Baclaran.

It gets a little easier.  Through time.  Through a constant reminder to myself of delineating what’s created in my head and what’s actually there.  With infatuation, it’s easy to hear things the way we want to hear them.  I would give so much meaning to words that were said especially coming from someone so eloquent.  I already know how vulnerable I am as a person.  How quick I am to attach to something, even if it’s not real.  I chalk a part of that up to my abandonment issues.  Maybe it’s also innately my character.

I can write for hours about how I had a biological dad who didn’t want me.  I could re hash the time my nanny who I loved so much left when I was 6 and I was just told she was going on a vacation.  She never came back.  As I write this even now, I feel remnants of before.  I miss her still.  Then I could write about my years living in a home where things were unstable, life and death at one point.  But ultimately, I came through okay.  I came through just fine because the love my mom had for my brother and I, as neurotic as she can be, was the underlying foundation of who I am.

IMG_0692.jpg

My mom must have been around my age now when this was taken.

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