How to Become Disillusioned with Finding Love

Watch Hollywood romantic movies.  Believe that everyone has a one true love.  Etch into your soul the conviction that you will find that one guy who will inevitably accept you for everything that you are.  Who will love you unconditionally and without question.

Create a list of the qualities the love of your life must have. Set high standards.  Reach for the stars.  He must be tall, handsome, brooding and mysterious.  Intelligent and quirky.  Wealthy.  He must go to the gym regularly. He must have dimples dotting his face when he smiles. His hair must fall a certain way all the time.  

Envision showing him off to your friends and telling them how you fell in love with him because of his lovable personality, or because of how good a person he is.  How you fell in love with the way he laughed.   Or touched your hand.  Or played with your baby sister. Or any other quirky little habit that remind people of how cute he is. Subtly insert a few anecdotes that show how great in the sack he can be.  

Know that you don’t need to tell them how impossibly handsome, intelligent, and wealthy he is; they would see that for themselves. Imagine seeing your friends’ eyes widen with envy.

Stamp down any notion that there might be something wrong with you.  That’s impossible. Remind yourself that you are perfect, or as close to it as anyone can be.  You deserve this, and you deserve someone like him. Cosmopolitan said so, and it can’t be wrong.

Go out on date after date after date.  Constantly be disappointed. Rejection, both rejecting and being rejected, makes you cynical. Build up walls. Surround yourself with the emotional equivalent of a moat. Insult people, and point out how they can never live up to your standards.  Stop dating. Or date with the knowledge that these people will only prove why you are better off single in the first place.

Watch Hollywood romantic movies only so you can make contemptuous comments on the stupidity of their plot. Smile patronizingly at friends who believe in a one true love.  Remind yourself that it doesn’t exist.  That it couldn’t exist. That its existence would imply that there might be something wrong with you.  And that couldn’t be true.   Convince yourself that you like being alone.  No, that you love being alone.  That you don’t feel lonely, and that whatever hole you feel in your life can be filled up by friends and family.  Sleep at night with the nagging sentiment that you are missing something, and hope for the best that things will be better in the morning.

Whatever Gets You Through the Day

I was a freshman in law school when my friend Mike was accepted by a university in Australia for a master’s degree. He took up Finance, under a scholarship program given by a prestigious international organization. He had a boyfriend before he left, but they broke up because they both thought that they’ll be incapable of maintaining a long-distance relationship.

We’ve been close friends for a while, so we maintained contact, although mostly through chat. We spoke with each other about two-three times a week, and discussed everything and anything under the sun. Mike was usually tipsy, if not outright drunk. It was in Sydney where he discovered his fondness for red wine, especially the cheap kind that comes in a box.

Our conversations usually start with him sending me a private message just so he can complain about mostly inane, random stuff.  I barely listened, since I was also caught up in my own worries then.  Our conversations never really felt like actual conversations.  It was more like we were delivering monologues, and the other person was just there for the ride.  We both spoke, and neither of us listened.

I didn’t notice the inordinate amount of glasses of wine he consumed, or the constant stream of complaints he made.  I also don’t think he noticed how tired I was back then, how frayed my nerves were, how wrong everything seemed to be for me.

But the fact that he was there was a comfort, even if he never really understood, or cared to understand, what I was going through.  And it was a few years later, when he came back, when I learned that he felt exactly the same way.  It didn’t matter that I wasn’t truly listening, or that I had my own concerns to worry about. The important thing was that I was there, and that was what he needed at the time.

(He told me he was suffering from a crippling depression, and could barely function as, well, a normal human being.  In one instance, he did not bathe for three weeks, and was only forced by his roommates to do so because they could no longer stand the smell.) 

And it’s funny because, to be honest, I wasn’t being a good friend at the time.  But neither was he.  We were both very selfish, and way too caught up in our own problems.  But it didn’t matter.  I was there when he needed me, and he was there when I needed him. And at the end of the day, that was enough for both of us to get us through those tough days.  

People are Made Up of Stories

Image taken here.

Dear Fickle Cattle,

I'm a new fan of your blog.  I haven't even browsed through each tab and entry yet.  I just saw a link from a friend in FB to your blog and I became an instant fan after I read your open letter.  Honestly, I cried, I could relate to it so much.  I hope you don't mind my telling this story. 

I realized I was gay towards the end of college in UP Diliman.  I was supposed to have a secret wedding with my girlfriend at the time since we both thought she was pregnant.  When we found out that she actually wasn't, it was such a relief. Afterwards, we decided to take things more slowly.  During that period, I tried to find myself, and slowly realized my inclination towards the dark side of the force. (I'm not sure how I feel about comparing homosexuality with the dark side, but I'll let that slide for now -- FC).  It was a very emotional stage in my life when I realized I was gay.  I didn't know who to turn to. 

During my years of experimentation and struggle, I met this guy named T.  I instantly felt a connection with him though he had a very different view of gay relationships compared to what I had.  Basically, he thought that having a relationship which no one would acknowledge did not make any sense.

Knowing that we could only be friends, I contented myself with the friendship he had to offer.  Eventually, I met two more of his friends.  The four of us became close, and our friendships made me almost forget that I liked T as more than a friend in the first place. It helped me move on. 

Eventually, T realized that he did like me more than as a friend. By that time however, I realized I was already falling for our other friend A.  When we realized that T was falling for me, A and I decided not to tell T of our relationship to protect him from unnecessary hurt. 

This was a mistake. Our other friend B decided to put our story in his blog, thinking no one would ever read it.  T eventually did, and everything became a big mess. The relationship, the secrecy and the eventual unintentional disclosure created a rift between all of us. 

I decided to distance myself from all three of them since I felt that I started our falling-out. Consequently, we grew apart.

A lot of things have happened since.  But, even with all that has changed, I still long for the kind of friendship I had with them which I have never experienced, and probably would never experience, again.  When I saw your post, An Open Letter to an Old Friend, it reminded me of my friendship with T.  I feel like those are the exact same words I would've told him, given the chance.  He was my best friend and I regret crossing the line that caused our friendship to end.

Since coming out in college, I never had any gay friends other than T, A and B. But I already feel like the possibility of our friendship being rekindled died out years ago.  I'm not even sure if I'll ever meet friends like them.  At some point, we tried, all four of us, to rekindle the friendship we had, but we only found out that we've become strangers to one another.

I've always been proud of my sexual orientation since I came out almost a decade ago.  My workmates know of it, I joined a frat in my attempt at law school and even told my batchmates that I was gay.  I guess I don't allow myself to be defined by my sexuality.  But, you know what, sometimes I wish I had allowed myself to be so defined.  I wish I had given myself the chance to embrace my sexuality.  Had our friendship not met such an early demise, I'm sure my life would've been much more colorful.

Thanks for taking the time to listen.  Sometimes, talking to a complete stranger makes it easier to open up.  Your blog brought to the surface a lot of emotions that I've been bottling-up through the years. 

Following your entries, 

R 

A Letter Regarding A Few, Unimportant Things

Image taken here.

Dear Fickle Cattle,

I came across your blog a week ago. I cannot remember how exactly. What I do remember is that part where you said you "love email." I smiled at that line, thinking about how I, too, am fond of emails. I decided then to write you one when I get the time and when I sense a need to talk to someone. Are you wondering now why I opted to talk to a stranger instead of a friend? Do you know Rainer Maria Rilke, the German poet? As I write this, a line from one of his letters echoes in my mind. He was saying something about solitude, its difficulties and pains, and how there are moments when one is solitary when one would feel the strongest urge to close one's distance from people, break the silence and talk to anyone, usually the most undeserving. Well, this is one such moment, although there is a number of discrepancies. One, you and I are definitely distant from each other (I'm guessing you are not one of the three guys I share this flat with). Two, I do not think you are most undeserving.

If I wrote this email immediately after I read your blog entries, it most probably would have contained effusive sentiments on how touched I was by some of them. Actually, I can visit your blog now and perhaps discuss the things I liked in it (not without citations) the way I would write a review of related lit as part of the many school requirements I've had, but I do not have the energy to do so. Nonetheless, I congratulate you for having achieved this -- I write because I hope, someone, somewhere, would read what I wrote and think, "yes, he's right, I get it," and understand me. Well, obviously I had to copy-paste that from your blog. I guess I had the energy after all. Anyway, I did think "you're right, I get it" and that, I'm sure, is the reason why I decided to write you.

What do I want to talk to you about, anyway?

I feel terribly lonely. I woke up at 5 am this morning and read about typhoon signals. I was almost certain I would receive a text about a class suspension albeit late. I slowly and lazily planned my day -- maybe I'll study that chapter on mycology or read about heart pathology, I should watch First Love, that Thai film a friend told me about, I will definitely read Norwegian Wood. I went over these things and then some while the winds outside slowly gained pace. I had to check if my window and my curtain were properly angled and aligned to allow for the cold to enter and to prevent my desk from getting soaked.

If you must know, I ended up watching and reading but not studying at all. And now I feel sad. It could be because of the movie. I find it funny that a feel-good movie with a decently happy ending would leave me in the brink of depression. Now I was not overly touched by the film. I reserve such honor for tours de force like La vita è bella. Actually, I have always been like this, always exceptionally saddened by stories with that theme (of First Love). Maybe because I have not encountered a thing like that. Or perhaps I'm just upset by the fact that I have let a day go by without catching up with lessons knowing that exams are near. But that's too boring a reason, don't you think?

Minutes before I started this email, I thought of writing in my journal, which I have not done in weeks. I was lying down when I groped for my journal under the bed. It was hard work because in my position, I couldn't extend my hand way under and so I was failing. I was too lazy to go on all fours and reach for it. That's when I thought of writing an email instead. Naturally, I had to get hold of my laptop which was also under the bed, beside my journal. And this time, I did go on all fours to reach for my laptop. Apparently, writing an email was a higher motivation than writing in my journal. Or I'm just fickle and silly that way. Oops, I did not mean to steal your blog's name.

This has become long-winded. Are you tired? I feel that I have not completely communicated everything that stirs in me at the moment. Then again, I don't think we can always completely communicate everything inside us. And when we do succeed in transforming the formless into a meaningful series of words, there's always at least a slight difference from what was originally born within us. Sometimes however, what does come out becomes far more beautiful, but of course what comes out that was not first born within? Nothing.

I hope to hear from you soon. How has your life been?

Sincerely,

Nico

***

Hi Nico,

This is probably one of the most interesting emails I've gotten in a while.  I must say I thoroughly enjoyed reading it; the quirky directions your thoughts suddenly take reveal a particularly sharp mind, and I'm especially grateful it is one owned by someone who actually reads my blog. I'm glad you take some pleasure from it.

I wish I knew how to respond to this email in a manner that is just as witty or as interesting, but I fear I probably won't live up to your expectations, and may just prove to myself that I am as poorly skilled at replying to interesting letters as I imagine.  

But I do understand your point about loneliness.  I experience it too. Sometimes I revel in it.  There is something uniquely, hmm, pleasurable? about taking the time to wallow in one's sadness.  Maybe because, to my mind at least, it gives one the sensation of not being content, therefore, of wanting something more.  Contentment is an overrated thing, one must always strive to be something more, to want something more, until he dies. Otherwise, what is the point of living? To choose contentment, at least, in the most mundane sense of the word, is to choose stagnation.

I'm sorry. I'm rambling. I've just finished writing four pleadings and my brain is starting to fail to function.

Let me end with this.  I want to publish your email in my blog, along with some commentary on my part. Please permit me to do so. I think my readers would find it a very interesting read.

Regards,

Fickle Cattle

P.S.  Your letter reminded me of a short story I once wrote that got published in the Sunday Manila Times. It was entitled "A Few, Unimportant Things". I reposted it as a new tab (Random Fiction).  Please feel free to take a look.

P.S. 2 I decided not to bother with the commentary. Your letter is interesting enough as it is. Thank you.

Loneliness

I sit alone in a coffee shop, eating my way through a warm cinnamon bun with cream cheese frosting dripping along its top. I watch the steam rising from my macchiatto, my eyes passing over the sweet caramel crisscrossing the foamy milk froth layered on top of the espresso. My mind is taken over by random thoughts, and in a few quick seconds, my features run the gamut of emotions usually reserved for exciting conversations. Flights of fancy or existential musings, my brain has decided to think wildly and freely, and the end result of my intellectual meanderings are usually as unusual as they are surprising.

I do not understand why some people can be so scared of those few instances they find themselves alone. Perhaps, in that rare moment where their thoughts are allowed free rein; where, in a way, they are forced to engage in a "conversation" with themselves, they realize something they do not want to admit. Maybe, for them, loneliness is an enemy they must overcome with overflowing scheduled commitments, boundless enthusiasm for random activities, and countless, countless acquaintances and friends. Maybe, in that small period of loneliness, they realize how afraid they are of the darkness it represents.

But I've learned, even at a young age, that the darkness can be a friend. It isn't always, and sometimes the darkness can consume you and bury you in its endlessness. But I've always relished those moments when I can engage in those thoughts we usually can not access unless we have dealt with each of our own individual brands of loneliness. Through that darkness, I've discovered pain, and sadness, and beauty. It is like a patient lover, always waiting to accept me in its embrace.

Photo taken here.

Significance

I was reading through some old posts in my Facebook account when I came across a note, which I thought is still an accurate description of what I am feeling right now. I remember that my impetus for writing that note was an anecdote from a friend of mine about this group of friends he met who liked hanging out because, as my friend told me, they thought of each other as insignificant. The term they actually used was basura (garbage) and my friend told me that, for them, the tie of friendship was based on the fact that no one thought much of anyone else; therefore, because they accepted each other's inconsequentiality, no one was more or less important than anyone else. The fact that you are accepted despite your insignificance meant that the people who accepted you are your ‘real’ friends. I assume this is so because they thought no one else would want you.

And I thought this was the saddest thing, to have friends who never believed in you, but who were your friends precisely because they found you trivial. What would that mean for a person’s self-worth I wonder? How can one go through life thinking one is worthless?

Feeling worthless is not an uncommon emotion I think, although it is a tragic one. When you get to a point where you become incapable of believing in yourself and in your capacity to better yourself, then you become a shell of a man (or woman). What is life without the hope for something better? What can one look forward to, aside from death?

So I wrote this note, quoted below, which I realize is a response to the idea that a ‘real’ friendship can be based on disrespect. The idea sounds like an unbelievable notion, but apparently a lot of people have friends like these. And when you truly think about it, and when you consider all the battered wives, or disinherited gay sons and daughters, you realize it’s not really such a surprising thing. Some people get power from making another feel worthless. It’s a sad fact, but a true one nonetheless.

On Friendship

Life has been very mechanical lately. Automatic. Predictable. Far from mindless, but really really boring still.

Notwithstanding that statement, I've been having wonderful discussions with some of my friends recently. Realizations mostly, life directions, epiphanies. About greatness and love and strength of character. It feels interesting, like I'm part of something big. Like the universe has plans for me or something.

The wonderful thing about my relationship with my close friends is that it's based on mutual respect. Not convenience, not affection, not circumstance. We seek out each other's company, that's the thing. I mean, for me anyway, it's very rare that you meet people that you really respect. Whose presence makes you feel bigger, more important. And not in the superficial way that money or fame makes people important; more like this: it's as if by simply talking to them, you take for granted that you can achieve the impossible. Move mountains. Change the world. It's as if idealism is not an abstract concept, but a lifestyle.

I don't know if it's the same with everybody else, but that's how it is with me. That's the common thread with all of my close friendships. Na hindi kami basura sa mata ng isa't isa (That we are not garbage in each other's eyes), but something else, something brighter, larger. At this point indescribable, just a sense of something real, almost tangible. Extraordinary maybe, or maybe unreal.

Photo taken here.

Dark Sky

When I was a sophomore in high school, the all girls' school next to our school decided to hold a dance. My tutor then had a niece named Samantha who was my age, so she asked me if I would want to go with her niece as a date. Except she didn't say date, she just asked me if I could go.

I thought about it, and concluded that if I wanted to stop being "confused" about my sexuality, I had to start going out with girls. So I said yes.

It started out simple enough. I had a driver, so I picked Samantha up at around 8pm. We didn't really know each other, so the ride to the school-covered-court-turned-dance floor was long and awkward. I tried initiating conversation, but we both knew I was just forcing it.

When we came to the dance hall, we just sat in a corner. And sat some more. And remained silent. It was one of the longest nights in my young life.

At some point, her friends decided to rescue her from me, who was quite possibly the worst date created in the history of mankind. And I completely understood. She made a few apologies, obviously insincere, and ran with her friends. She never looked back.

I went out to a small grassy field, and stared at the few couples who were cuddling in corners. I didn't really feel envious; just sad. I tried to go back and sit with Samantha, but it was no use, and with her friends there, the date just grew more and more awkward.

So I went back out, and laid on the grass. My driver had already left. He said he'll come back before midnight. I still had a couple of hours.

I remember the sky, like a deep purple marble stone, infinite and ominous. And at some point, the sensation of falling. I sat back up, heart beating fast. There was a sense of loss I think, though I did not understand what it was. There was definitely loneliness.

Samantha never spoke to me again. The few times I saw her, she acted like she didn't know me. I really couldn't blame her.

At a point later in my life, a distinguished writer criticized a story I wrote. She said she didn't understand the image I was trying to evoke. "How can one fall towards the sky?" she asked. She was being rhetorical of course. She meant to show me that my metaphor didn't work.

I didn't bother explaining. I knew she wouldn't understand. "How do you fall towards the sky?" she asked. If she wasn't trying to be snarky, I would have answered, sincerely, "I am talking about the same thing, only they are not the same thing. There is fear, instead of freedom. The same way that you fly."

Photo found here.