How Do You Face Yourself in the Mirror?
Endless Mirror Glances and The Strength Card
I stare at my reflection a hundred times a day.
Minimum.
When I wake up in the morning then get out of bed, wiping off the morning dew off my eye lids. When I unfurl my yoga mat on the floor, across the full length mirror, setting it up so that I squarely see myself as I contort my body into different asanas. When I brush my teeth or wash my hands after using the toilet. When I unlock the car doors, seeing a limpid image on the sheen of the windows. When I swipe open the camera app on my phone, activating the front camera to take a selfie. When I swab lipstick on before I head out. When I try out an outfit - it didn’t matter if it was pambahay to go pick up groceries or a going out to eat - for size. When I peek down at the gurgling creek from the trail bridge during our evening walks. When I hop on a video call with a friend or collaborator or do my weekly IG Live episodes.
Not that I consider myself a card holding member of Club of Narcissus. I am definitely not bewitched with the reflection that stared back at me. My reflection peeking was pathological because I wanted to see me. Or did I? Not me as the true me who moved through the world, but rather who other people would see.
What I thought what others saw glossed over, drowned out who I was. One who I’ve kept lock and key inside the dark recesses of my very being.
I thought of the Strength card, the 8th card of the Major Arcana. A maiden dressed in white, a floating infinity symbol over her head, tender flower buds and sprouts crowning her golden hair, a floral belt wrapped around her waist, cascaded down over her thigh and leg, gingerly held the snout and chin of a lion in her hands. Her eyelids as if closed, relaxed, as she focused on the creature within her control. Not bound, buckling against her, but as if soothed by her mere touch. The lion, its head tilted, eyes staring back into the maiden’s, mouth agape, tongue out, back bent into submission and its tail between its hind legs, though its claws drawn out as precaution for protection.
There are times when physical force is required to tame the king of the jungle. But there are also circumstances when life requires a genteel force to do so.
This self-awareness and healing journey of mine began with coercion of the physical sort. No, someone else’s hands were not set on me. No one else’s but my own. It was a brute, rude awakening through manifestations brought upon my own physical body.
I now realized that this was not anything new. That I’ve seen this before in the back-to-back, months on end sleepless nights, such as working simultaneously on major mid-year communications review, handling day to day operations and helping out on a transformational business pitch or working as a team of one for the work load for a team of five able bodies.
On the morning of the mid-year communications review, my insides all went outside. Acrid green stomach fluid burning my throat. I was dehydrated, weak, and I could not stand in front of the conference room full of clients. I could not scrub this memory from my head in embarrassment as I let my boss, who did not work on the presentation, speak on my behalf. I replayed the scene over and over again. I felt like such an unworthy diva to have thrust my boss to do it last minute. Or should I have forced myself to stand up in front and possibly vomit in front of everybody mid-presentation?
Three months into my Atlas like job of spearheading operations of a brand new department, striving to prove its existence and worth to the company, with the overarching optimism that working on client side would pare down the brutal over twelve hour days, I caught pneumonia. I was forced to bedrest by recommendation of my then doctor. Water infiltrated my lungs, which explained my labored breathing and fatigue. The flight of stairs climb from my bedroom to the kitchen for a glass of water felt like hiking up a mountain. But, in my sick bed, I had the laptop on my tummy, responding to emails going back and forth with agency as I was the one woman team with a boss who worked thrice a week. I was not a tenured employee yet with paid sick days, yet there I was sick, not paid and working. The work would not stop, so why should I?
I labored on, chasing what I thought was the right thing to do - use what my parents invested in, what I learned from my very expensive private school education, stick to this well-paying, creative, dynamic job that I said I wanted to do to get to enjoy the material fruits of my labor and fulfill obligations to my family. It was an easy life compared to others, for sure. One of privilege and access to material comfort and a semblance of stability. But was there any enjoying in the throes of it destroying my one body? Is there Strength in carrying on despite repeated, increasing in intensity demands by my body to just stop?
The finishing move, the grand finale, the cherry on top of the sundae was the crippling yet high functioning depression and unshakeable trembling without the ability to see beyond, without any more dreams, aspirations nor hope, but to drown and simply disappear into the waves of numbing productivity. I had nary the physical strength to overcome. I was at the edge of it, the maximum my body could tolerate, wanting to jump off the cliff into the abyss.
But before I jumped, I wanted to take one more look into my reflection. Did I even see anything there in the pitch black darkness? What was behind the shadow - the one I’ve been hiding behind for too long?
I woke up each morning, gazed deep into my eyes and asked the question - who are you? Who are you, REALLY? I could not get myself to unfurl the mat in front of the mirror. My eyes could not meet themselves as I brushed my teeth. The echo of the self on the car windows was wisp of its former self. I swiped open the camera to take a video of my shaking hands, attempting to change the channel on the TV. I could not even put on lipstick nor feel great looking at the outfit I chose to put on. Even the gurgling creek was no more, dried up to the limestone bone by the relentless Texas summer heat. I looked vacantly the image of me on the video call.
I questioned what Strength meant and whether that included giving up. Or was it really an admission defeat, a total loss? Or was it a conquest over a longstanding battle that I finally gathered enough fortitude followed the light out of the long playing dark tunnel?
Whenever the Strength card is pulled in a reading, it points to the taming of the animal in you, the wild, thrashing, passionate, often reckless. But as with actual animals, brute force is not always the answer. Plant seeds of intimidation, oppression and violence that yields pain, then harvest the same in two-fold or even three. It is a call for the more tender, merciful, grace filled taming that requires more patience and time one could ever imagine.
The maiden without the high-powered automatic rifles and six pack abs accentuated by that halter sports bra and toned thighs hugged by compression Lululemon leggings managed to put her two hands on the very jaws of lion that could chomp off muscle, tendon and bone in one fell swoop. The king of the jungle, the king of the pride is one’s pride and ego. That outer golden hard shell that’s built over blood, sweat and tears, contained in the darkness and never unveiled. Achievement should speak for itself. No need to see the mess inside. And yet, this king’s mouth agape, tongue loose and tail between its legs, submits to the caress of the tips of fingers. The Strength card is a call for Pride dismantled for vulnerability, one donning a flowing easy breezy white dress, belted by leaves and flowers in full bloom.
It’s been over three years since that collapse. I’ve had enough for forcing my way through things. Don’t you think that around a decade of coercing myself into a job, an industry across three different countries is more than enough?
Everyday, I find myself staring back at my current self of over four decades on this earth and lifetime through the mirror of my past self. The golden shell of creations, accomplishments - medals, trophies, records broken, recognitions, promotions, acquisitions, travels - and inside its hollow darkness. Like the lion, my claws are still out to defend the Self cowering inside the cavern over decisions made, turns taken, mistakes exploded in my face and this very decision I made to leave it all behind. My tail, once swishing in the wind, unnerved whether I hit someone or something, now in between my legs in shame of my non-accomplishment and fear of the uncertainty of what’s ahead. This very undertaking to go slow and give myself grace, take space to grieve what I lost - for my body and sanity to heal and recalibrate my life to what it’s not supposed to be is the one that required the most strength.
What I’ve read:
When I first started reading diasporic Filipino novels when I moved here, I noticed a pattern of a centering of lives in the brutal Marcos dictatorship years. I applaud this stories, a necessary remembering of what was, but was hungry for the Philippines I grew up in rather than what my parents fought for and what I read in the history books. These two books, one a memoir and another a young adult novel, captures the zeitgeist of me. Both distill what it is to live with one foot in one world and the other in another, the eternal struggle to find home within you and outside. Such is the life of every immigrant, whether by choice or force of more violent circumstances including war, violent conflict, poverty and oppression.
“The Mango Tree: A Memoir of Fruit, Florida and Felony” by Annabelle Tometich.
Annabelle’s story as a half-flip (i.e. American slang for Filipino) begins with a fallen mango, a seed re-planted in foreign soil by her mother, a nurse (like so many Filipinos, but not me!), escaping a life in Manila for an allegedly better one here. It is the inescapable tangle of family, finding one’s roots as both witness and being a fruit of it and fighting tooth and nail, or rather using a BB gun, for what’s left of it across chapters of one’s life - in childhood, as a hormone enraged teen and a young adult finding their path in a world that seems to not have been made for her. Abelle, as she was baptized by her teacher (if my memory serves me right), shared her journey as a unlikely native and still resident of Fort Myers, Florida into the shoes of becoming local food critic, Jean Le Bouef. Her story takes us across Florida, the US and Makati in the 90’s, a familiar setting as a visitor of the first TGIF’s in the Philippines, Glico’s Great Adventure in then QUAD, now Glorietta and the narrow streets of the outskirts of the Ayala business district in the heart of San Andres Bukid. Her family’s story is clearly far from mine, but it touches nerve endings that send shocks into the bowels of my memory.
“Patron Saints of Nothing” by Randy Ribay
Despite my age, I still gravitate towards children’s and young adult stories and novels. I find that the simplicity in language conveys life’s complexities succinctly. The long distance relationship between cousins Jay, based in the US, and Jun, based in Manila, caught in the middle of Duterte’s drug war was painted in the tension of contrasts of the US vs the Philippines through the textures of language, education, housing & environment, religion/faith, age & experience, ideals/expectations & reality, past & present. It was perhaps the first fiction piece I’ve read set in this milieu. My homecoming in 2022 reaffirmed this experience. I am in the position to see, be seen and unseen, to be both the giver and the receiver of the bitterness of resentment of being of there, but not physically there. Everyday I wrestle the intense desire to understand and to be understood without being misconstrued. That privilege of living here is both a blessing and also a curse. A wound gaping open, refusing to be sewn closed. But then again, that perhaps is beyond one’s control. It’s a balance of honoring one’s past, but living in the present to, inshallah, create a different future.
“Never Not Working: Why The Always-On Culture Is Bad for Business — And How to Fix It” by Malissa Clark
I picked this up on the Fresh! shelf at the local library. The title called to me, reminding me of my corporate days. As I flipped through the pages, I saw myself in the stories - always on for work. My mind ever consumed with it (which honestly is reflected in my personal horoscope!) I’m still not done with the book, which I find is such a challenging read. It seems to need so much strength to get through it. Did you know that there’s a Workaholics Anonymous group? For real!
What I’ve watched and am watching
Marahuyo Project, a YouTube series by JP Habac
I grew up in the 90’s when there seemed to be a plentitude of teen content, both local and from, where else but Hollywood. The Marahuyo Project is clearly not the teen show of my teens, rather a colorful update of it, putting the Filipino LGBTQIA+ community front and center. It’s T.G.I.S/G-Mik/Tabing Ilog/Berks, but rainbow. I do love the backdrop of it being in a remote island, the province, and not in Metro Manila, the urban center of the country. It is tender, empowering, yet not shy in tackling the tension of the fight for the right to be who they are. More importantly, it is hopeful for the change that happens in the smallest of groups in the smallest of corners. Congratulations Direk JP Habac, producers, cast and production team for this feat!
Felicity (1998)
Speaking of teen shows, “Felicity” is one of those that I watched. I was not as religious a viewer then as I was more a “Dawson’s Creek” girl. But I seem to gravitate to the naiveté of Felicity Porter (Keri Russell), who decided to change her entire life’s trajectory, throwing away the set path of becoming a doctor, studying at Stanford, by following her high school crush across the country in New York City. I mean, talk about making stupid mistakes in high school. This was definitely THAT, but who doesn’t make those anyway? There is redemption and character development, don’t worry. I love seeing how even though she “grows up” facing real world, adult challenges, she manages to retain that youthful optimism. Funny, how the problems she encounters as a young woman then like date rape, access to birth control, drugs on campus, teacher-student relationships and more, are much seen today. I mean, we change, but also, we do not change. While yes, I do know that Felicity is a white woman with a very privileged background, it is still nice to see some glimmer in this glum world. And somehow this era of mine feels the same, a big turn into nothing one could ever plan for. And that takes Strength.
What I’m Listening To
The Telebabad Tapes by Wincy Ong and the late and great CJ de Silva-Ong
In the middle of the pandemic languishing, a friend recommended The Telebabad Tapes podcast led by husband and wife tandem, writer, director and musician Wincy Ong and childhood prodigy, more famously catapulted into mainstream fame as one of the Promil Kids, and TBWA-SMP Manila’s Executive Creative Director. I was searching for a semblance of casual yet deep intellectual banter that was uniquely from my background - 80’s-90’s Manila born and raised voices. Like me, both worked in the marketing/advertising industry and attended Catholic private schools. Inspired by the 90’s long winding conversations over the then landline phones, they talked about everything under the sun from pop culture, childhood memories, social faux pas, to serious things like feminism, religion, money matters, burnout and more. You could say I was a super listener as I really did listen to all episodes and participated actively in the Facebook and Discord groups dedicated to the listeners, who they lovingly called podpals. So CJ’s recent passing, at the young age of 36, hit me hard. I have not grieved over a parasocial relationship like this since Tony Bourdain. Sure, maybe even this was more special since we follow each other on Twitter and Instagram, exchanged Tweets or X’s (?) and DMs over their episodes and random things. It’s not a real, real relationship per se, but it sure felt like one. I feel gutted with her absence as one of the rare progressive voices with a curious, open mind and big heart in the Philippines. As a fellow child-free couple, I am even more pained by Wincy’s loss. I can’t even get myself to listen to the last episode they recorded before the fated brain aneurysm. But yes, we all miss you CJ. Thank you for being and sharing you to the rest of us.