Dad

 3rd night at Iriga on this day of 2025.

There is a sense of calm being with my kids. I just love watching them grow and act out their own personality. Feels like I am living in this tiny movie where I am the director but the script writer doesn't tell me the twists. You can somehow predict it, like a Knives Out plot, but there will always be tiny surprises which make it more satisfactory. 

I love that Art loved the shoes I got for her. I got to watch an episode of a Japanese series she is watching. 

Finally got Dylan to watch a movie with me. She does it as a bonding time with her BF now but she sometimes forget that her love for pop culture was nourished by me. 

Everything is easy for now, but let me cherish this rare glimpse of contentment. 

I am Art and Dylan's dad and I am just reliving the role again as something I am always fit to play. 

Sulking on a Sunday

 Job hunting is an anxious ordeal. 

God gave me 4 months with 3 sources of income to let me feel how it is to earn more than 50k in a month. Didn't get too fully enjoy these incentives as enrollment season was in bloom and Dylan was in Manila for her OJT so all the extra dough was set for the paternal obligations. But it didn't hurt that I can order Popeye's anytime I want even buy shoes without too much double-thinking.

Still thankful. 

But deadline is looming in. 

My stint in Wonder Collab is a blessimg that I worry that they will finally discover I am a dispensable commodity. 

That book editing job — I worry about my status. Haven't received my salary. And they didn't give me anything to edit this July. Had a few major mistakes last June. But is it even humane for a company to "ghost" an employee?

I feel used. 

And tired. 

And for validation, I checked my Spotify Artist profile. Only 700+ streams for Stockholm in a week. Am I so unlistenable? Don't want to be a Van Gogh.

I hope to come back to this space brimming with confidence. 

Until then. 

Sulk.

3rd breakdown

 I can't even write. 

But I am back here 'cause all I have is a weeping prayer and my anonymity. 

I feel alone. So alone. 

I feel like what I am releasing is the last one. 

I am at my ugliest. My fattest. My impostor syndrome is acting up — I feel like I am faking everything, even my talent. 

It gets tiring. 

This is 2nd breakdown of the night. 

Finally I am not crying much about money but as I have said in my conversation with God a few minutes ago: give me the power to inspire. I am so insecure I am giving out negative energy. I am always on the defense and I hate that. 

I am now in the position to inspire.

Help me Lord. 

I want to die with dignity. I want my children to hear stories of me being the good guy for once. 

I am tired. I am dying. 

I fake it so well, but my spirit is dead. 

I wish I have somebody to just comfort me. It has been a while since I had someone who'll cry with me and understand this burden. 

Now the 3rd.

3 days to 43

 So here it comes again. 

Writing about the blues.

The impostor syndrome of being a songwriter. 

The feeling of losing a family. 

The feeling of failing as a father. 

I should be thankful.

I am now part of the music industry, but in a different level or position.

Dylan is here so I am given a chance to be the fun parent. 

Lord, help me see the light.

Help me find purpose. 

Help me find someone to convince me I deserve to be loved.

Xxx

 Writing direct over here. I rarely do this. 

Need to unplug my mind and let it leak all over this page. 

I am weeping hard with no reason. 

Guess i am tired of it all.

I should be happy. 

I just wrote a song. I submitted an edited manuscript. I still have 2 thousand in my account. Salary from the raket is coming in soon. Had a phonecall with dylan where ai was teasing her of possible accomodation finds for her OJT.

Aside from my 3 males cats squabbling a few mins ago, everything is still. Everything is quiet. 

That must be it. No purpose. Just waiting forthe weekend so I can play music and get drunk. 

I feel so unloved and alone. 

Wish I Was Dead

 Fatherhood is hard.

I tried so hard to be the best I can be, but I guess the best can't rival the always present. 

Sometimes I wonder what Art really feels about me. What will she say when I die? I realized she is getting the bad end of daddy issues, and it is surprising to me as she was considered my favorite by others. At some point, she really was. She was naturally clingy and sweet. Now even a song I wrote about her did not get any love after I let her hear it. I feel like I am always chasing an elusive love, and it crushes my soul.

She always held my father-in-law in high regard and though he was a good and loving man (I deeply respect him), Art didn't really get to live with him until his last days. And yet, she hurts for him and give him the most loving tributes. 

That's what became of me — wishing to be dead just to get the same adoration. :(

Missing Art

 Just got in my transient room 15 minutes ago. Was with my kids in this tribute gig for The Strokes and Arctic Monkeys. 

Music. That is what will make young. That is one connection I still have with my kids. Their mom may be a painter and now more popular, but I hope they know that the restless spirit to express comes from me. I hope they realize that. I hope they are thankful.

I feel Art getting farther from me. 

But I am taming my reactions as it may be just an aftershock of puberty. I just miss her clinginess.

Her little body trying to guard the gate so I won't leave for Manila.

Her choosing to join me in hotel accomodations to sleep beside me during getaways and gigs. 

Her not wanting to put my forgotten shirt in the laundry bin because she misses and loves my scent. 

Now I feel like I am trying hard to earn a spot on her life. 

I just hope she can see the value I place in fatherhood. 

I know I am away. I know I am far. Just want to feel that my kids can feel proud of what I offer as a person and as a father. 

I hope. 

On a Bus to Manila

 I notice I am still afraid to be alone with my thoughts. 

Now that I am in a bus, I feel vulnerable. Nowhere to go. 

Numbing my fear with stand-up specials. What if my CP's battery gets drained? 

I feel like crying. 

That narcissist really did a number on me.

 Worst part is I let her. I know I have nothing to gain. Can't really be free. Still alone. Can't even brag about her or I'll look like a fool. Nowhere to go. Yet I stayed, just in hope that we will recapture the spark. Damn you Gracel for wasting my years and messing with my head.

I feel like I grew older by like 10 years instead of 3. And though I have the confidence, I admit fearing that I will never be happy with someone for the rest of my life. 

Sob Fest 2024

 I watch Jesus movies and open the bible app to trigger a sob fest. I do need it when I feel like I am so lonely, I have no direction, and I feel like exploding. At least I can rely on faith that someone up there is taking care of me.

Care. I need that.

The alternative would be talking to my kids, but that has a running time of one hour 'til I become a blabbermouth without anything exciting to say. 

I miss what I had with Mary. 

The comfort. The solitude. 

The boringness of having a plan to stay indoors. 

To be with someone I can be comfortable with, even showing my imperfections without the worry of being condemned.

I miss being loved wholeheartedly. 

I miss being someone worthy to be loved.

Because of this emptiness, I am always secondguessing my identity and legacy. 

It has been 4 years and I have not regain my confidence back in who I am and what I offer in my music.

I wish I can be better.

I am tired of being a patient.

Redemption?

 Thinking of killing myself again. 

Think about it: a narcissistic man killing himself out of spite for himself.

I am crying at my own imaginary funeral.

Who will miss me? 

Who will take care of my cats?

What will Dylan and Art say?

Who will talk shit?

Who will recognize all my efforts, my art?

What will the ex-wife think?

Where should I be buried? 

Does it even matter?

I have been forcing myself to lock up these earducts ever since that fight with Gracel, seeing Guillermo struggling for his life, and feeling guilty for counting the money I am paying for my pet's vet bills.

I thought I found a way out but I am nowhere near redemption. 

I have been thinking again of killing myself. 

Losing my kids. Losing myself.

 I fear of losing my role as a father.

I fear the memory of me in my daughters' minds slipping away.

I am just a holiday fixture. Another endorphin rush.

And to think that I am convinced that this is the only job I am doing right. Why do I feel like a fraud?

I really hope I am just imagining things, but I hope they still can see the value of us staying together once in a while.

I appreciate the mundane things. 

A story post. A surprise photo. A proud note.

Never felt that coming from my kids lately. I know I should let them be, but I have noone else to remind them how these things are important.

They don't know how I am breaking down in a transient home somewhere in Tahao road alone, thinking that they would consider another alternative guy more special to them than me. 

I worry. I worry. 

My God, I am crying and worrying. I don't want to lose my only role in their lives.

I hope this changes when we come home to Iriga. 

IN THE END

 I hope when I die and all the stupid bad stuff comes out of me being narcissistic or selfish or aggressive or depressive or simply a bad person, my daughters will be wise enough to accept my imperfections and not let that define my legacy and the memories I have with them as a father.

May Art and Dylan not lean on any gray areas because they know, in their hearts, that though their father is far from the ideal son or citizen or lover or even friend, he has done everything to be a good father — and that is enough.

I hope that they will understand that I was brought up in a trauma-bearing multicultural home with an absentee immature mom and a patriarchal-thinking dad. Not that I am blaming my parents — it is what it is. They did their best. But I always wonder about the what-ifs.

I sometimes become so sensitive and angry and envious that I am what I am. I always needed validation.  

I remember telling Dylan one time about my "pagtatampo" of her being not proud of me. Cringeworthy indeed. But I dont believe that parents shouldn't show weaknesses. I just don't know if showing vulnerability did any good to our relationship.

 Sometimes I wonder if being open was the right thing. But I know no other way.

I did my best when it comes to being a father. Yes, not economically. Yes, not distance-wise. I hope they still see all my efforts; how I am affected easily when it comes to them, my kids.

I hope they will defend my memory. 

Because nobody ever does. And nobody will. 

I love them both so much — art and dylan.

Both so different, both so unique.

Both came out from my flesh. I can see big pieces of myself in both of them. 

Dylan may be anxious (as I am) than the typical kid but she is naturally a kindhearted girl. She is born to lead. She adds magic to anything she touches. She knows what she wants. May she trust her instincts always and stand up for what she believes in, and avoid the pitfalls of pleasing anyone but herself - and her loved ones.

Art may be rowdy and hardheaded (as I am) but her search for uniqueness, her voice this early is astounding. She may crave attention, but I hope she realizes that she doesn't need it because her presence commands it without effort. Her lightheartedness can turn a dark room bright. May she learn to slow down and focus on her gifts and not take it for granted. May she have the fire to learn and learn more and not let ego get in the way. May she appreciate that there is beauty in tact and sensitivity. 

I am sorry I wasn't that around.

and telephone calls can't ever replace the real thing. I try. 

Not enough, but I tried.

I love you.

***These letters are not addressed to anyone. But I hope it finds its ways to my kids when time is right.***

more than words

 Had an epiphany one weekend ago.

What makes me different as a lyricist is my love for words. Sure, songwriters will claim the same thing, but not as much as I do. 

I enjoy phrases and words used in movies. I get giddy over properly placed figures of speech. I don't care if it is too british or not used in the vernacular; if it sounded great, it will find its way to one of my songs.

This is also a curse. 

That is why people can't sing along easily to what I write. It is not as if these are deep jargons no one would understand. Listeners who claims to be music lovers do not like dissecting. They want words to be easily digestible. Think Lang Leav. Why is she more quoted than the witty lines of Frank O Hara? EXACTLY.

I helped Art rewrite her song last night. 

I find it cute that she is trying to find her voice. And somehow, now, she is listening to his geeky old man babble about the importante of a rhyme or why repetitive words in the same verse is a no-no, unless for and only for emphasis. 

I treasure times like these. 

These are a few of the instances I know I am doing well as a father — that I am needed.

Half-Year Report

 I wrote a song yesterday.

But it was an old song that I forgot that lyrics. It got a better chorus though. Can imagine it having a Jens Lekman vibe. I wonder if anyone would dig that. I am being genuine with my love for words, but not everyone reads.

Sent it to a lot of people. Needing validation. When will I realize I am good?

Am I though?

I miss dylan and art.

Two very different personalities. 

I love how I am so much like Dylan in the anxious-sentimental type who is into good movies and pop culture. 

Art craves attention and doesnt care if what ever she does is perfect — she just wants to perform and express her uniqueness. 

Both like me.

How fascinated I am how these angels came out from my own DNA.

I miss watching movies with my kids. I mean we still do but sometimes I feel that I am forcing them to watch with me. I know they like my selection, but they are never 100% focused.

Maybe I just miss having a real girlfriend who I can totally geek with.

Speaking of, where is she?

I am feeling lonely back here.

Been having breakdowns again. Crashing. Remedying it by reading the bible. It helps a little.

That London girl is hurting me a lot. I know there is no good end in sight but why do I stay? That's how battered my self worth is. It is toxic and yet I hope it will get better.

Not that I am saying I am perfect. 

I am narcississtic too. But I feel that I am being fooled shamelessly. And being the hopeless romantic that I am, I keep waiting. I keep staying...WHY WHY WHY

another boohoo post

I notice I need a couple of Seinfeld episodes to calm my nerves down and rock my brain to sleep.

I notice I am still not comfortable sleeping over. I get suffocated even just thinking about it. Even when I visit friends and there is chance to just stay, I would find myself panicking inside. 

I realized I am not over the trauma caused by Mawhi. 

No I dont want to get back with her — as if that's possible. But I get this big wave of jealousy that she got over me quick and found a safe space with another guy. I refuse to acknowledge that that guy is better pffft. It just another mistake waiting to happen.

But I guess that feeling of being contented with the imperfections of it all - that what this envy is for. And I admit it - I was the loser in that relationship.

I miss just having plans of staying over and doing nothing but a movie. Then wild sex. Then sleep. Then looking forward to another breakfast with good coffee. Then another movie. Or playing guitar with her doing her stuff. Then cunningulus.

It is just plain boredom in wes anderson hue. I miss having someone to go home to.

And though I have been trying to connect with someone, the uncertainty of that future just kills the vibe. 

It is just sad to be alone. 

Unload

 I am freeing my mind from the clutter by going directly to this blank page without a draft.

Am I really still happy with her?

I am affected 

but I also know I should stand by what is right. And what makes it difficult is the existing hurt she inflicted to me that can't be erased. I miss her face. I miss our talks. I miss when we play and talk sex. But is it all worth the drama and hurt?

I hope I am getting through Art and Dylan. Been trying hard to leave nuggets of wisdom so when I die, there'll be enough quotable quotes that I hope they'll use. Thinking bout it, I don't have any from my parents. 

God, please make me more affecting and inspirational to my kids. PLEASE.

Benadryl did not work last night.

IN OTHER NEWS

I feel my bandmates are laughing at me for being so serious about my craft and it depresses me. 

WE ARE IMAGINARY can't move without me. Everyone knows that, but they can't seem to appreciate the sacrifices I do with this band. I really need to focus on myself. 

I pray for new bandmates who can match my drive. Who believe in my vision. Who just love to play. Please.

Loneliness. Poverty. 

I hope someone will go to great lengths raising money for my treatment when I am ill, just like what people are doing back home for Peewee and here for Gab of Parokya. I am scared that no one will care.

Realized if I have a stroke right now or even a heart attack, nobody will check on me for days. The scent of decay will be my late cry for help. Even my brother doesn't know my address. 

And here I am trying to be there for everybody.

41

 2nd cup of black coffee with condensed milk.

Suddenly placed on the night shift on the eve of my birthday.

I am 41.

I am not afraid of age. I may feel unloveable now, but I have this innate confidence that I look way better than most guys my age. But if I can lose this hump of a belly, I’ll be way better than those in their 30s.

Cringeworthy? I am sorry, but it is true.

Having a good job with cars and extra money is another story; that’s where I always lose.

I never understood why I felt so unspecial, especially on my birthday.

I know it has something to do with my parents, but I am already 41, and I still feel that no one really cares about my existence.

Being a type 4 with a double Pisces sign is a bad combo- you crave attention and uniqueness.

I thought I had both. Guess it is all in my head.

My daughter was here this weekend. Helped me get through the days. I always wonder if she loves me just because it is required. How about my youngest – does she think about me or want to brag that her parents are artists? I know I am demanding and reading too much of their actions. They’re teenagers, for God’s sake.

But I don’t want them to feel what I feel about my parents.

Even though I am separated from the wife, I know I have been more open and communicative with them than with my parents. 

At least I’m trying. 

Cause I love them. 

They don't know that I still crash and cry after I scold them.  I hope they can feel me trying.

Where the fuck is contentment and peace?

 

Hello March 2023

 You know you are traumatized when you are worried to express yourself fully here. This has been a journal where I can ramble and let my negativity go wild without anyone calling me a sad boi.

I am sad.

Saw my kid cry over someone who was diagnosed with cancer. I felt bad that all I can think about is she didn't cry when I was confined for a mild stroke. 

Is it reality or impostor syndrome that I am not really as important to my children as I think I am? Shouldn't go down this rabbit hole. Shouldn't. I can't afford to. Scary.

I am broke. 

Kid needs impacted tooth surgery money. Need to send the monthly allowance. I owe a couple of friends money. Record collection is getting thinner as I am selling them one by one- in pain. I have a number of debts I need to settle with the ex-wife. Bills that kept piling up.

It is not that I am not trying. I am actually. Hard. Life is just hard. And even if I earn 30k a month, turns out it is not enough to pay for my bills and settle my responsibilities. 

One will argue I chose this life. Well I didn't. But it happened and I accepted it. You may say that is the bare minimum but nope. It is a heavy load. 

An acquaintance just bought a new guitar just because she likes the color and I am bummed out. Where does she get the money? Not even working, for God's sake. These privileged kids can afford to focus on music 100% even without talent and that makes me sad and frustrated.

I know I'm just spewing projectiles here but let me. I am negative and I am going insane.

I just hope people will quote my songs and cry in my funeral. I know I wouldn't know but I believe in the idea of "soul." So probably I'll know. 

But do they even like or stream my songs? That is another problem.

It is my birthday month. 

Just want to get away, treat myself to good food, watch a lot of gigs, get crazy and fuck around, go record shopping and maybe change my wardrobe. But NO. 

I CAN'T AFFORD TO. 

Iriga 2022

 5 a.m.

Woke up after less than 2 hours of sleep because of a suicide dream.

Kids are on the top bed in my old room in iriga. I lie in my thin solo bed on the floor.

Had a milo and ful medammes with bread.

Cried over a prayer through a Bible app.

I am trying to be conscious and be more present with my kids. I haven't been messaging anyone, even ignoring long convos with friends.

 I notice that I am now a little off...not used to touchiness, which I need to initiate. The kids need hugs. I need hugs. 

I also need to talk to Art more than just laugh over silly jokes (but I hope those laughters will create fond memories).

I hope Dylan also feel that I care a lot about her thoughts even if I playfully debate her over imagined or exagerrated scenarios.

I want to be happy. 

Hope I am doing the right thing.

I want to be remembered 

not only for songs, 

but for little moments of joy. 

Falling Out of Grace

 This is what having a relationship with a narcissist feels like:

You are left wanting. You adjust to her own time. You can't really move because without her even saying it, all action is upon her approval.

She makes you believe that the "secret world" you created with her is better than reality— making you feel like the toxicity is part of the deal. She makes sure noone will hear your cries for help—as nobody knows.

You convince yourself that despite all clues pointing to her lies and infidelity, and she can't even give you a proper excuse, you'll hold on. You defy reason. 

She'll bombard you with sweet gestures. She'll clutch her nails on you. She'll disguised obsession with love. Your addiction is her drug. 

She'll keep you guessing, as you swing with her moods. Everything is a push-pull catastrophe.

She is the criteria you need to please. She is the only standard that is all-knowing and right. 

She'll push you to your worst, so there'll be evidence that she might be innocent. But oh, innocence is the farthest thing from her. She knows what she is capable of.

And lastly, she'll justify with pride that she can't be hurt and that you put yourself in that position. She will deny gaslighting you. She will deny your existence. She will make you the villain.