauma that I experienced was during the times when I had no control over my situation and that other people decided for me.

Growing up it became a pattern in the form of people pleasing, constant need for validation, escape through withdrawal from the world, and radio silence.

And people took advantage.

Growing up a Pastor’s Kid, I hated moving around from one place to another. I felt like I had no roots.

But I glazed over the emotions because of the spiritual concept and truth which is called God’s will.

I also felt like one of the reasons why I considered everything as part of the bigger picture was because my family grew up in poverty and we were at the mercy of the church support.

I remember one time, when I was in fifth grade, Mama and I went to Iloilo City with only provisions for fare and a gift certificate that Mama would use to buy school supplies before school would start.

But the mall would not honor the gift certificate. We went instead to Tita Sonia’s place and I witnessed my Mother cry.

I was sitting on one of the benches inside my aunt’s place while Mama wiped her tears.

I hid that memory from my consciousness because I felt like it was embarrassing to witness my Mother cry in front of newly met relatives after we went home from Davao del Norte.

When I was diagnosed with manic depression, and I spent days at the old house in Antique, whenever I felt like the overwhelming emotions were too paralyzing and the flashbacks kept coming back, I would break the unbreakables in the kitchen.

One time, I had an episode and I witnessed my Mother weep, while slumped on the floor. She asked me:

“Toto, ano problema haw?”

I did not answer her. Instead, I went back to my catatonic gaze.

The last time that I saw my Mother wipe tears from her eyes was during the wedding of my cousin Nene Jocelyn. I spoke on behalf of the cousins of the bride, and during that time, I felt enough courage and clarity to speak about love and sacrifices.

I saw Mama tear up during my speech.

You see, I may not be one of my Mother’s favorites, but we went to a lot of shared pain from our experiences because I became the de facto eldest child when she lost my older sister at birth.

We had a lot of shared painful experiences that I only talk to my psych doctor, Doc Victor Amantillo.

More than the shared experiences, it was probably because I became the clearest form of disappointment. A walking failure. A ticking time bomb, worthy of blowing up and be incinerated into nothingness.

But Mama’s habilin for me to continue my life, provided direction—seeing through to the end no matter the cost, no matter the hurt, no matter the searing pain.

Now that I think about it, writing for me, felt like a symptom of my illness, more than a life-affirming coping mechanism. And Mama understood the power of words, because she and Papa filled my childhood with books.
In retrospect, I’m happy that Mama and I bonded over Tom Clancy, Michael Crichton, John Grisham, JJ Nance, and RBC Ministries’ Courage.

All the trauma that I experienced as a kid, could never compare to the grief that I felt when I lost her. She was one of the few women who held my universe together.

So, I kept writing. Because for me, to write means to continue living.

To write means to live—trauma response, painful shared experiences, grief and loss, and all.

Mama and RORO, 2016

Looking At A Frosted Glass

When Mama was fighting through life, in my quintessential write-up to her entitled Coming Home, I promised that she can rest in the knowledge that no matter what happens at THIS life, we’re going to be okay—that we’re going to stick together and be okay.

But the promise of being okay seems hard when the changing landscapes of my compulsion towards the inevitable end of my life seep through the surface.

Though I feel dislodged, for a few months I was at peace because I felt like I needed to stay in Antique because it was where Mama stayed for a third of her life. It was where she breathed the gentle breeze of the sea and the azure waters that crash on the sand and the shore. 

But, I guess in life, “movement is life” as per a famous World War Z line, a zombie movie. I relate to the line from that movie because in the last 35 years of my life, our family has moved from Davao del Norte, Guimaras, and Antique (mine included Metro Manila). And for Mama, those moves, she considered as travel. She would always testify, when she was alive, that she was thankful that the Lord brought her to Antique so she could meet the people that became her family, and ours too.

I’ve always loved Mama’s optimism about us moving from one place to another. She felt like, as much as she had every choice to stay where she was comfortable, she decided to follow where the Lord led her—even when it’s uncomfortable, painful, and heartbreaking.

But death really changes everything, I suppose. Because I notice that my reference point towards every memory that I have from now on was from the time she was fighting the Big C and then to her funeral and burial—everything that happened before this point in my life’s axis was a distant past. I remember them in a frosted glass.

I felt like Mama was one of those who held my universe together, and now that she’s gone I had nowhere to go to, to crash and burn—only to go inside my heart and suffocate myself from the noise and the hurt.

How do I say I’m okay when I’m not? How do I consider movement as travel? And how do I say I’m ready to face death?

I can’t. Because I am not my mother.

I can only weep in moments where I could no longer carry the weight of that promise—that we’re going to be okay. I hope someone could release me from that promise so I could declare to the universe that I’m not okay and I tell the winds that I hate the universe for taking the very same one who holds her up.

Because to be perfectly honest, as much as my roots are meant to nourish my growth, I’m tired.

But I’m hopeful. I’m hopeful that someday, when I finally totally understand what it means to face death head-on, be optimistic at movement, and keep my promise of being okay while feeling not okay—I will consider the very own life that I lived abundant, and fully-lived. 

There may be tears, hurt, and noise, but in the grand scheme of things, I need to remind myself this from David Foster Wallace:

“This is water.”

“This is water.”

A reminder that what I need is already in front me. What is “real and essential”, is where I’m already living at. I just have to take it for what it is and to savor the now—because tomorrow is never promised and death is a thief.

Life is brief. Home is where you build your heart with. What matters is today. The rest is noise.