APPROPRIATING PAIN

I caught my friend Doris crying silently in her cubicle. Although she doesn’t say anything, I know its again that good-for-nothing whom she calls “my everything.”

When your sister or friend hurts badly -- physically or emotionally -- and you feel so helpless, what do you do?

You make your shoulder a little broader for crying on.

You want to say "You nitwit you. Why should you let that SOB hurt you.” Or: "You think you love him but you don't, can't. " But you don't. You don't deny her her feelings.

You want to tell her about your kumare or kapitbahay who suffered bigger than she does, but who was able to cope. But you don't. You don't say "wala lang yang problema mo compared to so-and-so." Nope, you avoid belittling her troubles.

You just listen, make those cooing little noises, try to rephrase her pain, turn it every which way, and hope she talks some of the hurt away. Talking -- like writing -- can be cathartic, you know. You listen -- even if you can almost lip-sync what she's saying. And then you listen again. You take the phone even if it’s 2 a.m.

The cliché way is to pray for the hurting friend. Maybe it is unfair to call prayer that word. I am sorry if I offend others by the narrowness or recklessness of my vocabulary. But it’s too easy to say “I will pray.” It is even easy to do, too. I can pray by rote; I can compose a prayer – as I sometimes do –and say it over and over again until the repetition erodes it of meaning. And my own experience is that prayer does not always produce immediate results but has to patiently wait for “God’s own time.”

There must be more than listening and praying.

Can you – uhmm -- appropriate for yourself some of that pain? Can you carry around a piece of it to relieve someone of his or her load?

I have this lame-brain theory that pain is a universal pie that can be cut up and distributed thinly. And that if you get a slice bigger than your quota, you leave the other person with a smaller and lighter piece to carry around.

But I am just full of hot air, you know. Big deal, big talk.

For … what are the mechanics of appropriating pain for oneself?

How does the hot air translate into action?

I don’t know.

Another’s pain can never really reach me – except in an abstract way. The only way for that pain to touch me is for something to happen in my personal life that will cut and bleed me.

Then and only then will my talk turn into walk.

But I wouldn’t want that, would I? I am not as numb as I might tout myself to be. And if I have really desensitized myself, what pain would I be talking about?

No, there should be a better way. But I don’t know it yet.

Can it be to spread more kindness to the world?

Can it be to fix one’s own unmended fences – no more pretending the damage is not there, but rather pick up the pieces and hammer away.

Can it be to forgive those you are most hard pressed to forgive?

How will that help Doris who is hurting badly?

It is hard to say. I am not blind to the gaping fallacies of my reasoning. My brain is shot full of holes. Still, I rest my case on that fragile ground.

I just know, sure as the sun sets and rises, that people’s fates -- friends’ especially -- are inextricably connected.

(Ano daw?)

(To my friend, D)
Yesterday we cried, stung by life
That promised, gave, then smashed away.
The broken shards lie in the sun
Shimmering, a river of tears.

We swam, my friend, we swam
We swam for our lives.
Our eyes dried with every stroke
As we glimpsed the shore.

Yesterday we cried
But yesterday's far and gone.
We're safe, we're free -- we've always been.
We've forgotten why we cried.

HOW YVETTE TOOK OUT AN INSURANCE AGAINST PAIN (conclusion)

What breached Camelot was another affair. Unlike the others before it, this one was serious. It broke their marriage.

It was in another Hong Kong trip where Yvette sensed that something was afoul. Taking the trip with them was Jorge's brother-in-law who planed in from California a week before. In Hong Kong, the brothers would disappear at 6 p.m. and would not reappear until the early hours of morning. In Manila, Yvette discovered that all the while, the new woman in Jorge's life was also booked in the same hotel their family stayed in. A neighbor heard Jorge boasting his audacious feat to a tennis buddy.

"Deny to the death si Jorge" when Yvette confronted him. It took a private detective for her to learn that the girl was a 27-year-old former guest relations officer -- also a former mistress of a businessman -- and that the lovers had rented a condo unit. As soon as she got the detective's report, Yvette packed all of Jorge's things and sent the bags to his clinic. Jorge brought them right back, fuming. He refused to go. He also refused to break up the affair. He came home erratically, spending more and more time with his girl. Soon, Yvette and Jorge were sleeping in separate bedrooms.

One day, he came home with a sheaf of legal documents. He wanted a separation of property. Yvette refused to sign. "Our children were begging me not to sign. They thought that if I signed, that would be the last they'd see of their father." But he asked her again and again. When she got tired of his pushing, she finally signed "... matigil lang sya from all the verbal insults he was giving me."

Within a few months, Jorge left the family home. But not before he accused Yvette of being "controlling and manipulative" and declaring that "he never loved me, was never happy with me." He dismissed their marriage as "wasted years."

Later, Yvette would herself put it this way: "We were meditating side by side. Suddenly, he snapped out of the trance, turned to me, and said: "I don't want this. I want romance in my life."

At first, Yvette tried to win him back. She asked friends and relatives to intervene. She stormed the heavens with prayers. She climbed Mt. Banahaw to invoke the help of the mountain spirits. She spent a small fortune on seers and clairvoyants at P10,000 per session. Someone told her of a new "technology" called "radionics" that could work like magic. For several nights, she mounted a picture of Jorge and then played tapes on family and moral values to the picture. All these to no avail.

She talked to Leila on the phone. She reasoned with her, described the family she broke up, warned her of karmic debts and responsibilities. She also told her that Jorge did not have much money, on his own. Leila snapped back: "He's not happy with you. Why do you force him to stay with you?" Later in their talk, Leila seemed to relent: "Alright, we're having dinner tonight. I will talk to him."

When Jorge came home the next morning, he woke Yvette and said: "Leila asked me to go back to you. So here I am."

Stung, Yvette was almost hysterical. "Is that it? You're coming back on her say-so? Do you really think I'd take you back on those terms?" Jorge left without replying.

The next day, Leila called: "I did my part. I can't do anything anymore." Yvette could only say later: " Ang yabang nya."

What made Yvette finally wake up was when Jorge phoned her to "get all your skincare products out of the clinic." Apparently, the lovers had taken a dealership with a competing company. Eventually, the business would collapse.

Three years into their separation, Yvette is beginning to heal. More intense meditation helped her tap the healing power within. She has joined a "truth-and-wisdom" group spreading the gospel of unconditional love and service to mankind. She lately learned that the best way to heal is by keeping busy and being preoccupied with other people's concerns.

She still hurts sometimes. While swimming in the beach last summer, her son almost drowned. After swimming to safety, he told Yvette: "You know, Mom, what gave me strength to swim in spite of cramps? I just thought of how much I hate Papa!"

It gets lonely sometimes. It has been one -- two -- three years of being celibate. She could have bonded. But with whom? The American whom she went out with for a while and who has kept calling and e-mailing? The sweet-faced, white-haired man who talks the same esoteric language she understands? But does she have to bond with someone special -- when all the world could be her lover. "Universal love, remember?" Yvette says chuckling.

A month ago, Jorge sent feelers he wanted to go back home. When Yvette asked him if he was about to give up his mistress, he smiled and laughed. "I think you want to come back for my money," she couldn't resist telling him, aware he was having financial trouble. He laughed again. She figured he was not ready.

If ever Yvette opens her doors, she'll make sure Jorge -- or whoever -- would give her space to practice what she has learned about loving and serving her fellows. She'd make sure nothing sets back her own sometimes faltering journey towards authenticity.

This journey is the most important thing in her life today.

She likes the woman that she is now evolving into. She organized a women support group to assist other hurt wives cope with the pain of betrayal. "As I help others heal, I also heal -- it is self-therapeutic."

The new Yvette feels more in charge of her life. It has empowered her to know that, much as she still loves Jorge, she could live happily without him. The new Yvette feels freer. This new sense of freedom will hasten her self-actualization, she says.

The last three years brought her self-esteem to an all-time low. Now, if Jorge told her again he never loved her, she could readily reply: "It's alright. I love myself."

She doesn't think of the future. She copes day by day, moment to moment. "Pag gising ko, thank you. Bago matulog, thank you ulit."

She also learned to take responsibility. It is neither all of Jorge's fault nor all of her fault. "We share responsibility. In a sense, Jorge is right in saying I manipulated him. I subjugated myself when I was with him out of fear. I lived a lie. I did not do it out of love -- for how could I have given love when I lacked self-love to begin with?"

In a previous life, she and Jorge were also a married couple who lived in England, she found out in a regression session with a psychologist-hypnotist. "In that earlier life, I was the one who was unfaithful. I ran away with a gypsy man," Yvette shares. The information helped her understand the law of karma.


The clouds above us join and separate.
The breeze in the courtyard leaves and returns.
Life is like that so why not relax?
Who can stop us from celebrating?

- Lu Yu

(Women In Love and in Trouble) HOW YVETTE TOOK OUT AN INSURANCE AGAINST PAIN - part 1

(as told to annamanila)

Jorge was Yvette’s first love. They were classmates in Pre-med at a Catholic university. He was tall, good looking, intelligent – with a little-boy-lost quality about him that drew women like a magnet. Yvette was captivated by all these. But most of all, she fell in love with what she thought was the “inner man.”

Jorge was religious … or so Yvette thought. Jorge looked beyond the material and superficial … or at least that was how he impressed her. He seemed to understand about Yvette’s own yearning to unravel the mysteries of life, God, and the universe.

Yvette’s fascination for life’s hidden meaning started as far back as she could remember. She would look at the stars and wondered how big was the universe and whether the God that she knew was also the God of all the universe and all that she could imagine as well as those that she could not. She marveled at how high her imagination flew, even as her feet remained on the ground. She asked questions her elders could not answer, such as if God created the world, who created God?

In
high school, while most other teenagers read Emily Loring and Mills and Boons, Yvette buried her nose into the Science of the Mind, The Autobiography of a Yoga, and self-help books.

She dabbled in astrology and numerology. She was curious to know the psychic meaning of colors, interpret dreams, play the tarot and the rune. Before long, she was trying automatic writing with some degree of success. She became a vegetarian in college. She still is.

Outwardly, however, she was a typical youngster who loved dressing up, partying, hamming it up, and having a good time with friends. No, she did not go around wearing high priestess robes or making esoteric pronouncements. “Kikay din ako. Chichay din ako,” she now says, suppressing a giggle. But even then, she had to fight bouts of insecurity. She thought she was plain looking, and doubted if any man would truly want her or bother to have a second look.

Thus, when Jorge, the provinciano from Bacolod, singled her out and wooed her, she couldn’t believe he truly loved her, “… except that he probably discerned the beautiful me inside.”

Before she met Jorge, Yvette had this grand dream of being a missionary-doctor. She fancied herself in some far-flung rural area, serving the poor with the devotion of a Mother Teresa. She would not mind being a spinster, she thought, or even a nun. Nonetheless, she was also open to a relationship, but only “… if I could find somebody who shared my dreams and convictions.”

Jorge went on to medical school as Yvette shifted gears and took up B.S. psychology. She later picked up a Master’s degree while waiting for Jorge to graduate.

When Yvette graduated in 1974, she married Jorge in civil ceremonies. It was a secret wedding. A year later, they were wed in church if only to quiet Yvette’s creeping sense of “living in sin.” It was another secret wedding. They had to keep their marriage under wraps because Jorge’s family would have been devastated over a premature marriage for their student-doctor son.

In 1978, Jorge graduated from medical school. It was only then that he and Yvette came out in the open as a couple. They renewed their marriage vows in church in the presence of their families.

As Jorge struggled through his medical residency, Yvette found a good-paying job in a government corporation. In those early years, she made herself indispensable to her husband. She made sure he was eating well, resting well, and unperturbed by family problems – so he could study well. By this time, the children had started coming. Yvette worked doubly hard. She wanted Jorge to be a good doctor, especially since a successful cosmetic surgeon had taken him under his wing.

The cheating started not long after their first baby came. A letter left unwittingly in Jorge’s car gave him away. It was from Gina, a young medical technologist. The letter relived in lurid detail a romantic interlude during a medical mission out of town.

Other liaisons followed. By then, he had set up his own private practice. He hired nurses to assist him in his clinic. Two of them became his lovers.

Every time Yvette confronted Jorge, he pressed his innocence. He chided her for being jealous, insecure, imaginative.

Yvette in turn blamed herself. “It must be me,” she told herself. She was not loving enough, not understanding enough, not pretty enough. “All the time, I wanted to believe that Jorge was the wonderful person I thought he was, and I failed him.” She was wracked by fear. She couldn’t imagine life without Jorge. He was the sun. Her life revolved around him.

To improve herself, she took up once again the inward journey she had begun. If she could not transform herself into the wife Jorge wanted, then she could at least fortify herself against the pain of betrayal. Slowly, carefully, she gathered the tools that she thought would make herself invincible.

Her search took her to the Science of the Mind and Man (SOMM) program. It was the very “in” thing in the 1980s. But unlike thousands of others who took the course and then moved on, Yvette stayed on and on. For 15 years, she belonged to the SOMM inner circle of disciples.

“The SOMM played on my fears. It taught me to esteem myself, love myself, be happy with myself. I was told that when I am happy with myself, all the rest will follow. I figured if I stayed with SOMM, I will always know how to keep my marriage happy.”

One of the SOMM’s promises to its followers was material prosperity. It was part of what was supposed to follow when one achieved self-awareness. To Yvette, SOMM delivered as promised. Money started flowing in for Yvette and Jorge.

She had by then quit her job, sold their home, and invested in a series of small businesses. She tried shoemaking, running a bakeshop, weaving – all with reasonable success. In 1990, she hit it big with a cosmetic formulation handed down to her by her grandmom who was a chemist. She commercialized and improved it and added product lines. Today, the business has captured a niche in the cosmetic market. And she has learned to manage by exception.

Where before Jorge dismissed SOMM as “another prosperity mumbo-jumbo,” where before he was jealous of the time Yvette spent with the “inner circle,” Jorge now joined in, at first cautiously. “I guess he couldn’t argue with success, so he jumped in.” In time, he too became part of the “inner circle.”

What followed were what Yvette called “my Camelot years.” Five glorious years of peace, love and plenty for Yvette, Jorge and their three children. Five years Jorge played the ideal husband and father bit to the hilt.

As Yvette’s business prospered, Jorge grew in his practice. He was slowly carving a name for himself as a competent surgeon. Their family and finances thrived. Her business and his clinic complemented each other. Jorge carried her skin-care products in his clinic. In turn, they tithed generously. It was the key to prosperity SOMM taught them.

Yvette and Jorge went to Hong Kong, Thailand, and Indonesia for a second honeymoon. Heaven on earth, Yvette calls the interlude. “We slept wrapped in each other’s arms. And when we woke up, we said, ‘I love you.’”

To further fortify their relationship, Yvette and Jorge took the Marriage Encounter program, where they eventually became a “shepherd couple.” They were the seniors who coached other couples on how to heal their marital troubles.”

Together, they grew in spirituality. They discovered transcendental meditation. It helped him relax from the pressures of work. It helped her manage her fears which still lurked from time to time.

As her mind relaxed, so did her body. A hyperthyroid condition uncannily disappeared. “I was scheduled to be operated on. But when the doctor looked again, it was gone.”

Yvette laid her fears to rest. She was convinced she had taken out enough insurance against unhappiness.

“I was presumptuous,” she now admits. After 18 years in marriage and three years out of it, she declares: “In marriage as in all of life, there are no guarantees.”

What breached Camelot was another affair. Unlike the others before it, this one was serious. It broke their marriage.

It was in another Hong Kong trip where Yvette sensed that something was afoul. Taking the trip with them was Jorge’s brother-in-law who planed in from California a week before. In Hong Kong, the brothers would disappear at 6:00 p.m. and would not reappear until the early hours of morning. In Manila, she discovered that all the while, the new woman in Jorge’s life was booked in the same hotel their family stayed in. A neighbor heard Jorge boasting his audacious feat to a tennis buddy.

Later, Yvette would herself put it this way: "We were meditating side by side. Suddenly, he snapped out of his trance, turned to me, and said: "I don't want this. I want romance in my life."

- To be concluded next week -

Dear Bert, from Nena

Dear Bert,

I'd like to tell you, Bert, about my friend.

She's a brave and admirable woman -- my friend. But I worry about her these days.

At work, she pores over papers, teaches, writes, e-mails, attends meetings with her usual grace. She smiles, even laughs sometimes. She even manages to ask me how I am doing. She makes the usual small talk. In short, she goes through the motions. But her eyes -- they tell a different tale. I catch her off guard with a faraway look. The dark fringes give away sleepless nights. But more than that, her eyes betray an unspeakable sadness.

Meanwhile, as she keeps up her brave front, her eyes get darker, her body slighter, her countenance sadder. Twice I espied her inside her room her head buried in her arms, weeping softly. I asked her if she was sick and if she wanted to be taken to the clinic. She said she had a headache but that it would pass.

When we are alone together, I make subtle openings. I confide in her my own deep secrets so she could start unburdening hers. At another time, I dished out my usual line: "You are so lucky you have everything," hoping that when she begins to protest, a floodgate of confidences would open. She had not taken the bait.

Now that she has taken a long leave from work, I am sure there is something terribly wrong with my friend. She just is not saying. Perhaps, she is ashamed. Perhaps she hates to be pitied. Or doesn't want to get others upset, no matter that they are friends. But it is so unhealthy -- not being able to unload.

I worry over my friend because she has admitted she eats little and has problems sleeping. It figures -- the way she's fast losing weght and how deep the shadows around her eyes have become. For weaker women, this combination is dangerous. It can be a prelude to a nervous breakdown.

I worry over my friend. Because if my hunches are correct, what she is now going through I have myself gone through -- 20 years ago.

I was 35 when my husband took an 18-year-old mistress. My two-year ordeal was the darkest season of my life. I felt the most excruciating pain -- a pain I wouldn't wish on my most hated enemy.

I fought for my husband with everything in my power. Sometimes I smothered him with all the TLC I could muster. Other times I attacked him like a virago from hell. I went to Baclaran every Wednesday, St. Jude every Thursday, Quiapo every Friday; walked on my knees, burnt candles before altars, whispered mantras before I slept.

At work, I couldn't function thinking of the two of them. When he came home late, I thought it could be either of two things: he was making love with his mistress or mugged in the streets. I always preferred the mugging.

When I fell into troubled sleep, at time with the help of pills, I didn't want to wake up to the new morning -- for the pain would start all over again.

Oh yes, he tried to assure me of his abiding love. The affair was an "accident," something he didn't ask for. But he couldn't leave the "poor girl" just like that, he said. He asked for time. He expected me to wait while I slowly died.

My children -- how they suffered, as I found out later. But I was oblivious to them. It was a wonder they didn't grow up wayward. Today, my son would chide me: "You didn't see me grow up. You were too busy with work and with something else."

In the end I got my husband back. But I was so exhausted and resentful it no longer mattered. In the process of fighting, I stopped loving.

This sounds over-dramatic and sad, doesn't it. But every word of my story is true, every emotion I recounted I actually felt. Since then, I've read accounts of woman similarly betrayed. Compared to some of theirs, my story pales. Which got me thinking: If errant husbands had a full appreciation of what their wives -- women they love or once did love -- go through, would they rethink what they are doing. If my husband had an inkling of my personal hell, would my story have ended differently?

I have learned since that no man is worth the pain, the mental agony, the humiliation, and most of all the setting aside of other important things in life like children, career, and one's own well- being. I have learned that the heart can stop caring if it has been battered so.

These lessons I want to pass on to my friend, your wife.

Sincerely,

Nena


(Note: The above is a sort of postscript to Nena's story published here some time ago. Nena told me her story for an aborted book project which I hope to revive. Click here and here to read/reread Nena's story. This letter to Bert was actually written and sent by Nena).

Women in Love and in Trouble 2: THE APPLE OF MY EYE

by Lilian (as told to Annamanila)

When we meet the person for whom we are intended, recognition comes through the fact that we fall in love ... we think we will then be able to satisfy all of each other's needs forever and ever .. and therefore live happily forever after. Should it come to pass, however, that we misread the stars .. nothing can be done about the situation except to live unhappily ever after or get divorced (or separated).

- Scott Peck

“When will you set me free?”

Twelve years after my family pushed me into marrying Ding, he was begging me to release him. “I married you against my will,” he said, avoiding my eyes. He was telling me he wanted out of our marriage. Out of my life.

Out of my life, he said.

I called him the “apple of my eye.” But it was an understatement. He was my whole life for many years. So, how could my life get out of my life? Wouldn’t that leave me with nothing?

“I’d rather die,” I thought. Aloud, I said: “You can never leave me. Wherever you go, I will find you.”

How did he stray – the sweet apple of my eye?

My best friend

He was my best friend – the only one in the whole world who understood me … my quirks, my moods, my silences. When I was 18, I had a nervous breakdown. I lived in a fog for weeks. The only person who could break through me was Ding. He defied my parents in order to reach out to me. That was the time I started calling him the “apple of my eye.”

Not so dark, not so tall, not so handsome. He was quiet, gentle, not given to drinking nor smoking. But it seemed to me he was always around – like an angel.

He was so quiet that he only said “I love you” once – one Valentine’s Day, when we were courting. He never repeated it. It did not bother me that he did not. I married, after all, a man of few words.

My parents thought we eloped. But that was not quite true. When I ran away after a bitter scolding from my father, also on account of Ding, it was not he whom I sought out. I went to a friend’s boarding house to let off steam. Ding followed me there. In fact, he implored me to go home. But when I would not, he kept me company. He stayed on, although I urged him to leave when night fell. “I will not leave you,” Ding insisted. He stayed with me, until I went home two days after.

My father could not believe that “nothing happened” during the two days I was away. A medical examination would have confirmed our blamelessness. But my parents would not hear of consulting a doctor. Certain were they that “my honor” and that of the family had been blemished. We were married at civil ceremonies a few months later, when his mother came home from her contract work in Singapore. We were both 19.

This is what Ding meant when he said “… napilitan lang siya.”

No expectations

I did not have any illusions about marriage. No big expectations from my husband. All the years we were together, we lived either in my parents’ or my in-laws’ house. We occupied a room in either house. Both small, cramped, lacking in privacy. At the beginning, we – as well as our children – were fed, clothed, sheltered by our elders. Our basic needs were taken care of. So, it did not occur to me to ask anything from Ding, even if he had a job every so often. I would take whatever little he gave but never asked for more. I never knew how much his monthly pay was. I never asked.

Come to think of it, I was never really a housewife. I never learned how to cook, go to market, beautify my home, make housewifely decisions.

And come to think of it, in 13 years, Ding and I never went out together – except in rare outings with the children. We never celebrated a birthday, a Valentine’s Day, or an anniversary. He never gave me a gift though I’d save for a new pair of Nike shoes for him every Christmas. He was also a distant father. And yet, in my heart of hearts, he remained to be the apple of my eye.

Love may be all you can give, but honey, I can't live without it.

- Barbra Streissand in "More Than You Know"

I’m not what you might call sweet and gentle. At work people called me the “taray princess.” At home, even my accomplished Ate who was used to bossing us around, could not make me toe the line. I was careful to let people know that in spite of my petite exterior, I was no pushover. But I was putty in Ding’s hands. He was, after all, the apple of my eye.

I finished my secretarial course in-between pregnancies. In time, I too began to earn. My mother-in-law set me up for a sari-sari store business. I liked being busy. Later, I found an office job.

Perhaps Ding never loved me. For he began looking for other women to love soon after we got wed.

He had a string of girlfriends in his office. I would find pictures of office parties with some giddy-looking girl seated beside him. He would take home video tapes of office socials to watch over and over. She and the giddy-looking girl were inseparable even in film.

I took refuge in my job, raising my children, and studying. With such busy routine, there was little we saw of each other. In the early morning, we’d have a few minutes of breakfast together. At night, when I came home from school, he’d either be asleep or out. Either way, I’d also be too beat to talk with or wait up for him.

When I was just beginning my job, Ding took seriously ill. He had coronary thrombosis that confined him to the Heart Center for almost a month. He almost died then. His heart stopped; it took a respirator to revive him. Although I was afraid of the prognosis, part of me was happy to have him all to myself to take care of.

During his confinement, the hospital was my home. I slept there, ate there, had a change of clothes there. Luckily, my office at Balara was just minutes away from the hospital.

When Ding was released, a blood clot still remained in his right eye. It took years for the blood to disperse. And even when the clot was gone, Ding was still prone to severe headaches. When the attacks came, they were so bad he wanted to hit his head on the wall. I’d apply cold compress, massage his pain away, pray over him.

I felt most like Ding’s wife when he was afflicted.

Eva

Didn’t I tell you about Ding’s string of girl friends? There were so many I couldn’t any more distinguish one from the other. But there were two whom I’ll never forget.

Eva was a girl from his office. She’s small, cute, brown, sexy. Well, to make a long story short, I was able to track down Eva and she turned out to be real nice as well. She promised to forget Ding. And she also asked me to bring her home “… so I can see Ding’s children. So I can prop up my decision to break up with him.”

Taking a crowded bus, we were hanging by the estribo all the way. When we alighted, Eva remarked: “You could have pushed me from the bus, you know.”

- to be concluded

NENA'S STORY - CONCLUSION (Women in Love and in Trouble)

(as told to Anna Manila)

Dancing with the enemy

One of my first reactions was to dance with the enemy. At 35, I was an incurable romantic who believed that love and kindness conquered all.

One afternoon, I met Leny for the first time.

I dropped by her apartment just as she was on her way to school. Our meeting was a pleasant one, surprisingly. She remarked how good and young I looked. But of course, I took care to look my best -- wore my most flattering blouse, suffered my girdle, had my hair blow-dried. I told her in turn she was everything my husband told me she was. Inwardly, I groaned -- she looked so young, fragile, and innocent.

She told me she didn't really have to go to school that day. "Great," I said. "Why don't we drop by his office -- the two of us together -- and watch his jaw drop?"

We must have made a grand show. When we entered the office, holding hands and beaming, work ground to a halt.

Yes, his jaw dropped as we made our way to his cubicle. When he recovered his senses, he said: "Let's go out to dinner."

We made plans for the three of us that night -- noble, win-win plans. Silently, I congratulated myself. How clever I was, I thought.

If our lofty plans had materialized, Leny would have studied full time. I would have been her guardian, mentor, and friend, who'd keep an eagle eye on her. He would have kept distance. When she would have graduated and started a career, we would be the best of friends -- all three of us. In my mind, I added, she would have met a man who'd marry her, give her his name, and keep her out of arm's way -- my husband's arms.

It was an exhilarating dinner. All three of us glowed with good will towards all and malice towards none. The Chinese food was great. I feasted on a banquet of hope.

Two months later, Leny was pregnant.

The night I learned about it was the night I threw myself on a busy street, wanting to kill the pain.

Plunging into war

Looking back, I realized that the "best of plans" are easier made than done. The spirit acknowledges what is good and right, but the body does its own thing. In short, he couldn't keep distance. She couldn't either. Neither of them could stay away from the forbidden fruit -- a fruit I was making infinitely sweeter for them.

Then I plunged into war. No holds barred. All systems go. Exit Ms. Goody-two-shoes. Enter a woman-dragon spitting fire. I brought forth all the wilinesses and foolishnesses I didn't know I was capable of.

Of course, an affair that has broken out into the open escalates inevitably into a psy-war. A battle of one-up(wo)manship. A crossfire of the vanities.

In the eyes of the betrayed wife, the errant pair looms larger than life, while the rest of the world recedes to the background. Home, children, work, profession, friends -- they no longer count except as support systems to help annihilate the enemy.

I monitored my husband as though my life depended on knowing where he was and who he was with at any time of the day. The telephone was a instrument of torture and relief. I died a little when I learned he was out. I breathed easy when he was in. I made him promise to go home before seven -- his hands on the bible. (Of course, he didn't.) I invented every excuse to drop by his office at 5:00 p.m. or thereabouts so we could go home together. I went to St. Jude every Thursday, Quiapo every Friday, and invented every conceivable meeting and seminar during the week -- all incidentally very near his office.

I monitored his personal effects. Kept count of his shirts and underwear. Checked that his wedding ring was in place when he went out to work and checked again when he got back. Demanded love every night -- drained him out of his loving energies so there would be nothing left for nobody. Sniffed him inside and out after late nights for unexplained scents. Made sure our wedding picture was always in his wallet. For good measure, I scrawled a note at the back of the photo: 'HEY YOU THIEF. ARE YOU SO UNATTRACTIVE YOU COULDN'T FIND YOUR OWN MAN?" Sure enough, the note hit bullseye, drew tears, and sparked a major tiff.

Pendulum

With my husband, I blew hot and cold. Sometimes, I came to him with hammer and tongs. Threatened to leave him, have my own boyfriend, take the children away. Other times, I tried to "kill" him with all the sweetness and softness I could muster. Cooked his favorite food, massaged him to sleep, served him hand on foot.

At work, I couldn't function thinking of the two of them. They were with me in my waking hours, in my sleep, and sleeplessness. The nights of waiting for him to come home were most harrowing. I learned to take small doses of tranquilizers. Once, when I ran out of the merciful pills, I turned to drink.

My emotions were a pendulum. I swung from heights of hope (when he's with me) to depths of despair (when he was with her). At my most desperate, I wished him dead. I relished the idea of a mild catastrophe falling on him -- maybe a crippling of his legs, or a moderate stroke or heart attack -- anything, just to keep him home for maybe a few months, a year. In the meantime the interloper would lose hope and disappear.

My children -- how they suffered (as I found out later). But I was oblivious to them. It was a wonder they didn't grow up wayward or maladjusted.

I left home a number of times, always on a bluff. Invariably, I came back when fetched.

Holidays were nightmares. Mistresses had to have a Christmas, too, you know -- and a New Year as well. That dark excruciating year, Leny's Christmas was December 23, her New Year, January 2. I bought him his gift for her, wrote the greeting on the gift tag. I sent her pastries, suman, and fruits from my pantry. I made sure she understood she was celebrating Christmas only at my sufferance. I slept through their celebrations. Nothing to it -- just two pills.

By the time Leny gave birth, I was two months pregnant with my fourth baby.

Crisis helped. His business closed that year. He was hard pressed keeping up with apartment rentals. Soon, it had to go. They began fighting over money, his dwindling visits, the sickly baby. With my stable bank job, I helped with the milk and the diapers, not so much out of the goodness of my heart as my desire to smell like roses. And I did. The tables were turned. I became the comforter, she the afflicter.

In less than two months, Leny and her baby were kicked out from the apartment. They had no place to go but back to her family. They still met after that -- intermittently. I began to relax -- it was just a matter of time. I dropped by Leny and the baby one last time. We hugged and forgave each other.

Within a year, Leny was recruited abroad as an entertainer. In time, she married a foreigner, who later on adopted her child. Later on they divorced. But to my best knowledge, Leny and son are still abroad.

Paying the price

I won the war, didn't I? I was certain then that I did. Now, I am no longer sure.

You see, just as I thought we were settling back to our old placid life, it happened again. Another woman. Another set of circumstances. Another cycle of pain. I guess I'll spare you the details.

You might say I won that round again. For look, my husband is still with me.

Everything has its price. I paid dearly for my victories. I stopped caring -- simply, totally. Today, my husband and I are physically together but emotionally apart.

Sad! -- a friend said, her eyes misting when I told her. Maybe. But in a way, I am more at peace now with myself than I've ever been. I suppose when you have stopped expecting or wanting, you are no longer vulnerable.

I guess I like myself better now than 20 years ago. I am a more focused mother, a more efficient worker, and a less selfish human being all around. Even my children think so.

The experience taught me to redefine my life. I guess I woke up one day from all the brooding and the hurting and decided that there must be a better way to live. A merciful God couldn't' have meant this gift-life to be so difficult, could he? Otherwise, what kind of God would He be? It was a turning point.

All I want now is to exorcise leftover resentments. To be able to look my husband in the eye and feel more understanding than rancor. Never mind passion. I can live without it. This hopeless romantic is cured at last.

- End -

Women in Love and in Trouble: Nena's Story (Part 1)

When we have told our stories, we can leave it behind. When we have sounded off our tale of brokenness, the wholeness remains.

Six women entrusted me with their stories of loving, hurting, coping, and healing (for an aborted book project).

Their narratives are saying that the downside to love is heartbreak but that mending is possible.

This is one of them.

NENA'S STORY (AS TOLD TO ANNAMANILA)

The woman ran across busy Ramon Magsaysay Boulevard and midway flung herself face down. Motor lights blinded her even as she shut tight tear-drenched eyes. She braced herself on the hard pavement as tires screeched, horns blared, and drivers cursed. After what seemed like forever, she felt herself being picked up. "I'll take you home now," a voice whispered in her ear.

The anger in the man's voice cut through her fog-filled mind. It made her flinch in spite of her confusion.

Did the woman really want to kill herself?Twenty years later, I am still asking myself that question. Did I want to kill myself then? You see, I am that woman. Or more accurately, I was that woman. If you ask me now, there's very little in that wretched, frightened 35-year-old woman that I -- now 55 going on 70 -- want to identify with.

My world was placid after marrying a man who I used to think was "to good to be true." Those were the incredible days I held up three fingers when asked about problems: getting and keeping household help, keeping away from a fourth pregnancy after 12 years and three children, and getting to sleep whenever my husband had late nights out with his barkada. In that order. I thought myself one heck of a lucky girl.

It was a Friday in June, the eve of a three-day weekend, when my placid world collapsed.A group of friends was seeing a seer-psychic-healer after work. It sounded like fun to me. Luchie was embroiled in searing office politics and needed advice on how to get out of it. Betty lost cash and checks in her desk drawer, called it an inside job, and wanted to confirm her hunch. Ces wished to know if she could travel again after a study visit to Japan. "It wouldn't hurt to ask if a marriage proposal is in the offing," Betty teased the still-single Ces. While I, the coolest of them all, declared I'd tag along "only to observe, to be the cheering squad." At the back of my mind, I told myself that if the psychic was half as good as he was vaunted to be, I'd ask him about relief for my acutely asthmatic baby.

During the visit, the psychic obliged each of us with a palm-reading session. When my turn came, he told me: "Hija, your friends think they have a problem. They don't -- not really. You do."

I laughed nervously and asked him to tell me more.He faltered just so and then went on. "There's a possibility it would pass. A fling, I hope. Except that you and your husband have the same zodiac signs, the same temperament. You are likely to clash head on." The seer didn't meet my eyes as he spoke.

"You're telling me my husband is having an affair?" -- I shot back.

"Well, hija, it might not be serious yet. But if you're not careful, if you don't keep your cool, your marriage might break up."

When I arrived home, I was still laughing and shaking my head. Psychics were carnival stuff to me. Still, I couldn't wait to tell my husband about it and perhaps have a good laugh together over it.

As it turned out, I was in for a long wait. He was out again with the boys. With the boys? -- my mind started to paint lewd boy-girl pictures. As the night progressed, the pictures turned lewder by the minute.

By the time he turned in at 3:00 in the morning, I was fit to be tied.

I blurted out the four sentences I had rehearsed for hours: "Papa, I know you are having an affair. I have air-tight evidence. So don't try to deny it. If you do, I'll leave you anyway."

He didn't try to deny it. He spilled it out. Every sordid and excruciating detail of it.

It wasn't a fling. It was serious. Leny was 18 and a student. They met at work -- she was employed part time in his business as promo girl. They dated, at first as a foursome. Then she told him on the phone that she felt something was happening and wondered if he felt it too. He said he did. Then they made it happen. She wasn't a virgin. (An ex-boyfriend forced himself on her, the beast!) After a few more dates -- no longer in a foursome -- she left home. He found her an apartment.

Yes, she is attractive and young and has great boobs. No, it isn't just lust. But no, it isn't love either. Yes, yes, I love you more. No, I'll never leave you and our children. But no, no, I can't leave her either -- just like that. You have to give me time. I don't want to break her heart. Soon, soon, but not now.

Why -- I asked. Why did it happen. How did I go wrong?

He hemmed and hawed and rambled. As best as I could make it, he blamed his business -- the economy was bad; the market was shrinking. When he was with me, the problems scared him. When he was with her, these problems receded: she was an outsider, thus a haven. So you see, it was not you, he said, it was the circumstances.

More ramblings. He didn't plan it to happen. He was just out to have fun.

Eventually, he turned on me just the same. I had transformed from sweet, giving girlfriend to brusque, grasping wife. I took, demanded, pressured, nagged. It was me after all.

Neither of us got any sleep that day. He was supposed to go to the office that Saturday. But I prevailed on him to stay home. He continued to stay home Sunday -- bah, Sunday was family day. Monday was a holiday -- hallelujah! -- and he didn't have to go out either; not that I would let him. I could see in my mind's eye the other one anxious, fuming, and best of all, beginning to be afraid. Oh God, I wanted her to be afraid -- as afraid as I was.

After that long weekend, I made him wear a bowling shirt with my name plus an apostrophe and an "S" -- NENA's -- emblazoned on the back. It was a shirt I ordered a year before but never got him to wear. That day I took it out of the closet, he put it on without fuss. And that was my first cheap shot at that faceless third party out there who took away something that was mine.

When he came home that night -- no longer as late as in previous nights -- he said that Leny immediately guessed what happened. One look at the possessive label on his shirt told her that the lid was off. She wasn't dumb after all.

Read the conclusion by clicking on the label/category "love and marriage" (left bar, please)