WARNING: Slightly sad post. Read at your own risk.
It was an ordinary day. The first few minutes upon arriving home from the hospital has become a routine. I’d remove my shoes and properly store them on a metal rack next to my apartment’s door, unload my things in the usual spot where I place them so I wouldn’t forget, undress myself, try to hoop everything in my laundry basket, and then take my usual post-hospital-exposure shower. After those, I dress up comfortably, turn my laptop on, prepare my lunch, and finally eat while I catch up on new episodes of my favorite TV shows. The sun casting its warmth through my apartment window greatly concealed any melancholic feel that I was mandated to experience today.
During the past years, I have learned to love that baffling feeling of seeing people happy by giving them what I think would make them happy. It’s been a constant source of that enigma. That’s a reason why a lot of times during the previous years as an actually caring adult, I tried planning on surprising my friends with simple gestures just to make them feel special on Valentine’s Day. Like giving them something cute or girly. Or maybe a stem of red rose. However, I would always succumb to failing to execute everything on time. I’m good at planning. But doing? Forget it.
I always told people that I’m contented with being alone. I’ve actually mastered the art of it. I can happily drive alone while listening on my favorite tracks on my phone. That never became too hard for me to do. I can go to the grocery and pick up food for me to prepare and cook. I can soil everything in my apartment and clean everything up by myself anytime or any day I want. Moreover, being alone also has this perk that most people living alone might not realize: whenever I do something colossally stupid, nobody has to know. If ever I accidentally slip on the floor, or unintentionally char my meal, nobody would know. Whenever I feel that there’s a need to sing, dance, and cry like crazy, no one would see.
Anyway, I’m already blabbering about random things. Maybe this is just a manifestation of loneliness. Kids, being alone would inevitably make you feel alone. As a human, whether we like it or not, we have evolved intellectually enough to develop an instinct to find a person who we can always talk to about anything, or care about, or share affections with. Unfortunately, I lost that person a few months ago. The past eight Valentine’s Day were great. Ecstatic. Euphoric. Happiness-inducing. Or any other adjective that would express extreme elation and contentment. This is the first Valentine’s Day in almost a decade that I’m celebrating it back with my family. To be honest, this year’s V-day sucked helium so hard that it went all the way to the stratosphere without me noticing. You know, when I get home from a 30-hour hospital duty, no matter how hard I try to fight it, I always end up sleeping throughout the day. But I think it greatly helped. Skipping almost half of the day in slumber to flush every Valentine’s crap I see on my Facebook feed into oblivion isn’t actually bad. Perk!
Not everything bad can be that bad. Sometimes, bad things happen to make way for great things. Like in my case, I somehow started to rekindle my relationship with my family. Things got shaky before when there existed numerous differences among every one of us. Our beliefs, our personalities, personal preferences, and probably a lot more that I couldn’t have known or even noticed. But it’s over now. I guess I’m left with no choice but to think about what the future holds for me. And I believe that it will be great.
It takes 10,000 shots of alcohol to move on from a breakup according to Robin Scherbatsky. If you think about it, that’s a lot to consume. Not to mention that fettered with those are the countless number of hours that one should spend to move on. It’s a cliché of life. Only time can heal shattered things. One day, I’ll be fine again. One day, Valentine’s Day will become a thing again.
Que Deus nos bendiga y nos proteja!