Love and the hydras

or: loving the hydras

my family has always loved from a distance.

sometimes it feels like a tactic. like each of us is a many-headed hydra, and in order to protect each other from our multiple sets of fangs, we create space between us, so when jaws unhinge themselves the result is, at most, maybe a drop of spit on the other’s eye.

other times it feels like a script. a pre-written destiny, paved by insurmountably external factors—migration, job, retirement, school, culture, i’m just busy, i’m so busy—that we accept bare on our cheeks, a remnant of the catholic reassurance that everything is out of our control, that God creates heaven and earth and we welcome them.

sometimes, in moments of desperation, minutes that feel like hours or sometimes days, where i feel so alone i am suffocated by my own presence, it feels like what it is—fear. of what, i’m not sure. i’ve been trying to figure out what for the past 14 years. fear of hurting each other, of knowing each other beyond our filial roles, of showing love in a way that leaves us vulnerable. regardless, we love from a distance. whether this distance is physical is incidental. the distance is just as palpable when we are gathered around the same dinner table as when we’re across the world, in different homes, different cities, living different lives.

i cannot bear to see my father cry. the first time i did was a few days after his older brother died. my uncle had been in an uphill battle with cancer, turning to traditional medicine when his arsenal had depleted, much to my father’s dismay. when he looked at me, strained smile trying to mask the tears beginning to well in his eyes, in a wavering voice, foreign but remarkably his, he tells me “kuyang died,” before choking out a sob. i did not know what to say, but i offered a few tears so he may feel less alone.

i have seen my mother cry even less than i have my father. the only time i can recall seeing her cry was at the end of Coco. yes, during the “remember me” scene. not even recounting the time her father beat her for breaking the water pail, not even telling my sister and i of her brother who had run away when they were kids; none of these deeply traumatic stories of hers made her cry. perhaps in the “remember me” scene she saw her own mother, whose dementia has robbed her of the opportunity to know who i am. maybe the inverse, the prospect of being forgotten by her own mother, was what brought her to tears.

i see my sister cry often. when my mom gave her shit for choosing to accept an internship instead of going on a family cruise. when her love-bomby friend makes her feel guilty for needing space to unmask in silence. when her ex-boyfriend, one of her only friends in chicago at the time, broke up with her for not communicating with him. when i visited her in chicago, she tells me that her therapist asked her to recall her earliest memories, and all of them were of our grandma yelling at her, because i was the favorite, not her. i’m sure she cries about these memories often.

i try my best not to cry in front of my family. my tears are meant for four walls, closed doors. just 6 days ago, a 20-minute long oration of screaming sobs into a pillow whose case i have yet to wash. an echo of an eight-year-old self crying into her pillow when lola left to return to the philippines for the last time. but doors are fickle things: the wails can obviously seep under the crack at the bottom, or the knob can fiddle before announcing an unsuspecting (unwilling) witness enters–a warning sign to tuck the scissors away and wipe your cheeks dry. i try not to cry in front of people because, when the door finally opens, presenting my mother with laundry basket in hand (she is somehow always doing laundry–dry, fold, press, put-up), she tells me people die, and that it will only make me stronger. i know she is partially right and speaks from experience, but this is the last thing i want to hear. i try not to cry in front of people because i hate to see people cry, because it makes me cry, and i hate to cry in front of people.

i think my hatred of breaking out into tears in front of people is efflux from loving from a distance. discomfort with the vulnerable obviously entails the humidity accumulating on my upper lip, a byproduct of a futile attempt to save face. but what about anger?

when you love from a distance, everything flowery is foreign, but you are accustomed to the fire. when saying “i love you“ before hanging up the phone is awkward, slamming doors, heated tones, passive-aggressive cleaning, and sharp gazes are natural. in fact, the sharpness is so comfortable it’s routine, and i often take it for granted. you wish you never met me? that’s all fine and good, can we just get to the good part where we stop talking to each other again?

these are the moments where the hydras get a nick in. when the semi-subconscious effort to create distance backfires as the conditions of living in close quarters demands it to. i’ve seen and felt so many of these nicks that i am adept in first aid. i apply the antibiotic and the bandage even when i’m the one who’s been nicked.

loving from a distance is torturous, but loving closely is even more terrifying. if this is what the nicks feel like, what about the bites? what will it feel like when the serpents unhinge their jaws and inject their venom into my veins?

are we capable of getting so close that the serpents are too crowded, unable to bend their spines to get a bite of the others’ necks?