My office mate sent me an email. It almost want to make me cry of the most unfortunate event that could happen to anyone...And so I realized I'm not the most unlucky girl in the world...
TODAY, I will attend an execution: my own. I will watch it with both
eyes open
and I will not cry. I will not break down just because the man I have
loved
since forever will marry someone else. I will watch him promise himself
to a
woman who will never love him like I have. I will watch them bind
themselves toa vow I should have taken.
I have loved Oliver almost all my life. I have known him since I saved
his six-
year-old hide from a bully named Ricardo who wanted to rid him of his
two
yellowed front teeth. I was five at the time, but having grown with
five older
brothers and a hellion of a sister, \'\'Totoy Cardo\'\' was a piece of
cake.
Oliver was so overcome with embarrassment at having a girl to protect
his
scrawny neck that from that time on he made it a point to be the
rescuer,not
the rescued. As time passed, muscles filled out this lanky frame and
those two
front teeth began to sparkle. He combs his hair, and he takes a bath
daily now.
In short, he has become a fine specimen of manhood.
The best part is, he lived up to his promise: he became my
self-appointed
guardian (well, I don\'t know if that\'s the best or the worst part).
He was just
always there, sticking to me like glue. It used to drive me nuts that
he never
let me out of his sight.
When I was 12, I ran from the infirmary on my way home. I had found out
in the
most humiliating way that I had become a woman: there was a big red
stain on
the back portion of my skirt. The jeers and the taunts followed me
through the
school corridors. Oliver dashed after me and offered to accompany me
home.
I declined, of course. He seemed to understand my discomfiture and
promised
to drop later with the things left in school. When I reached home I was
told
that I needed to jump three times on the stairs (which I did) and to
wash my
face with my blood (which I didn\'t do). Oliver dropped by in the
afternoon,
sporting a black eye and a bruise on his arm. When I asked him what
happened, he
said he had walked into a closed door. I believed him. But a few days
later, minus
the dysmennorhea, I found out that Oliver got into fisticuffs because
some guy
made a disgusting remark about me.
Nobody had ever fought for me before that. And when you\'re 12 and
discussing in class how King Arthur and fairest of them all, Lancelot,
fought for
Guinevere\'s love, you tend to get ideas. I loved Oliver then.
When we were in high school and I found out that the school\'s
heartthrob
and one of my most ardent suitors, Richard, was involved with a bustier
girl,
it was to Oliver that I ran. When I didn\'t graduate as valedictorian
and I
got so drunk, it was Oliver who took me home. He didn\'t even mind
that I barfed
all over his dad\'s car (which he borrowed without permission).
When I decided to go to UP and he went to Ateneo, we celebrated by
partying. When I lost my mom in a car accident, he took care of
everything.
When my dad followed my mom less than a year later after a heart
attack, he
was there again.
By this time he was an appendage of my life. He used to check out the
guys
I came to know. Nobody dared to get serious with me--not when Oliver
had a
black belt.I didn\'t know how to define our relationship. I didn\'t
know what we
were. We definitely were more than friends, better even than best
friends. It was
like we were a couple, but formally not one. We did all the things that
couples
did like hang out and neck but always stopped when things got too hot.
Since we never defined what we meant to each other we never said \'\'I
love you\'\'
or whatever serious couples told each other.
As a result, I remained a chaste princess while my prince caroused and
sowed wild oats, but still had the energy to monitor my movements I
didn\'t
mind. After all, I was so sure we\'d end up together. I always thought
that in
the end, it would be us. I loved him. I managed to convince myself that
he
loved me (what else could it be?). Little did I know that love doesn\'t
conquer all,
it only conquers the weak.
I didn\'t think he\'d be so stupid as to get a girl pregnant on the
same night
they met at a party. I didn\'t think he\'d be so stupid as to forget to
use
some form of contraception. After all, he had given me a lecture on
safe sex.
And I didn\'t think he\'d be so stupid as to marry the girl. But maybe
I forgot
that after all he was a man, and men have been known to be stupid about
these
things. Their brain is located in a region other than between the ears.
What could I do? Kicking him in the groin and punching him in the eye
seemed like a good idea then. Don\'t blame me; he was the one who
enrolled me in a
self- defense course. But I did not feel better. Seeing him bent over
in pain
only made me angrier. I wasted my life for this lousy excuse of a man?
I could
not believe it!
I wanted nothing more than to run to him and beg him to wake me up from
the
stupid dream. I wanted him to take me some place where we didn\'t know
anybody. No pain, no memory, no humiliation. I wanted to just forget it
ever
happened but since I flunked in the School for Martyrs, I couldn\'t,
for the life of
me pretend, it didn\'t happen. I couldn\'t pretend he didn\'t hurt me.
I couldn\'t pretend everything was fine and dandy and exactly the way
it was
before. We didn\'t talk for a month. For both of us who were
practically
inseparable, that was like an eternity. I ducked into corners whenever
I
would see him. I wouldn\'t take his calls. I wouldn\'t see him. And for
some time
hate was my reason for getting up in the morning, for breathing, for
living.
Hate and I became good friends.
\'\'God brings men into deep waters, not to drown them but to cleanse
them,\'\' somebody once wrote. I didn\'t want to be cleansed. I just
wanted to drown
in pain and misery and utter desolation. I wanted to wallow in the dark
and
deep pit of despair. I know a thousand and one cliches that say this
can be a
blessing and that I should be thankful. But thankful is the last thing
I\'m
feeling right now. I\'ve always thought that there are three kinds of
women:
those who break, those who mend and those who are broken themselves.
Before this hit me, I assumed that I belonged to the first or second
category. Now I know I\'m in the third--so hurt and broken up inside.
My grandmother
used to say that there is nothing you can do about pain when it gives
you a
silly grin except grin right back. All I could manage was a wry smile,
a killer
headache and the worst hangover the day before his wedding. Evidence of
that is the disgusting sight of mashed potatoes and barbecue, thrown up
not three
meters away from where I was lying prostrate on the floor and the awful
stench of cigarette on my hair. Frankly I don\'t want to go.
I want to wallow in misery in my messy room, crying, retching and
stinking,
surrounded with Michael Learns to Rock (whose songs are dedicated to
the
broken- hearted) CDs. But I have to go and attend the wedding. I have
to bathe and
prepare and put on that atrocious peach (it\'s not even my color!)
gown.
I\'m not doing it for the groom, my one true friend and love, Oliver.
Neither am I doing it for the bride, my younger sister, Sandra who
needs me. I\'m
doing it for my unborn niece who has the great fortune of having me as
her aunt.
Call me stupid, but I\'ve always known my place. If it isn\'t beside
the man I was
destined to marry, if it isn\'t behind my sister, who will take his
name,
wear his ring and bear him a child, then it must be with my niece,
cradled close
to my heart so that she will know both of our love.
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