So I’m getting ready to make an exit from city life for awhile. I need to rest. I need to recover from this. Just getting some more lab work done and once I get my doctor’s go-signal, I’ll be flying off to Bacolod.
I was totally against this originally because everything I do is here — all my friends, my work, my own space — but now that it’s getting harder for me to do anything since I get tired fast (exhausted is the word, really) I’m starting to see my limitations and living alone is not an ideal situation when I’m in such a weak state.
I hate thinking of this as giving up. That’s what it seems like to me. Like I’m giving up. But right now, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with admitting that I can’t do it on my own right now and my parents offered to take care of me for a while and while I’d love to be this big ol’ grownup, I have to be smart. I might die alone in this house and no one will know until after a week when no one has heard from me and people start to wonder.
I’ve pretty much spoken to everyone I need to speak to about my condition so that they can expect nothing from me until I’m better; these are the publications I write regularly for. It felt kind of good when the people at Manila Bulletin were wishing me a quick recovery. My editor, Amyline, said, “I really love your writing.” It put a big smile on my face and made me want to work harder at getting better.
Basically, the only thing I am trying to finish or that I’m committed to now is the play (which ends its last weekend run this coming weekend) and a script I owe my friend Joaquin since as far back as the first month of September.
Other than that, I really plan to just lie in bed and get better and sleep. Maybe read. Maybe catch a movie or two and my television shows and write. Write for myself. Write without a deadline or a pressure. Write without anyone giving me hell or breathing down my neck. Write my stuff. Write my book.
So I’m sick. So I need to rest. But that won’t stop me from writing. I can write in bed.