FUBARgenre: The Genre of Fubar

In less than 24 hours, I’m gonna be my parents’ baby again. It’s been years since I spent an entire day (let alone a week) with my folks. And I’m certainly looking forward to throwing myself at their mercy. Yes, I’ll even take my Mom’s incessant nagging or my Dad’s badly construed cryptic truths. (But Gen wonders how long I can stand them. Wahahah. She knows me so well, it’s scary!)

Browsing through our old barkada blog, I found a post that aptly explains (justifies?) my trip. Here’s an excerpt:

I rarely say this, but at this very moment, I really do mean it — I miss my parents.

I want to crawl into my parents’ bed and just lie beside my mom. No talking, no whining, no complaining about life. I just want to be with my mom. I just want to lie still beside her and bask in her presence. I want to feel her strength, her wordless assurance that everything will be okay.

When did this happen? Me growing up, I mean? How did this happen? How did I transform from a carefree, careless kid into this? — This adult who slaves in the name of that elusive relentless deity called Responsibility? This adult who has to think about bills and money and survival? This adult who is currently lost, overwrought with nostalgia?

This sadness, this inexplicable sadness, is not a symptom of some absurd desire to relive my childhood. I have no wish to relive the confusion, the idealism, the myriad of complexities. I barely emerged from the fire unscathed, and I have no wish to go through that again.

What I do miss (if this sadness is indeed nostalgia) is the safety net. The false certainty that all my mistakes could be attributed to youth, to a lack of maturity. The belief that my parents would always be there for me — whatever trouble I managed to land in, whatever the extent of my stupidity. My parents were always there, an enduring bark to cling to each time I stepped into a quagmire.

…

I started writing this entry without a clear direction in mind. If I had a point, the point is lost to me now. What is my point? What answers am I seeking? What relief? What solutions?

This is not me playing dress-up and pretending to be an adult. This is me as an adult, fraught with infinite worries, plagued by countless responsibilities. There is no life to go back to, no basic simplicity to revert to. I had been too proud; I have been too proud; I am too proud.

This is me as an adult. And I can no longer dream of growing up to become a better person. I have grown up. And this is the life into which I had grown up. This is the life I created for myself; the path I chose to trek.

And ironically, when I’m not in one of these moods, I like my life. I can even go so far as to say that I love it. And the person I’ve become? She takes getting used to; but false humility aside, she’s a pretty great gal. Someone you’d be proud of.

So, if I had a point, it is this — I have seen my reflection through a broken mirror. Perhaps by chance or by fate’s design, I stumbled across the shattered ideals, the broken pieces lying in the dark. And I now see fragments of my face staring back at me, accusing me of immeasurable crimes.

But tomorrow, when I turn on the lights, the fragments would have been carried far, far into the sun. And what would remain? Perhaps only some lifeless debris.

That is not much of a point, really. It is not even much of a metaphor. Be as post-modern as you want. Deconstruct the symbolic implications. Read me, if you will. But I no longer care.

Hear this:

What I am is tired.

I’m emotionally, physically, and mentally exhausted.

I’m tired of being strong. I’m tired of wanting to be strong.

I’m tired of keeping it all together.

I’m tired of holding on.

I’m tired of dreaming.

I’m tired.

I’m just so overwhelmingly tired.

[July 26, 2006]

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