I’m used to moving. Ever since I was four or five, my family have moved to 10 different apartments/houses. Our fifth move, when I was 16, was to our own house in Filinvest, Cainta. We all thought, at last, we have our own permanent home. I had my own room which I happily designed and decorated myself -- with pictures of my high school friends, and later on with college friends, with metallic confetti, with glow-in-the-dark stars, with my collection of Little Twin Stars on a side table and my main wall scattered with pictures of Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Pearl Jam, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Guns N’ Roses, PJ Harvey etc. I remember using two 1-liter Coke cases and the flat base of a white dish rack as a table for my boombox and an old car seat as a chair. It was a room I really, really loved because it truly reflected the many facets of who I was at that time. But four years after, our family had another financial crisis and my parents ended up losing the house they’ve worked so hard for. It was the one and only “moving out” I remember vividly. During our last night of packing, my best friend Toni and Kathy were there to help me. We were laughing a lot because at every nook and cranny they would find my hidden stash of cigarettes or a hidden makeshift ashtray full of ash and cigarette butts. We also found old pictures I’ve either torn or crumpled because it was with an ex-bf. And my dengue-meds, which the doctor ordered me to take even after taking them for almost 7 weeks in the hospital. No matter what I did I just couldn’t push down those damn meds anymore, I always ended up puking. So, I hid them from my mom, saying I took them as the doctor ordered. All into a trash bag these remnants of an old life went, and that was when the melancholia hit. I toured the house one last time. I went to my sister’s room, which was just across mine, to our study/library that used to house my many books, to the guest room, which was beside my room. I took one last look at our beautiful living room which used to contain our Victorian furniture, antique jars, vases, lamps and other curios, its high ceiling with wood panels where a crystal chandelier used to hang, the shiny marble floor, the off-white paint – I can still remember how during Christmas, no matter how good or bad that Christmas was, I would find peace and simple joy in just sitting in front of our xmas tree, enjoying the flickering lights and the shadows they made on the wall. I took one last view of our terrace, which was aside from my room, my other favourite part of the house because this was where my friends and I used to spend our afternoons banging our heads to punk/rock/alternative music, smoking our head off and drinking Alco pop (Bartles & James were our favourite then) or at night just having clean, relaxing fun, (coz my parents were already back home from work at that time), dancing, talking till morning. I can still remember our dining room, which we only used during parties. We usually ate at the “dirty” kitchen and small back lawn. I can still remember my parents' room, big and airy and full of sunshine. I took one last look at our garage where I accidentally bumped my dad’s old Mercedes, and the basement right beside it (oh my dirty little secrets haha), a rush of memories from my 18th birthday party where we transformed that area into a disco. And of course, how can I forget the garden and stairs in front of the house, which was also a favourite of mine because during that time there was always a scheduled black out, and my family & friends would sit around the garden and the stairs, sharing stories or just sharing the silence, the vast night sky, the stars … It was a big and beautiful house, it was witness to the many dramas of a couple handling a rebellious, impetuous daughter who had that young-and-stupid ready to defy all moment when she fell madly in love for the first time and soon after will experience her first teen-life-shattering heartbreak. It was a house where at times we felt least like a family and at better times, where we were really happy.
I can still remember how mixed my feelings were standing in front of that house one last time. We were all standing there, my mom, my dad, my sister and I, all facing the house and saying goodbye in our own quiet way. It was dawn, which made that moment more poignant and pregnant with meaning for all of us. I remember feeling very sad because I thought that that house was going to be where my parents will grow old together, with grand children in the future running around the house every now and then. I felt nostalgic and heavyhearted at the same time, remembering the sparkling, shiny moments we had as a family with all of our dogs, especially Dagul, our rottweiler, my dad’s most beloved, who we lost, mourned and buried in our side garden during one xmas season. I felt wistful for all the bad and good memories we were leaving behind, and also felt relieved and hopeful that we can start anew. And then I heard our collective deep intake of breath, as if we were all trying to absorb all the beautiful memories we have of the house and keep it within the safe walls of our heart. And then we exhaled. Looked at one another. All teary-eyed. All smiled. And my mom said “Oh well … let’s move on then.” And that’s what we exactly did.
My family has since moved 5 more times after that. There was another “move” that was a bit life altering again, but that’s another story which I think my mom or sister can better narrate since I was sadly not with them during the most crucial points of that time. Also, I was already living in BF at that time, at Ritchie’s house, already handling our own small business together. Four years ago, Ritchie and I moved our business out of their house and into a commercial space we rented, with simple hopes and dreams of succeeding and making it on our own. But alas, things did not go as we hoped, and we are sadly moving out of the first space Ritchie and I called our home. As the moving out deadline we’ve set for ourselves creep in, I can’t help but feel a rollercoaster of emotions, and to be honest, sadness and heartbreak are still far outweighing the there’s-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel shit. But as in everything in life, I know that this will pass. Ritchie and I (and Frankie) entered this door we called home, together, full of high hopes and dreams … and we are going out of this door, still full of high hopes and dreams, still strong and resilient, together. The sun always rises! :-)
