Still
Other than the floating slash flying sensation I occasionally experience when I dream, I have not been anywhere close to any actual out of body experience. However, last Friday changed that when I embarrassed myself by taking a dive on the sidewalk as I walked to the train to get home from work.
I was between two colleagues, talking about the recent construction of a building we were just passing by. Intent on spying on the development of the project, we were all looking up straining past the walls separating us from the construction site, when the ground ‘neath me, for a split second, vanished. It appeared a second too late and I saw myself careening onto the pavement, flailing arms and legs and all. I tried desperately to soften the impact of my fall and I fell on my left side first, bruising my palm and knee. Apparently, gravity still wasn’t through with me and I took a second severe dive to my right. All this time, my mind was silently shouting, “Shit! Shit! I’m falling! Do something!!!” probably the same words, only in Mexican, that Eric Morales must have muttered as he was forced to take the last fall in his final match with Pacquiao. In the background, I could hear the mortification in Ate E’s voice as she called out my name. E watched paralyzed and helpless. He could only assist me as I got up from the pavement, feeling mugged, beaten to a pulp and bloody. Gawd! 28 freaking years old and I still am not exempt from a toddler’s catastrophe!
I must have looked like a fright. I did a quick inventory and found all limbs are still intact. No broken bones, no sprain. Other than, my right elbow was sorely bruised with a major wound, my right hip sported an ugly scrape and whatever was left of my ego flew across EDSA and was run over several times by oncoming vehicles, I was alright. Shaky, yes, but okay. Thank God my face didn’t hit the dirt! Yay for me!
I felt like crying because of the pain, but I found myself unable to. Not because I was too embarrassed. I meant at that point, I guess ate E and E would have excused such reaction after being terrified. But no tears would fall.
Over coffee, hours after that incident, I told E that I wanted to cry but just couldn’t. And he said that it was okay, and at this age, we were prone to cry more because of emotional hurt than the physical beatings we take. Whoa. E, is that you?
During the whole ordeal, at the back of my mind, I could hear my mom reprimanding me from such stupidity --- funny how you are able to hear your mother’s voice above the noise of life. Don’t get me wrong, my mom loves me. But when I was a kid, she’d always go ballistic if I get bruised, wounded or hurt. Making sure I was well cared for is top priority. She’s actually worried and it materializes by her venting out on me her frustration of being utterly helpless to watch over me and protect me 24/7. I guess that goes for all moms.
I remember that when I was still learning how to ride a bike, I’d get lots of bruises. In order to avoid the wrath of my mom, I’d be in my PJs when she gets home from work to cover up the marks.
So here I am, age 28, wounded, living in my own house far from the lectures of my worried mom. Still, there’s no escape. She’s still the voice in my head.
Other than the floating slash flying sensation I occasionally experience when I dream, I have not been anywhere close to any actual out of body experience. However, last Friday changed that when I embarrassed myself by taking a dive on the sidewalk as I walked to the train to get home from work.
I was between two colleagues, talking about the recent construction of a building we were just passing by. Intent on spying on the development of the project, we were all looking up straining past the walls separating us from the construction site, when the ground ‘neath me, for a split second, vanished. It appeared a second too late and I saw myself careening onto the pavement, flailing arms and legs and all. I tried desperately to soften the impact of my fall and I fell on my left side first, bruising my palm and knee. Apparently, gravity still wasn’t through with me and I took a second severe dive to my right. All this time, my mind was silently shouting, “Shit! Shit! I’m falling! Do something!!!” probably the same words, only in Mexican, that Eric Morales must have muttered as he was forced to take the last fall in his final match with Pacquiao. In the background, I could hear the mortification in Ate E’s voice as she called out my name. E watched paralyzed and helpless. He could only assist me as I got up from the pavement, feeling mugged, beaten to a pulp and bloody. Gawd! 28 freaking years old and I still am not exempt from a toddler’s catastrophe!
I must have looked like a fright. I did a quick inventory and found all limbs are still intact. No broken bones, no sprain. Other than, my right elbow was sorely bruised with a major wound, my right hip sported an ugly scrape and whatever was left of my ego flew across EDSA and was run over several times by oncoming vehicles, I was alright. Shaky, yes, but okay. Thank God my face didn’t hit the dirt! Yay for me!
I felt like crying because of the pain, but I found myself unable to. Not because I was too embarrassed. I meant at that point, I guess ate E and E would have excused such reaction after being terrified. But no tears would fall.
Over coffee, hours after that incident, I told E that I wanted to cry but just couldn’t. And he said that it was okay, and at this age, we were prone to cry more because of emotional hurt than the physical beatings we take. Whoa. E, is that you?
During the whole ordeal, at the back of my mind, I could hear my mom reprimanding me from such stupidity --- funny how you are able to hear your mother’s voice above the noise of life. Don’t get me wrong, my mom loves me. But when I was a kid, she’d always go ballistic if I get bruised, wounded or hurt. Making sure I was well cared for is top priority. She’s actually worried and it materializes by her venting out on me her frustration of being utterly helpless to watch over me and protect me 24/7. I guess that goes for all moms.
I remember that when I was still learning how to ride a bike, I’d get lots of bruises. In order to avoid the wrath of my mom, I’d be in my PJs when she gets home from work to cover up the marks.
So here I am, age 28, wounded, living in my own house far from the lectures of my worried mom. Still, there’s no escape. She’s still the voice in my head.
posted by Lyra at 8:39 PM
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