Reflections on (murky) water

It’s been raining for a couple weeks by this point. I was set to move out of my apartment and into a new one, just down the same street, closer to the center of the city, that weekend. In a call with senior colleagues in Vilnius, I talked about the grey days and the nonstop rain and everyone catching the flu. “I’m not surprised”, a colleague had said. “This week is exactly one year since my visit, it was the same back then.” I never liked summer. Gloomy days are when I’m out and about. And yet even after 26 years (give or take) in this country, typhoon season is still baffling to me. It’s never just a “season”. From childhood, I have faint memories of preparing for the rainy season like the disaster that it is. Week-long class suspensions, stocking up on food and water, preparing for power to go out. At some point, our house—situated in the ‘higher’ parts of Sta. Rosa township—was even flooded up to the knee when the nearby (trash-strewn) river overflowed. I remember sitting on my dad’s shoulder and inspecting the site the next morning, back when the subdivision still functioned like a proper neighborhood where people knew and talked to each other. During typhoon Yolanda, a large mango tree in front of our house collapsed and fell onto the neighbor’s roof. It’s probably the reason they stopped being friendly to us. Weirdly enough, it is during calamities that I get into the habit of writing at length. A form of resistance against accepting the dire consequences of it as ‘normal’. It needs to be reported. It needs to never happen again.

The night before leaving my old apartment, I cried about feeling isolated from my family. Some may say this was a choice I had made myself and that would not be incorrect. But no one knows what truly goes on in a household they were never part of. Even I do not understand most of it. “I’m too old to be crying about this,” I laughed. Even then, I wished things could be different.

On the day of my move, the rain stopped briefly. The next few days would be a blur of living in an unfurnished space and almost non-stop cleaning. For a couple nights I even slept on the floor, and when the furniture finally arrived, made a show of assembling everything on my own in spite of generous offers of help from my friends and boyfriend. Last year, in Europe, before officially moving out of my childhood home, I remember feeling so inferior learning about the experiences of my European colleagues. Some of them left home at 19 to study in a different country. Since then, they knew how to do everything for themselves. They didn’t think that was optional. At the time, I was 25 and hadn’t cleaned a bathroom once in my life. Nowadays, I have no one to turn to but myself. In the same situation that became an object of admiration in others. One would think this comes with pride—independence like modern social constructs romanticize it. In reality, I’ve felt nothing but exhaustion for months. Both physical and mental.

Last weekend, ‘breakfast’ was a bowl of cereal, one—two—eventually, three—packs of nori. It was also consumed at 2 in the afternoon as I got out of bed—the couch where I move to early in the morning once sunlight starts illuminating through the bedroom window—at 1. Lunch was pre-packed laing over brown rice. I was getting dressed to get out for some air when I felt it. The familiar, almost constant ache that finds my stomach when I eat something unhealthy. This is usually followed by vomiting or a headache—both, if I'm lucky. It's like clockwork. And yet I fill my body with junk in each rotation. I had it coming. I brought it upon myself. This is the case for a lot of things, isn't it? 

It’s the last weekend of August and the rain is back. These days I spend as much time as I can looking out the window. The elevator ride up can be a little dizzying (it is possible that my iron levels are low, yet again) but there are benefits to living this high up. The large window in my bedroom looks out to the Manila skyline in the North-West, including the Port of Manila in the far end, and Mandaluyong CBD on the North-East. After living in a studio for the first time in my life, space and windows are two things I will never take for granted. Not too long ago, I woke up to news of two major entryways into the city flooding on a Monday morning. People dressed for work had no choice but to walk in thigh-deep flood along Buendia avenue. Meanwhile, cars were caught in high waters along Chino Roces. For a moment I couldn’t believe they were still asked to go to work in these conditions, then I remembered where I was. This afternoon, I observed the surrounding streets from my 40th floor apartment. Under torrential rain, several people still drove, biked, even walked outside—armed only with an umbrella that didn’t stand a chance. In Sta. Rosa, most roads would be deserted, especially as flood waters threaten to rise. I like to believe people could still afford to stay in their homes there. In here, the economic realities of urban life is far more threatening than any natural calamity.

August has been very difficult. As a (mildly) superstitious person, the end of its tenure is most welcome.