I wish I didn’t burn and throw my diaries to “move on.” Para walang alaala. Para wala ng babalik-balikan. I should have kept them in an aluminum cookie box and then buried them somewhere I would remember, a place I would probably not pass by in a normal day. Now I have no concrete evidence how much I have changed.
All I know was how immature I was in love. Na gusto ko sa akin lang ang atensiyon ng mahal ko. I’m not sure what happened to us, siguro tama nga yung sinasabi nila na ghosters ang mga taga-UST. Kidding aside, I remember how I begged for this person to stay and how this person liked someone else. I have forgotten if we still talked at night after this person told me, “Ayoko na,” but I remember that day we watched UAAP cheerdance competition and UP MBT won. I can’t remember a formal breakup, but I remember burning all letters, gifts, and my diaries to “move on.” Somehow, the ashes assured me that our relationship had ended for real. Hindi ko lang sigurado kung paano ko nakonek ‘yon.
I was an angry teenager, and the proof was in my diaries. I often wrote about wanting to die but not wanting to feel pain when I do, about how different it will be if I were born wealthy, about wishing to cease to exist. Although I wrote blogs about these things, reading them from my old notebooks felt therapeutic.
I had no else to talk to about my second love, and I described everything in my diary. Every meeting, every contact. I detailed my feelings for this person whenever I write, and tears even stained the pages. I even drew our kilig moments. But when my hopes of us being together dwindled, I stopped writing and, again, threw my notebooks.
Hindi ko alam kung bakit ko ‘to naaalala ngayon. Sumasakit ang tiyan ko kapag bumabalik ang mga alaala na sa pagkakaalam ko ay limot ko na dapat. It seemed unnecessary to remember these things now . . . right?
Like, self, it has been years. Why have you not yet learned to forgive yourself?