Creative Nonfiction

So we were required to write a creative nonfiction piece in my Creative Writing class. Our motto through the semester was to screw technicalities: grammar, coherence(maybe haha), phrasing... all that. Just write. Right-brain, not left. Something like that. So this is what I wrote.. here goes nothing:

Father, Father, Father Help Us

As a kid, I think I was attached to my father more. I’d always look for him during my kindergarten classes; I always wanted him beside me before I fall into slumber. I was super dependent on him back then that I’m always scared to be alone. I remember this one time where it was supposed to be my fieldtrip, and I bailed right out of my school service because I did not want to leave my father. I knew he would get so mad, because he paid for that trip(I know, right?). So I hid under the car in the garage and waited for nothing, really. I wanted to pee so badly, but I can’t go to the bathroom because that would mean I’d have to get inside the house, and he would see me... eventually. So I peed on the floor. He heard some screeches, and he saw me (‘cause seriously, I was just in the freaking garage, how could he not?). When I got inside the house, he spanked me (with matching belt and slippers). And because I was a kid, all I did was cry. When he asked me the reason why I did what I did, I told him I felt so sad leaving him and that I’m scared to go without him. I guess that was an enough reason, because he hugged me immediately.

I remember myself always looking for him and not my mother. I guess you could say I was a papa’s girl. I was his biggest fan. I’d always bring my little chair with him whenever I watch him play basketball with his friends in the neighborhood.

There was also this other time where he had to go to Bulacan for just one night, and he left me at my Aunt’s home in Canlubang. I got up that particular night, and sweet bejesus, it was my biggest fucking nightmare! I woke up in the middle of the night without him beside me and in a godforsaken strange house! I dialled his phone and literally said, “Papa, bakit mo ako ginaganito?”. Until now, my relatives still make fun of that little drama. Fun times. Or not.

When I was in first grade, he would always send me to school (Letran), and he’d always bring this little lunch box for me. I even requested him to cook me hard-boiled egg for the rest of my life (yeah ‘cause I was such a kid and it was my favorite, hahaha, do not judge). Even in sixth grade, he was still the one sending me to school (and we were already living in Los Banos at that time). I’m at the back ride of his motorcycle, and once we got there (Letran, still), he would comb my hair.

Then came high school. People always say it’s the fun part of every person’s entire life. I guess not for me. I wasn’t really sociable during high school. I was a transferee, I didn’t know anybody. My father would occasionally ask me about school, and I’d answer him.

I don’t know what happened to us, but everything changed eventually. I had issues back then, but the biggest one is him. Out of all the people who would find out, it just had to be me? And out of all the time in the world, did I really have to find out about his wrongdoings (fine, cheating) on New Year’s Eve? I MEAN, FOR GOD’S SAKE, IT WAS A NEW YEAR!

I actually remember swearing at him. I was so mad, and out of all three of us (me and my siblings), I’m the only one who could understand the situation. I didn’t have anyone to talk to that would not just ‘understand’ me but would relate to me, so I kept it to myself. My mother was a mess, but she was forgiving. And I know I wasn’t. Until now, I know I’m not.

Since then, I have never allowed myself to depend on someone emotionally (financially is fine hahahahahaha). I was heartbroken (the worst thing is: not by a boyfriend or something hahahahahaha). I wasn’t really the daughter-of-the-year. I was a mess in high school, or early teenage years for that matter. I guess in some ways, we all were. I don’t want to blame my father for how I acted before, but a part of me wants to. I don’t know.

My relationship with my father (or family, even) right now is, I guess, just purely role-driven. I don’t know what it’s called. I get up in the morning, I ask for money, I go to school, I come home, I occasionally(when in the mood hahaha) help with the chores, I look after my siblings, I scold at my brother when he’s disrespectful, I yell at my sister when she leaves her dirty uniform on the floor, I secretly rant with utter profanity about my mom’s brother living with us, I show myself on Skype for a minute when we talk to my dad and get back to what I’m doing immediately, I write, I read, I watch, I download illegally, I dramatize scenes in my head, I watch people, I judge from afar, I go to the mall alone on some weekends, I put my headphones on, I turn the volume on its loudest, I listen to Ramones, I slack off, I hide and roll my eyes when people in our house yell at each other on the top of their lungs, I muse before sleeping, I sleep, I wake up, and I bitch about everything on my blog, in my mind, and to myself.

Okay. I might have to see a therapist, clearly I have issues. Hahahahahaha.

P.S. I am so original I lifted my title from a Black Eyed Peas lyric. ICYDK.

Ayra Denise B.

ENG106