Missing You Badib

 for Jibb Relmond 

(May 29, 1984-January 16, 2009)

Death. That is the only way out. As I stare at the walls of my confinement day and night, I realize that only death will really free me. Day and night I would stop, sit still, and stare; then stop, and sit still, and stare again at the walls, and then I would look out as far as my vision permits and would longingly wish to touch the banana leaves which I can see right outside my room. When I first came in, the walls had been purely white; now, there are yellowish patches on every corner, proof that it has been a very long while since I was able to venture outside. Well really, when was the last time I saw the cornfields outside? My, I couldn’t even remember the year, but perhaps it has been 3 or 4 years ago since my parents decided to place me in this cell. But I remember that first day clearly. It was typically hot, and I was brought in through a hired taxi from the city to our province- right before our house’s gate. During the ride which lasted for 3 hours more or less, I can’t remember much what, or how I felt, except being relieved that I am finally going home. That was when I got out of a rehab facility. Right after I was released, a family consensus has been agreed that I should be put in a cell: alone, with a big lock right outside the grills which was especially installed right behind my door. It is supposedly for my safety and well-being. Well, who would trust a young 21-year old like me (who makes decisions like a 15-year old), to be on the streets again after 6 months of drug rehabilitation? Even I, myself, do not trust my own will any more. I know I badly need help and everyone from my family and friends couldn’t have been much helpful. They had sacrificed a lot; my mother especially, has spent countless hours talking and begging me to change. They already sent me to the psychiatrist; they had held prayer vigils, and long hours of watching me while I lay sleeping just to ensure that I don’t go out into the night where temptations are lurking. Sending me to a rehabilitation program has been their last hope; only to be agonized yet again, from an unsuccessful outcome. Thus, my day would start by staring at the white walls, until midday. After lunch, I would again stare at the other corner of my room, and wait for any intervention which would hopefully break the monotony of my endless hours. 

I am fed three times a day complete with snacks: 1 in the morning and 1 in the afternoon. I am watched from time to time by whoever is in charge from any family member on that day. Although it may sound inhuman, or cruel even to some, but who really, could ask for more? Sometimes, chickens would visit me and a dog or two, may stray outside my door looking for food. So I sometimes leave crumbs to attract these visitors and then entertain myself by shouting at them. I loved shouting and singing my voice out just so everybody could hear that I’m still alive. However, these whims have become monotonous, and to say that I am bored to death is the greatest understatement of the worlds’ history of boredoms. Actually, it is not only that. Lately, I had become quite reflective about my situation and had started to question a lot of whys. Why me? I know God has his reasons but why am I allowed to suffer like this? Why is my family dragged along with my weakness? Why do others have a stronger willpower than mine? Although I had come to terms with my predicament, I suddenly wanted to face God and ask him all my inquiries. So with careful consideration, I prayed to Him to take me into His fold. And then by being dead, I will finally be free!

Freedom. I want it so badly that I bleed deep inside. Not only from that physical freedom where I can jump and run all the way to the town (some kilometer away from our barrio); but that of being free from the temptation of vices which has so engulfed this world. I so long to be liberated from the sufferings of being human and most especially, from the pain which I have afflicted my loved ones. Those, and all that I have done wrong, I want to be at liberty from all of them and so, I prepare myself for God’s reckoning. 

The night before my death, I shouted to my mother to let me out so that I can roam the fields where my heart has so wanted to be. She heard me, approached, and explained for the hundredth time why I can’t; why I need to stay locked inside. Then looking deep in my eyes, she cried. For the hundredth time too, tears found its way to her eyes just by looking at me. She then asked me for forgiveness on whatever mistakes she might have done in raising me as a son. Oh, if only I could embrace her and tell her that she is the best mother I could ever have… but all I can muster was to nod. I can feel how helpless she is. If only I could banish the anguish in her heart and suffer alone, I would satisfyingly do so. Hence, on the day before our barrio fiesta, on January 16, 2009, I finally had to go. Yes, on those early hours, before the streaks of sun could penetrate the yellowish paint in my room, I asked God to finally take me and put everything in my life to rest. And He answered my prayers. But why you may ask? Why did I ask for death instead of fighting for my life? The answer is plainly simple.

Love. So much has been written about this feeling, but for me, it is my profound way of showing how I care for those dear to me. By resting my physical being, I will be able to free them of the burden I so recklessly imposed on them. I would again see my mother’s eyes twinkle from pure delight; not shadow her happiness with worry whenever the duty of earning a living has to take her away from me. I would be able to end the stigma that has enveloped my whole family because of my plight. Lastly, I will be able to show them that kind of love which has no bounds, no conditions. By dying, I have finally fulfilled what I should have done as a son- protect, love and shower happiness to my family.