I suspected my father to be manic-depressive after I started dating X. Both men wereunpredictable, at times violent, thrilling and volatile but never dull. The only difference between my father and X was that X admitted he had the disorder; my father on the other hand would yell, “I’m not crazy! I’m not crazy!” after we found him sleeping on the bathroom floor because the marble tiles “felt cooler than the bed.” How much of my father’s dark moments were considered an episode or just plain flaw of character, I’ll never know. He was never diagnosed. Never treated.
Dr. Luis Lacar was a brilliant sociologist. Charming yet painfully manipulative to retain lasting relationships. He doted on me, yet he was physically abusive to my mother. He was a polyglot whose vocabulary whittled to a few choice words when his anger and paranoia took over. Hetaught me how to handle my first .45 caliber handgun at the age of 12. As his mental illness worsened, I was compelled to lock myself in my room at night with the same gun, the bullets tucked away safely in a separate hiding place, like the knives and forks.
My husband says, I have my mother’s heart, but I’ve always known that I have my father’s soul.He was my mentor, my art critic, my coach, my curiosity, my wanderlust, my temper…my anger. He adored me and I idolized him. Though I feared him, I feared living my mother’s fate more.I can’t exactly pinpoint the day when I switched sides; when all I wanted to do was make my mother’s life easier… When I stopped pitying her and saw my father for who he truly was. Eventually it dawned on me that my mom wasn’t my father’s savior. Just as I couldn’t haveloved X more to save him from self-destruction, she couldn’t have done more to make my father treat her with decency.
Through the years of silence, I remained my father’s daughter. Of all his children, he chose tocall only me on the 12th of March 2008. Maybe to say, “I’m sorry,” or “I’ve forgiven you fo rabandoning me in my time of need,” or “Fuck you for abandoning me in my time of need,” or “Can you send more money,” or maybe just, “Goodbye.” I’ll never know my father’s parting words. I never picked up. I never called him back. On March 15, 2008 at approximately 5:00 amGMT+8 my father passed away, alone in his hospital bed in the Philippines. He left instructionsto be buried the next day. I never saw his face, but my cousin said he looked “pained.”
Three days after his burial, I was admitted to St. Luke Hospital’s Psychiatric Ward. I was diagnosed with acute clinical depression.This is a love story. I didn’t intend for it to be one. I intended for this to be my catharsis, my method of coping, my mode of communication when I didn’t want to answer question, “how are you feeling today?” This was a diary of my unravelling. This was me coming to terms with the death of my father. I was trapped inside my head. Though I was never particularly the cerebral kind, I didn’t think it would ever come to this: betrayed by my own mind. I can no longer say:“Well at least I still have my sanity…”
This journey is solitary. But there is something to be said about knowing that someone else understands me. For some reason, my internal battle wasn’t an anomaly to Ben. He was always there, always wanting to know how I felt, always making sure I got out of bed, and showered. I never understood how he could love me through all the cutting, the attempts, the silence, the loneliness… His loneliness. I suppose there’s no need to dissect us any further. I have an illness, that’s that. He says he loves me no matter what, there’s no reason to doubt that either. This is a diary of my unravelling, yes. But I’m sure if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here to share this with you.This is a Love Story.
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