It could have been

Four innocent words that when placed one after the other, in that order, could drive the hell out of me every freaking time. Those words only bring to mind one person, and that would be YOU.

I was staring at the ceiling, drowning myself with one random thought after another when I got a text message with a tempting and on-the-spot offer from a close friend.  I’m not known for being spontaneous, but that very second I knew I had to say yes.

This invite triggered a what-could-have-been: a guy, not so long ago, offered to fly me somewhere, too. This does not necessarily mean that Mr I’ll Fly You Here had romantic feelings for me. He was a friend –a part of my childhood whom I secretly (or maybe not so-secretly) liked. Did he even like me? I never had the guts to ask so I would never know.  But I think it does not matter. I made my choice, and I have to live (and eventually, die) with it.

The offer came at a moment when I had to choose between doing the right thing which then meant turning the offer down, or doing what I wanted/needed and be branded a cheater.

Declining his I’ll-fly-you-here offer was something I told myself I should never regret. But for years now, I have been a prisoner of that right decision –that one which broke me into pieces.

For once I did what my brain and conscience approved of, but that made me question (and will always make me ask) if doing the right thing is always the best option. I chose what was right over what would make me happy. Does this make me a fool?

Maybe putting this into words will finally mark an end to the nonsense-brain racking-depressing-mindboggling-torture I’ve been punishing myself with.

Yes, I’m finally putting it on record.

I liked you. Maybe even loved you, I’m not sure. What I’m certain is, these feelings I have for you resonate from somewhere deep, a place I could not fathom. They are so strong, they overwhelm me. My memories of you make me either smile or turn me into an overflowing bag of tears.

There is this voice inside my head saying our paths were intertwined from the very start. We were destined to share memories and make each other feel special sometime somehow, but  we were never meant to be together.

I liked you, and somewhere deep inside, I know I always will. There. I said it (or wrote it).

More than enough tears were shed for you and for that one chance I let pass. I never had you, I never will. And like any chapter, this too, must end.

Today, I write 30 for all my what-ifs; that it-could-have-been is now officially an it-will-never-be.

Next chapter, please.

-N

Fresh Eye

Tomorrow I turn four months in my relatively new job as a managing editor of an online fashion magazine. From my earlier post, I guess you can say I sounded a bit iffy. I wish I can say a lot has changed, but I can’t. The best thing I can do now is to look at the silver lining.

Every day I still find reasons to get frustrated and disappointed in my new office. It’s hard not to compare it to my old home, where some of the best writers, editors, and artists come together. Don’t get me wrong, my team is composed of young, creative, driven, intelligent, and hilarious people—and I adore them.

It’s the inevitable presence of unprofessional employees that really irks me. And although I don’t always have to work closely with such people, just knowing they can get away with being incompetent makes my blood boil.

Last week I felt I was really going to snap. Thank God it was a Friday. I had enough of all the office gossip and trash talking. But when the heat died down and my head cleared up, I decided it was too early to give up. It’s never too late to turn things around especially for a start-up company—to reinforce rules, weed out the bad workers, and create a better sense of professionalism in the workplace.

Plus, I realized how all the negativity has kept me from enjoying my new job. There’s so much to celebrate at this stage of my career. I’m making bigger and more crucial decisions, and sure it’s putting so much pressure on me, but breaking is no option. And every day, I just have to keep trying. I just have to keep doing things the best way I can, with the hope that I can inspire others to do the same.

- T

Today.

On The Future

These days, nothing scares me more than the future. To me, the future is this big, black abyss waiting to swallow me whole into its darkness. I have known for a while that I don’t sit particularly well with uncertainties, and the future being one big question mark just freaks the daylights out of me more than any other kind of uncertainty.

My biggest fright about the future is anchored mainly on my job. You see, corporate media is a very volatile industry—one day you’re in it, and the next day you could be out on the streets, just like that. Regularization and benefits aren’t exactly common practice in this industry, so the security of one’s tenure is only as stable as his last output.

It’s not that I’ve been doing bad at work or slacking off on the job; just the thought of possible major movements in the industry affecting my current work is enough to make me think long and hard about my plans.

Unfortunately for me, unlike other young professionals who could just as easily eat off of their parents’ hands when the going gets tough, I don’t have such a safety net with me. That stable wall crumbled a few years ago, when my family encountered a major financial problem. I have fending off for myself since then.

I know change is bound to happen anytime soon, and that it is a fact of life that major life events only seek to teach us a lesson about ourselves. Still, the thought of getting displaced and having to find livelihood is a scary thought for me right now, considering I’m only beginning to gather my bearings in this world.

Which is why for the time being, I am thankful for things that remain constant amid all the changes—like friendship, like memories, like love.

- P

Just another jaded soul

Three twelve in the morning. What day is it again?

Waking up in my own bed inside my unlit room is, uhm, strangely unfamiliar. Not that waking up in someone else’s bed is the norm;  I’ve never really woke up in a bed that’s not my own except if that’s a hotel bed somewhere for a press junket –or my swivel chair in the office (yeah). In this line of work, everywhere becomes your office, and mastering the art of catching some snooze time while waiting for that breaking story is an acquired skill.

Honestly, I sometimes dream about sending emails about updated pages, graphics report, JP Morgan losing $2 billion in derivatives trade, that hyped-up Facebook IPO, or how that goddamned CMS fucks up every freaking time.

Sometimes I feel like a superhero in my own right. But do superheroes get tired? Don’t get me wrong, I love what I’m doing. Or now that I’m dabbling into finance and all the shiz I used to dread (and I still do sometimes), I have learned to love it. But this past week has worn every inch of me down.

Not sure if the work load wore me down, or the work environment. How do I say this? There are people who never fail to make you feel inferior. The media, like any other workplace I presume, is one competitive world –talk about scoops, deadlines, breaking stories. But what I don’t get is why make it your daily task to make others, especially the younger ones in the industry, feel they’re useless or worse, dumb.

Not that I see myself as brilliant or flawless, it’s just that, I have the credentials for this job. I worked hard to get to where I am now, and I sure give my all to be a useful piece in this media puzzle. I may be one of the youngest, but I sure am not the dumbest.

As they say, haters gonna hate. Maybe I just needed this alone time, an escape from all the chaos the newsroom offers. Tomorrow will be another press day.  I’ll be again held hostage by my office desk bombarded by finance stories I sometimes barely understand the importance of, and will carry myself as if everything’s cool.

I’m making a mental note that I need to shake this frustration off and leave it outside the newsroom door.

-N

A moment with Prayers for Bobby

These days, it’s rare that I encounter a movie that really tugs at the heart strings, and Prayers for Bobby did exactly just that to me this morning. I was fortunate enough to have stumbled upon the video posted by a friend on Facebook, and the moment I started viewing it, I just could not let go of my phone.

Prayers for Bobby is a story about a young man, Bobby, who was born in a very religious family. Growing up as an adolescent, he discovered he was different from his peers because, well, he thought he was gay. Eventually, his whole family found out and his mother, Mary, who was a devout believer of the bible, tried to pray away his homosexuality and did all her might to prevent his son from being condemned and thrown into a “lake of fire” aka hell.

Bobby tried, but nothing seemed to work. All the ordeals his parents and family made him go through only dug a deeper hole under his feet, ultimately leading him to jump off a bridge and get killed by a speeding truck underneath.

He was 20.

What makes the story so poignant, so relatable, is the fact that it was a true story. Bobby was a teen in the ’80′s, a time when society was just beginning to tackle the whole matter of homosexuality openly and publicly. Yet even though help was available and that he tried all his best to come to terms with what he is, with who he is, the people who could’ve helped him in his search–his family–was not there to support him.

What really got to me was the point when Mary admitted to herself that it was not God who condemned her son, that it was her and her blind faith in the bible that practically pushed her son off that overpass and ultimately, to his death. It was at this point that my eyes started welling up and I just couldn’t control them anymore–never mind that I was at a coffee shop, in plain view of a lot of people.

The story resonates so much with me because, in a way, I’m at that point in my life when I’m beginning to question my faith–or the little that’s left of it–because I know deep inside that the Catholic Church does not condone homosexuality, nay, homosexual acts.

I’ve known for a while now that I’m gay, that I’m different from my peers at the all-boys high school I attended. With myself, I have made peace with the fact that I can no longer change that facet of me, no matter how I tried. What I haven’t made peace with is the fact that my religion is not accepting of people like me.

I know, I know. Faith is different from religion. But for the most part of my adolescent years, my religion has become my faith, and anything separate from it doesn’t feel like faith at all. And it’s that fact that I want to love my faith but my religion doesn’t love me back that’s getting me all caught up in a rage recently.

I want to pray. I want to kneel in church, confess my sins to the priest, receive communion every Sunday. I tried. But I couldn’t get myself to stomach “God’s words” as spoken by priests, condemning people who have “gone astray,” only because they didn’t sit well with the “teachings of the Catholic Church” and “God’s words in the bible.” Every time I go to church, I feel judged. By the priests. By the whole parish. Heck, by the entire Catholic Church combined. And that doesn’t feel a lot like love to me, so why am I going to force myself into something or someone who doesn’t love me, right?

At a retreat I attended and used to facilitate several years back, we were taught that people are born to love. That ultimately, we were all conceived and born in this world to love other people, because God has loved us. And that’s all that I’m holding on to right now. That even before I asked, even before I sinned, even before I asked for forgiveness, God had already loved me just by making me alive. And that it’s my mission to pass that love on to others–to strangers, to family, to friends, and to loved ones–no matter the race, the age, the social status, or the sexual orientation.

I’ll leave you with this long quote from Mary Griffith:

“Because of my own lack of knowledge, I became dependent upon people in the Clergy. When the Clergy condemns a homosexual person to Hell and eternal damnation, we, the congregation, echo ‘Amen’. I deeply regret my lack of knowledge concerning gay and lesbian people. Had I allowed myself to investigate what I now see as Bible bigotry and diabolical dehumanizing slander against our fellow human beings, I would not be looking back with regret for having relinquished my ability to think and reason with other people…people I trust for truth and guidance in my life and in the life of our gay son.”

“There are children like Bobby sitting in our congregations. Unknown to you, they will be listening to your ‘Amens’ as they silently cry out to God in their hearts. Their cries will go unnoticed for they cannot be heard above your ‘Amens’. Your fear and ignorance of the word gay will soon silence their cries. Before you echo ‘Amen’ in your home or place of worship, think and remember…a child is listening.”

- P

Why bother?

In college, we were constantly bombarded with the mindset that television shows today are dumbing down the audience, co-opting their place in the social strata to create glossed-up stories of perseverance in the face of poverty–stories that reel in the audience and pump up the ratings.

We were told that corporate media was the big bad wolf out to get the three little pigs, doing its best to sweeten the pot and attract the masses to gorge on its feet, only to blow their houses down in the end.

And so even if I entered corporate media after college, I was walking–chin up–with the knowledge that I’m participating in this grand ruse (and that I was okay with it), hoping little things I introduce through my works and articles would eventually change the system and shift the status quo, so that the poor may no longer be exploited at the expense of fatter paychecks for media bosses.

Recent events, however, only prove to test my fortitude against that long-held truth I stood by since college.

For what’s the use of writing in-depth, relevant pieces when the audience pays attention to the controversial magazine cover of KC Concepcion more than the dismal state of the economy today? Why bother with long special reports about the dwindling state of education, and how technology could turn it around, when the priest who accidentally plays gay porn in church racks up more than 6,000 likes on Facebook–in just 24 hours?!

Tell me, really, why are we still pressuring ourselves with coming up with the most noteworthy special reports that challenge not only the basic tenets of journalism but also the limits of the medium, when all people want to read about is the latest sex scandal involving a phenomenal young hunk and a popular singer-actor (absolutely hypothetical, promise!)?!

Why do we even bother? They say the media is dumbing down the audience; but why, then, do they tend to “like” the stupid stuff that we’re giving them more than the relevant, important ones?

I’ve been thrust into this crossroad recently, and up to now I really haven’t reconciled my thoughts on it. What I know for sure is that it has made me question my principles and the reason why I entered this profession. I know some veteran people in the industry dispense of this with relative ease, knowing how stable their place is in the sun already. But as a young journalist who has yet to make his mark in the world, I have to admit: this is scaring the bejeezus out of me.

And I just really want to continue bothering about the serious stuff, you know, hoping people would still read them, knowing I could change or influence their minds after they’ve read the last word of my article.

- P

No-zoned

I’ve been seeing a lot of rants and /wrist posts from people who have been friendzoned. To them I offer hugs and encouraging words: It’s better than being no-zoned. Yes, I have been officially no-zoned. This is, by far, the worst moment of my now truly non-existent love life.

I have long accepted the fact that I’m just not one of those girls who always get asked out, sent flowers, and well,are considered girlfriendable. But for me to be deprived a spot even in the friendzone is just too much, don’t you think?

This ridiculously unbelievable event has caused me to rethink my zoning practices. As far as I know, I have always been welcoming and warm. Well, maybe not always, but I try. Still, I give myself a pat on the back. The first time I try to come out of my comfort zone might not have turned out well, but hey, at least I tried.

Time to move on.

- T

Shaky Shift

Transitioning from lifestyle to fashion isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. It’s been almost two months since I left an entry-level post in the country’s top publishing company to join a start-up venture, where I was recruited (and I guess you can say pirated) to be an editor for an online fashion magazine…with a much fatter paycheck.

It was a decision I tortured myself to make, with so many sleepless nights and crying episodes in the office washroom. I guess time just comes when you start thinking about where your career is headed; and you realize that no matter how much you enjoy what you’re doing, you need to grow and well, make a living.

The struggle to make a living in media is one thing I learned the hard way. I’ve heard it countless times before in the University, when professors would stress the three possible explanations for a wealthy journalist: he/she was born rich, he/she married a rich person, or he/she won the lottery. I believed them. They were, after all, experienced media practitioners who still had to work other jobs.

But like any wide-eyed, idealistic journalism graduate, I was sure I could make it. I wasn’t after the money, anyway. All I wanted was to write and make enough to sustain a very simple, fully independent lifestyle.

Almost two years writing, covering events, bugging PR people, hounding celebrities, and doing more legwork, and I still wasn’t ready to move out of home. I wasn’t even making enough to sustain my already simple lifestyle. It was so frustrating that I gave myself a deadline. You see, I was so itching to spread my wings and see the rest of the world that I couldn’t just sit and wait for change. I had to make things happen. (And maybe you can say I’m a teeny bit impatient.)

Many job interviews (and disappointments) later, an almost surreal opportunity came. It promised a bigger challenge and an even bigger chance for me to achieve my goal. It meant, though, that I’d have to let go of something so certain and familiar. It scared the crap out of me, but I knew what I had to do. I took it.

From a highly toxic environment, I now find myself in a more relaxed (sometimes too relaxed) workplace, where I have all the time in the world to do my work, have a social life, and maybe squeeze in a bit of workout. Sounds incredible, right? It is, except that I’m a workaholic, and I miss the higher standards and level of professionalism in my previous job. There. I said it.

Then again, it’s just been two months. Things can change, and I hope they do. I want to make this last.

- T

Ramblings of my drunk, almost-broken heart

After roughly three hours of cyclical arguments, few bottles of beer and a conscious effort not to burst into tears, I exclaimed, for the nth time: ‘I don’t understand where these feelings are coming from.’

‘So you mean I wasted three hours without talking sense into you?’

Looks like it. I should run around town wearing a tag around my neck saying: Warning –stubborn, naive girl on the loose. Though, I would further expose myself to people who might take advantage. This world, after all, is one dangerous place.

“Can you tell me again when all these started, and how.”

So I took another gulp of the lukewarm beer, fought the tears back, and tried to put into words OUR story –assuming there is an ‘our/us’ in this tale.

This is so 2004. Embarrassing, I know. The last time I checked it’s already 2012 and the end of the world seems to be lurking around the corner. But I haven’t really gotten over you, over what could have been. I’m not exactly sure what happened between us, or if what you showed me was something more than kindness.

I’ve been harassed time and again by friends to ask you –to set the record straight, to verify, to know the facts of this case, to hear the other side (your side)  of the story. But I’m scared. Of what exactly? I’m not even sure. What are people usually afraid of? Then maybe that’s what I am fearful of.

What’s crazier is, I know we could never be together. Channeling Elizabeth Barret Browning, ‘let me count the ways.’ One, we are continents apart.  Two, if indeed there was something between us ages back, we are two different people now. You have your career, I have mine. Who’s going to move where, and who’s going to give up what?

Like I said, I can’t comprehend why I still feel this way for you. We have never seen each other for years and we haven’t really talked after I turned down your offer to fly me home.  I still think we’re friends though, but would you agree?

If, by some twist of fate, you come across this and you know by heart it’s you I’m referring to, would you be kind enough to tell me what the real score was? Was I imagining things? Did it all happen inside my head?  Was I writing my own happily-ever-after/Star Cinema-ish script and you just happen to fit the leading man’s character?

Oh merciful heaven, I can’t believe you still have this effect on me.

Universe, why? WHYYYYY?! Pardon this post –it’s the alcohol talking.

-N