When I got back to my desk, I noticed I was still shaking. I continued to seethe from all the anger. I couldn’t help it. I just had to let the fire out lest I explode.
Heaving like a bull, I managed to say over my shoulder, “F****s… I don't appreciate how I end up cleaning your mess!!!” My voice had deepened in its timbre, always a sign that I was dead-serious.
“Usap nga tayo…” [Let’s talk], she said with heightened concern as she rushed to my desk. I could sense her defenses were up. I was angry. The doors had been opened. I couldn’t wait to unleash my lions so that I can put the bitch in her place.
I repeated what I said just in case she was that dumb and she didn’t get what I meant.
“Is it just the client today?”
“No. It’s not just the client today. It’s the way you work and how I constantly put back into order the mess you’ve made.”
“What else am I doing wrong? Tell me.” I hated how forward she became. I hated that she sat right in front of me, shoving her ugly self in my space. She got too close to the remaining shred of patience I held dearly. I imagined uprooting the computer monitor and bashing it on her head.
“What else?! Your issues with communication! You seem to relay incomplete information to the people around you. Case in point, the client today! He wouldn't have come to the office if the stuff you told him on the phone was complete!...Other cases?! The admin assistants in the past. They'd always tell me how you would give them incomplete instructions. And when they’d ask a question, binabara mo sila! [you’d interrupt them!]… You interrupt me!”
“But…”
"Let me finish."
"Leo..."
“You’re doing it again!”
“It’s because…”
“You’re doing it again!” God, how dumb can this bitch be?!
“I do not appreciate that you keep interrupting me when I’m speaking!,” I blurted out, raising my voice even louder to shut her up. I continued, “Even the printers have told our boss that they hate coordinating with you kase ang gulo mo! [because you’re such a mess!]”
I still couldn’t stop shaking. My stomach was beginning to ache. I could feel the bile rise up my esophagus. I wanted to end the heated discussion lest I put to reality the violence running through my head.
“That’s it!” I said. “I don’t want to continue anymore!”
“Why? Keep telling me what I’m doing wrong.”
I had reached my tether. My voice boomed. Facing her, I spat out: “Can’t you see that I can’t talk right now?!! I am angry, my hands are shaking, and I just can’t continue talking to you!!!”
“Why?”
God, how dumb can this bitch be?!, I thought again. Instead, with all the energy I could muster, I controlled myself and answered, “Because I might say something regrettable!”
But she just wouldn’t let go.
“You have to tell me everything else.” Her voice had now shrunk to a squeak...(to be continued)
Showing posts with label shit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label shit. Show all posts
Monday, January 23, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
The Lion Awakens
Perhaps I didn’t have enough sleep that day or I was ravenously hungry, but it was that day when the office became a battlefield.
The activities in the office began to pile up that morning. I was focused on multi-tasking, challenging myself to get things done before I went off to lunch. There were emails that needed replying to, phone calls that needed answering, and a bevy of walk-in clients needing attention.
She, for whatever reason, left to do menial errands elsewhere. My superior was still out of the country, off to her yearly holiday abroad, and I was left all alone in the office. The pressure was mounting.
While I was running around our small office, rushing from computer to scanner/printer, answering calls, and running back to clients I was counseling, a tinge of pride kept my chin up. I knew that I held my composure amid everything. But slowly, as the hours passed I grew tired. It dawned on me that the bulk of the morning’s tasks were not all mine. I realized, yet again, I was tying the loose ends of my co-worker’s disarray. I became a ticking bomb while I simmered in another unfair situation.
Still, the tasks had to be accomplished. I had to carry on.
In the center of the whirlwind, she calmly walked in with that wide-eyed, dumb look that always left me looking away in irritation. Amid the calm of my voice as I spoke to the student, I began seeing red. I wanted to rush at her and beat her senseless to the ground. How can she be so still? How can she ignore the fact that the client I was still talking to was the same one she spoke with in the morning? How could she not be aware that the reason for the client’s visit was because the information she ineptly shared on the phone was incomplete? I couldn’t wait to finish the session and leave the office.
As soon as the clients had left, I rushed out of the office without a word.
Outside, I called my sister. I must have looked like a mad man, yelling invectives in the middle of the street, my cigarette burning furiously. She helped me calm down, her gentle hormones from pregnancy traveled through the telephone line. I was glad I had spoken to her. I was glad that I let it all out. I was glad that it was over. So I thought... (to be continued)
The activities in the office began to pile up that morning. I was focused on multi-tasking, challenging myself to get things done before I went off to lunch. There were emails that needed replying to, phone calls that needed answering, and a bevy of walk-in clients needing attention.
She, for whatever reason, left to do menial errands elsewhere. My superior was still out of the country, off to her yearly holiday abroad, and I was left all alone in the office. The pressure was mounting.
While I was running around our small office, rushing from computer to scanner/printer, answering calls, and running back to clients I was counseling, a tinge of pride kept my chin up. I knew that I held my composure amid everything. But slowly, as the hours passed I grew tired. It dawned on me that the bulk of the morning’s tasks were not all mine. I realized, yet again, I was tying the loose ends of my co-worker’s disarray. I became a ticking bomb while I simmered in another unfair situation.
Still, the tasks had to be accomplished. I had to carry on.
In the center of the whirlwind, she calmly walked in with that wide-eyed, dumb look that always left me looking away in irritation. Amid the calm of my voice as I spoke to the student, I began seeing red. I wanted to rush at her and beat her senseless to the ground. How can she be so still? How can she ignore the fact that the client I was still talking to was the same one she spoke with in the morning? How could she not be aware that the reason for the client’s visit was because the information she ineptly shared on the phone was incomplete? I couldn’t wait to finish the session and leave the office.
As soon as the clients had left, I rushed out of the office without a word.
Outside, I called my sister. I must have looked like a mad man, yelling invectives in the middle of the street, my cigarette burning furiously. She helped me calm down, her gentle hormones from pregnancy traveled through the telephone line. I was glad I had spoken to her. I was glad that I let it all out. I was glad that it was over. So I thought... (to be continued)
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Laundry Day (a.k.a. "F*CK YOU")
Just like the dirty laundry hanging on the chairs in my room; like the crumpled sheets and limp pillows on my bed, my feelings for you have burdened me for quite some time now. Folding each piece of clothing, changing the musky sheets into new ones, I seem to have found a clearer view of what had happened between us. I even found the courage to finally write my thoughts down. So here, the bitter bile that I have long cradled deep within my gut:
-------------------
It took me two miserable months to come terms with everything. My embarrassment at having risked my tender heart to hope and love hard; blaming myself at having asked the question of what exactly we were; my being blind to your refusal to take things further; my sightless understanding at how you can be one cold-hearted and manipulative bitch; accepting your arrogance, your penchant for the high life, and your tight attachment to money and material things.
Yes, each time I recount what was, what happened, I reek of resentment and anger. My voice always seems to swell, my eyes widening in scorn. I even refuse to utter your name. For a time, the mere mention of it made me recoil in pain. I kept whining and pining; even in the silence of my room. I wanted my anguish to be loud enough so that it could reach you. I wanted you to feel me. I wanted you to hear me. I wanted you to understand me. Sadly, that's not how things work. And even if it did, the power to prevail rests in my hands and nobody else’s. After all, you refused to see me when you were here. You refused to answer my call, respond to my texts, and were scheming enough to keep me in the dark. You even had the gall to lie to my friends that you tried to reach me. We both know what the truth really was.
It all exhausted and infuriated me. I can only imagine what it did to my friends, who seemed patient and courteous enough not to roll their eyes at me whenever I would rant. Your cowardice and cruelty couldn’t have been any clearer.
Friends say that this is all so tragic. They said we had a good thing going. I admit, for whatever it was worth, it was great while it lasted. Yes, we had a good thing going. But, you let go and left me gasping. Unfortunate that it all had to end this way. Tragic? No. Unfair, yes. I’d like to think tragedies are made of more honorable stuff. In some ways, we validate our unkindness with stories of our brokenness but it never constitutes cruelty.
Beyond the fluff of emotions, justifications, pointing fingers and regrets, my self-imposed guilt in being responsible for causing it all to unravel, the simplicity was this: you were just not that into me. I asked some questions, you reacted a certain way. We, with our assumptions, blew everything out of proportion by making it mean more than what actually was. That’s all there is to it. In the spirit of magnanimity at having accepted your flaws, I also accept that the way you deal with affliction is that you run away from it, letting go quickly like a hand to a flame. Nothing wrong with that really. That’s just the way you are. That’s your business, not mine. So keep running. You only have yourself to wrestle with.
Good luck. Goodbye.
-----------------
Lately, I'm glad that my voice has softened, my smile more sincere, and the sheets at home, all neatly folded and hung.
-------------------
It took me two miserable months to come terms with everything. My embarrassment at having risked my tender heart to hope and love hard; blaming myself at having asked the question of what exactly we were; my being blind to your refusal to take things further; my sightless understanding at how you can be one cold-hearted and manipulative bitch; accepting your arrogance, your penchant for the high life, and your tight attachment to money and material things.
Yes, each time I recount what was, what happened, I reek of resentment and anger. My voice always seems to swell, my eyes widening in scorn. I even refuse to utter your name. For a time, the mere mention of it made me recoil in pain. I kept whining and pining; even in the silence of my room. I wanted my anguish to be loud enough so that it could reach you. I wanted you to feel me. I wanted you to hear me. I wanted you to understand me. Sadly, that's not how things work. And even if it did, the power to prevail rests in my hands and nobody else’s. After all, you refused to see me when you were here. You refused to answer my call, respond to my texts, and were scheming enough to keep me in the dark. You even had the gall to lie to my friends that you tried to reach me. We both know what the truth really was.
It all exhausted and infuriated me. I can only imagine what it did to my friends, who seemed patient and courteous enough not to roll their eyes at me whenever I would rant. Your cowardice and cruelty couldn’t have been any clearer.
Friends say that this is all so tragic. They said we had a good thing going. I admit, for whatever it was worth, it was great while it lasted. Yes, we had a good thing going. But, you let go and left me gasping. Unfortunate that it all had to end this way. Tragic? No. Unfair, yes. I’d like to think tragedies are made of more honorable stuff. In some ways, we validate our unkindness with stories of our brokenness but it never constitutes cruelty.
Beyond the fluff of emotions, justifications, pointing fingers and regrets, my self-imposed guilt in being responsible for causing it all to unravel, the simplicity was this: you were just not that into me. I asked some questions, you reacted a certain way. We, with our assumptions, blew everything out of proportion by making it mean more than what actually was. That’s all there is to it. In the spirit of magnanimity at having accepted your flaws, I also accept that the way you deal with affliction is that you run away from it, letting go quickly like a hand to a flame. Nothing wrong with that really. That’s just the way you are. That’s your business, not mine. So keep running. You only have yourself to wrestle with.
Good luck. Goodbye.
-----------------
Lately, I'm glad that my voice has softened, my smile more sincere, and the sheets at home, all neatly folded and hung.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Swimming (in Shit) 2
Am I satisfied with my life? A constant topic amongst friends, either over coffee or buckets of beer, many of us find ourselves defending jaded and cynical answers. Though I often find myself espousing optimism, waxing lyrical and composed retorts, I cannot shake off a pestering thought: do I truly believe the words coming out of my mouth? I try to ignore it, even taking pride in having shared some glimmer of hope amongst a sea of negativity, but it revisits me whenever the question comes up.
Indeed, I am keen on believing that life ain’t all too shabby; and that there are many things one can truly be grateful for. Yet it seems un-happiness is a much easier thing to grasp. I tried writing happy poems once, but I ended up either cringing at the cheesiness of my metaphors or twisting the entire opus into a more dismal offering. Whenever I share how pretty things turn up in a film and wish my life to be similar, expected reactions include either a raised eyebrow or a mordant, “it only happens in the movies.” Speaking of, don’t you notice that even in the Oscars, serious movies have more heft; depressing dramas and tear-jerkers praised highly for their substance and truth? Why does tragedy weigh heavier than comedy? Why is it so hard for many of us to be happy? Have we all become that jaded and cynical?
We all seem too swift to resort to any possible drama and complication, keen on sharing and sometimes even imposing on generous hearts that lend an ear. Maybe because the pain is too comforting and real; and whatever all this shit brings us, we ironically find comfort in it, in its palpable familiarity. Maybe its that insatiable search for love that renders us to unnecessarily dwell in shit. We seek some messiah, some knight in shiny armor, to take all the pain away, whisking us to some "ever after", granting our wish of starting anew. The bigger we ache, the bigger the love we need. The human condition? Nah, Too easy an explanation...
Indeed, I am keen on believing that life ain’t all too shabby; and that there are many things one can truly be grateful for. Yet it seems un-happiness is a much easier thing to grasp. I tried writing happy poems once, but I ended up either cringing at the cheesiness of my metaphors or twisting the entire opus into a more dismal offering. Whenever I share how pretty things turn up in a film and wish my life to be similar, expected reactions include either a raised eyebrow or a mordant, “it only happens in the movies.” Speaking of, don’t you notice that even in the Oscars, serious movies have more heft; depressing dramas and tear-jerkers praised highly for their substance and truth? Why does tragedy weigh heavier than comedy? Why is it so hard for many of us to be happy? Have we all become that jaded and cynical?
We all seem too swift to resort to any possible drama and complication, keen on sharing and sometimes even imposing on generous hearts that lend an ear. Maybe because the pain is too comforting and real; and whatever all this shit brings us, we ironically find comfort in it, in its palpable familiarity. Maybe its that insatiable search for love that renders us to unnecessarily dwell in shit. We seek some messiah, some knight in shiny armor, to take all the pain away, whisking us to some "ever after", granting our wish of starting anew. The bigger we ache, the bigger the love we need. The human condition? Nah, Too easy an explanation...
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