"My December": Addressed to my birth mother:

Hi Mom,

How bizarre it feels to write that word. I am, after all, talking to a stranger. But still, I consider you as my mother, why wouldn’t I? I hope you won’t mind. Am I being unfair? No doubt. You don’t know me. We haven’t met — not anytime soon. Who knows if you still remember giving birth to me.

I am not here to intrude into your life — that is, if you are still out there, alive. Wherever you might be, know that I desire nothing but the best for you and your family if you already have one. I hope that you are loved, striving, strong, and happy.

“There is no set time or age when certain feelings surface but, surely and hereafter they do.”

Mine already has, and it has been mentally and emotionally overwhelming.

As I have reached the plains of adulthood, the eccentricity of your hold over me has developed. The truth of the matter is that I wasn’t even wary of its existence, or was I only afraid to identify and acknowledge it? Maybe it’s because you were a part of me as much as I was yours.

Though, as a child, I didn’t think about you often. I know it’s ridiculous. But I have grown up knowing nothing about who you might be. All I know is that I have your blood running through my veins. However, I’d still be trying to visualize you through this letter, the tiniest piece of the puzzle.

And as much as I want to unsnarl emotions that circumvents this sensitive subject and attempt to translate them into words at once, I’m afraid I couldn’t put that into execution. Please do bear with me, for I am cowardly. I might spin out of control and snap on the process.

"Have you ever thought about the daughter whom you abandoned twenty-four years ago?"

She lived.

I am her.

I am your flesh and blood.

I was born on December 14th, the year of our Lord, 1997. A cold day wherein I get reminded of your depart. I am possibly, your firstborn. I was raised and adopted by a 'Visayan-Chinese' family. I was given to a mother who longed for a female child to nurture and treasure as her own — and for that, I am eternally grateful for them. When they found me, it was monumental. My parents had gone to great lengths to provide us with the best life they could. They have sacrificed a lot and still do.

It is one of those blessings I won’t trade for anything in the world.

Remembering the time when I was told, I was about seven, young eyes, child mind, an unripe stage of our existence wherein everything was viewed as nothing but amusement and schemes.

It’s not that I was uninterested, but at the time it didn’t consume me. I hadn’t fully realized how real it was and how confusing it could get. It was hard to understand — it has certainly taken me a long time to make sense of it. I also think I would’ve been completely disloyal to my parents if I prolonged that conversation.

I have so much to say and questions to ask.

Do I have siblings? If so, how are they doing? How old are they now? I have always longed to establish connections with people within proximity. Yet there’s still more to do and learn to obtain that. I struggle to excel in that department.

I hope you are a resilient mother to your children, considering what had occurred between us. I am also hoping that you raised them to be good and molded them with motherly affection.

That makes me wonder what name would you have given me. Need a hint? I would’ve adored ‘Mirza.’ Why? For me, it emanates an ethereal and majestic touch that I couldn’t elucidate either.

“How come you and the rest of your family don’t look a thing alike?”

I get that a lot and it isn’t my fault.

Was I of my parents or was I of you? For the longest time, I have always felt uncomfortable looking at myself in the mirror, particularly my face, just seeing photographs wherein I could easily spot myself was enough for my corrosive thoughts to infiltrate my head and doubt my reason for being here.

Whenever I hear certain comments people make on how I look, how huge and round my eyes are, how deep my dimples are, whilst my family strikingly looks way different than I do, it saddens me, somewhat.

As if I don’t belong.

Not that I fear people would deliberately initiate a grand revelation pertaining to my identity, I don’t mind talking about it, if only people knew how to gently approach me.

What I didn’t know at the time was that I am scared of awakening my inner child — she hasn’t been equipped to confront these demons of unprocessed emotions that silently reside in her heart and mind that might affect her internal and external world.

If only I could bleed the pain out.

I am by no means saying that I have always felt different, unhappy, or undeserving to be where I’m at, nor expressing resentment to anyone involved. What I’m trying to achieve by doing this is to help myself to come to terms with the monstrosity of it — to gradually heal from all the circulating shit.

“The ability to read awoke inside me some long, dormant craving to be mentally alive.” -Malcolm X

Whether you ever think of me, or whether you have completely forgotten that you carried me inside you for nine months. I’d still want to introduce myself as your daughter, ‘cause I am.

We know how inhumane, violent and vulgar the world could get, and sometimes we do seek escape — a place of your control.

Where I found solace is through the books I read whether it’s fiction or not — as you can learn in both genres, the Silent and Classic films I watch every other day, and through writing. I attest that the energy I tapped on is revolutionary.

Also, transitional music such as rap and rock never failed to make me feel as if I was the only one who goes through such massive relapses. The message engages me into a state of understanding, clarity and a moment of reflection.

To name a few, I look up to Marshall, Tupac, Chester, and Ermias.

Go figure.

When I was a child, I harbored my dolls and stuffed toys of high value. Stepping inside my bedroom will give you a toy store ambiance. I immensely appreciated and loved them in the ways I craved to be. I won't say that it's an accurate self-representation, but it was my sanctuary, my space — it is where I feel the safest and free.

I’m realizing that, much more now.

My mother was born on the fifteenth day of October, year 1958. Which makes her Chinese zodiac sign a Dog. Hence, why I grew up around them. They hold a significant role in my life.

Would you like to meet them? They go by, ‘Princesse’, ‘Eleanor’, ‘Guadalupe’, ‘Sebastian’, ‘Lavender’, ‘George’, ‘Jamaica’, ‘Barbie’, ‘Piolo’, ‘Elsa’, ‘Lyka’, ‘Nala’, ‘Shady’, ‘Cloud’, ‘Mafia’, ‘Ganda’, ‘Harry’, ‘Happy’, ‘Kaia’, ‘Joy’, ‘Gucci’, ‘Caster’, ‘Seth’ and our senior dogs: my angsty ‘Travis’, faithful ‘Javier’ and ‘Lilo’. We recently lost, ‘Burnett’, ‘Macky’, and my beloved, ‘Texas Meredith’.

Oh, and we also have cats. ‘Winter’, ‘Liberty’ and one whom they call ‘Mommy’ and her kittens.

Phew! That was indeed a marathon. I hope it made you smile today. Are you an animal lover yourself? I would like to know.

There is truly nothing like the love you can share with a dog, I wish everyone could experience that.

Let me share few things about who my parents are. My mama is the powerful woman who took me home when I was alone, and who accepted and loved me — one tough act to follow. She may not be the sweetest, but she gave me everything a little girl could ask for. Piano lessons, Ballet, and books. I never had a problem with what to wear, is my room well-ventilated, or what meal I’ll be having next. I love her with all the love my heart holds.

My papa — he’s not that easy to get along with, but it takes someone special to be him, and he fits the role perfectly. His voice echoes in my head every time I think of quitting. He is a major player in who I have become. Now that I’m older, after gaining some experience in life, I’ve come to understand how fortunate I am, despite all the misunderstandings, arguments, and letdowns. I’ll always love him from afar.

Adoption is not easy. Therefore, raising someone else’s spitting image inarguably involves a degree of risk, but still, I was chosen to be their daughter and made me a part of their lives. 

There aren’t enough words to express my appreciation, gestures to express unfading love, as life doesn’t come with a manual, yet I never thank them enough.

I hope I could somehow recover from all of this and resurrect the lost time whilst they’re still here in this world.

“If people take anything from my music, it should be motivation to know that anything is possible as long as you keep on working at it and don’t back down.” -Eminem

That makes me want to ask you, ‘What are your aspirations?’

Well? I once wanted to be an actress, I know it sounds childish, but it was my ultimate dream and goal. I badly wanted to be one. So, I then convinced my mom to sign me up for acting workshops, auditions, VTRs, and go-sees.

I even held golden opportunities by having film directors as my mentors, performing alongside celebrities, had the chance to meet professionals from the respected industry. It was fulfilling — but there’s not an ounce of confidence in my body.

So I went in headfirst, gave all that up, never thinking who I hurt.

How heartless it was of me. It’s one of those regrets that haunts me now and then.

Lately, I have unknowingly developed a fascination on being a Forensic Pathologist or a Mortician. I have become interested to learn more about cemeteries, funerals, and corpses.

The reason behind my incapability of developing a healthy communication with the living, might explain why.

We utterly know nothing about each other. But I’d like to that you may be gazing at the stars night after night praying that an Angel found your little girl, and bestowed purpose as the answer for a Mother’s prayer for a daughter.

I have to thank you, and the elderly woman (bless her heart) who saw you wandering the streets looking hopeless, alone, young, and pregnant. It was also theorized that you are a Muslim — that somehow might explain these eyes.

I strongly believe that the Most High has something to do with this. Without his force, who knows if we were able to survive on our own.

I’m lot sure what was going on in your life when you conceived me. But I’d never hate you. You only did what you had to do, rightfully so, and it was understandable.

I just want to let you know that I was not a disgrace, nor a mistake, regardless of what you may have gone through. I won’t be a major obstacle for you in reaching your dreams, if that’s what you were thinking. I would have been your number one fan.

You may have regretted trusting and giving in to someone you may have known, or didn’t and it’s not your fault. It wasn’t also mine. I’m still going to ask for your forgiveness. Will you grant me that?

I never really wondered who my biological father is or where he’s at, I’m not sure why. If he’s still a part of your life, I want the best for you two and your family. If you haven’t seen nor heard from him after conceiving me, wherever he is, I hope he lives the life he always wanted.

Now, I think we have reached the integral purpose of this letter.

The underlying trauma of being adopted is often overlooked. What people couldn’t understand is how confusing it really is — how prone we are to mental health issues and psychiatric diagnosis.

I have no idea what’s in my family genes — what health condition I might inherit from either of you, my biological parents. In my experience, I have coped with multiple signs of PCOS since I entered puberty, and got diagnosed at the age of 21.

Which is alarmingly painful, to say the least.

I also didn’t realize I was having inward issues until my first mental and emotional breakdown happened — eleven years ago.

I was in a long-term relationship at the time and I fucked up.

I then started to notice an unhealthy pattern of mine — I would mentally sabotage the relationship I was in before the other person could hurt me. It also applies to the friendships and acquaintances I had. I always tell myself that “I am not good enough for them, they’ll eventually hate and leave me.”

Like what you did.

I’m struggling with abandonment issues — that I had to beg and chase. I’m having a rough time trusting people, as I have avoided and disconnected from everyone for the last four years. I have a strong sense of resentment, an intense dosage of manipulation, toxicity, gaslighting, and violence: a normalized dysfunction passed on as an heirloom long before the show ran, an incurable malady.

“I no longer listen to what people say, I just watch what they do. Behavior never lies” - Sir Winston Churchill (1874 -1965)

It’s like having an angel on your right shoulder, and the devil on the left.

My insecurities could eat me alive. I falter to form and solidifying healthy communication, but I always fancied to be tight-knit with a sibling. I often daydream how cordial the feeling must’ve been.

I had one, but he was called home. (‘You’ll forever be in my heart, dearest Janxent. Be at peace. There’s a heaven for a G.')

I did not know what to do with myself. I always find myself one step closer to take the plunge. I don’t want to die, but I also didn’t have any strong desire to be alive. It has taken me to the point that tormenting myself was the only solution, the cure — aside from alcohol misuse and smoking. I commend myself for not committing into illegal drugs, no matter how intoxicated I was.

Vices were my incentive to get by. I was on some dumb shit.

My consumption was heavy and even. I went out of my way for no one. It seemed to work at the moment — but unsurprisingly, it didn’t. I dealt with excessive intoxication and subsiding consequences for eight years.

Not that I blame you.

Maybe all of your disenfranchised grief and trauma contributed to your significant mental and emotional health issues that you genetically passed on to me.

I starved myself. I locked myself in my room for days. I am loved very much, but I could be repulsive, callous, and erratic. No idea where that disturbing trait might have came from.

On my twentieth, I went to therapy, and there, I was diagnosed with clinical depression. How can I explain it? I abruptly quit after a few weeks of sessions. My therapist was dedicated, was very welcoming, a great listener — but the innate bicker in my head whom I constantly fighting blocked my attempt to self-analyze. I got frustrated talking about my history, and it got me wallowing like a child on the way home.

In case you’re wondering what triggered it?

I honestly don’t know — it just happened. If it’s worth mentioning, I got cheated on a week prior by a notorious chameleon. Which, by far, is my most questionable encounter.

On that specific day, I was at school taking my Foreign Language midterm examination, and as I was answering, all of a sudden, I stopped. It felt like a mental malfunction. I got stuck in a specific question, stared at it, formulating the answer over and over, even though I knew what it was, still, I was reluctant to write it down because in my head it was wrong — all of it was entirely wrong, and that I was stupid and useless.

I started to cry. It caught my professor’s attention, asked me if I was okay because she saw it in my eyes that I wasn’t. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, Ma’am.” — that’s all I said to her. So she sent me to the Guidance Office to talk with the counselor, luckily, with whom I was familiar.

I have to thank them as well for the kindness they’ve shown me and their undying patience in trying to gallop what I was going through, even though they couldn’t.

Firstly, “Mommy” Mrs. Elizabeth Aceituno, whom I respect like a mother. I wholeheartedly love her so much. I wish I could hug her right now and tell her how much she means to me. I am honored to be one of her students. She’s one of those people with rare, otherworldly hearts that you’d eternally remember. I hope she knows that she’s creating a legacy.

Sir Paolo Santos, thank you for taking the time and effort to constantly check up on me whenever we ran into one another in the hallways, guaranteeing that I was still attending my classes. Thank you for sharing your technique on how to defuse panic attacks. Thank you for being a brother. Thank you for being there for me.

Also to my loving Aunt, tita Berta, my bestfriend, my funny little girl, my number one supporter who witnessed every relapse I had, yet never got tired of cheering me up and taking good care of me like her own child. I miss and love her so much. I wish her good health and a joyous life ahead.

And most especially, my adoptive brother, my kuya Edward, who introduced me to Em and Pac, who was all ears when it was my turn to clean out my closet. We’re good. I understand, don’t you worry a thing. I believe in your healing and growth. I love you.

I would like to know what your coping mechanisms are.

Again, not that I blame you or anyone for anything. But I wish I had someone to bare my conflicted soul to, someone to provide me a lecture about the tools to cope without inflicting pain on anyone — specifically, myself as I didn’t have the emotional support system I needed.

I assure you that I have a small handful of people to whom I can trust and pour my heart out, yet I want to navigate and heal my scars on my own. That is why I chose to write this letter now. I'm choosing to use my voice whilst I still can.

It is uncertain if you're still here, though I hope you are. I'd want to thank you for allowing me to have a better life than we could have both ever imagined. We could go on forever, going over the twenty-four years of my life you have missed, but I must end this chapter, momentarily.

I have to accept how things are.

I have come to understand that I have this void in my life that will never be filled.

I have to release this piquant fire that burns me on the inside and proceed. I should be able to make my way alright. I am not going anywhere as I am embedded to you, forever.

I will be here, praying for you. Whatever you do, and wherever you are, I hope you value life’s fragility and your family.

For your sacrifice, probably the most difficult decision you had to make in your life, I thank you.

Shalom!

I love you, beautiful.

With deepest gratitude,

Angelica Maeve, your bygone daughter.