Tea and sympathy.

Funny, how now I'm supposed to avoid both, but in the end I crave for both.

Funny, how this song started it all, playing on the radio, with us chuckling how it sounded so much like "don't trade our LUNCH for tea and sympathy". That also was the inspiration behind my blogger.com account.

Funny, how it rings true today, now that I've managed to almost corrode my colon with my erratic eating habits because of a loss that no one is supposed to know or understand.

Funny, how I've managed to hold on for 12 years to something that only I care to remember.

No one is laughing.

And now, for the first time, I will admit that I have lost the love of my life long before he actually left me.

*********

The struggling man you used to see with me was not the one I fell in love with when I was 19. The only thing they have in common is their name.

The man I fell in love with was well beyond his 19 years. He was a free spirit, a brilliant artist, a budding athlete, a talented musician, a keeper of the faith, a devoted son and ideal brother.

The one who eventually got attracted to me was a boy trapped in a 30-year-old's diseased body. He was nothing he told everyone else he was. But his disguises were clever enough to ensnare those he needed to seek security from. His best, so far, was being the love of my life. And the illusion was so impeccable that everyone believed it, or maybe because I bet my entire self to make everyone believe it. I wanted to believe it, I had to. I felt nothing without it.

Gradually, the person I was becoming was also engulfed in a sea of masks. I had to be hidden. I had to be someone else. I had to keep up with the mirage of a couple whose interests were perfectly braided. And if I struggled to be myself, I would be left alone.

Thus began my transformation from being a woman so sure of herself to one who would "go beyond herself": I stopped eating rice, went to countless expensive parties, spent beyond my lifestyle, pathetically ran races, and aspired to be a triathlete. While this was all happening, I had to keep my day job, fulfill my passion as a choir member, and be a dutiful daughter and sister. At the back of my head, I thought, he was doing the same, leading a "superlife". Sadly, it was not. It was a double life. I kept it up for a time, but eventually something had to go. Unfortunately, it was my old self that suffered. I couldn't "go beyond myself" anymore. Why was the "self" I already was not enough?

The straw that broke this camel's back came when I discovered that the one who was inspiring me to achieve new things wasn't achieving anything substantial at all. He was banking on my capabilities to make up for his inadequacies. This new-found twisted sense of confidence opened his doors for more people to attract to himself. As his network increased, I saw it as a sign that he was a changed man, being visible again to old friends and classmates, overcoming his introverted personality and opening up to the world that could finally uncover the beauty he had when I first met him. I was proud of him, and of my "contribution" to his brighter life. Naturally, I wanted him to be proud of me, too, and to show off that I was the one who inspired him to come out of his shell.

He wasn't. To this day, I have yet to set foot in his house. I can neither call his landline nor ring the bell by his gate. About two people in his family have an idea of who I am in his life. There are groups of friends that do not know I exist save for about 60 pictures of him and me tagged on Facebook which may be only a few of countless untagged pictures he may have with others. And, about a year ago, he kept from me that he was reinstated in his beloved university -- supposedly to surprise me with his diploma when he finished. He flunked.

I tried to take it one mistake at a time. He would eventually make up for each and every one by doing tremendous favors for me and my family. Most of all, he stayed with me (for the most part) and promised to love me everyday. But when the lies became too complex, I felt uneasy. Something was terribly wrong.

Then, at a most inopportune occasion -- on the day he gifted me with a shiny new mountain bike he built from scratch -- I snapped and confronted him about all the lies and hiding he had been doing. He was shocked at the selfishness of it all; here he was, saving every peso to buy and piece together each exquisite part to make the bike that would be the symbol of his love for me, while I was bickering about some unrelated thing he did in the past? Worse, the lies I discovered were things I found out through some investigating on my own, without his permission, which violated his privacy. In his pent-up rage, he rode off on his road bike, and never saw me nor contacted me again.

It has been 2 weeks. I still cry. I went for about a couple of days a week without eating anything and it finally led me to the hospital after I vomited blood. I know he is not worth it.

But he is not the one I pine for. I am grieving for the man I lost long ago, the man I now realize I can never have. He may still be there, but he is buried in layers of deceit and insecurity. I may not have the strength to dig him out of there.

On our last full Saturday together, a Jars of Clay song was on the radio. I looked at him gingerly and sought for the familiar in his lovely eyes. He changed the channel.

I asked if he remembered anything special about the band, or the song, or anything in the 9 years before we decided to be together.

"No, I don't remember anything."

My soul is a widow to one who has killed himself.

Wonder how we tried, for things could never be;
Play our hearts' lament like an unrehearsed symphony...