A major break for my emotional freedom

It was a crack on the head that opened the door to my emotional freedom.

Literally, although the head wasn’t mine; it was that of my brother who was six years older. He fell down from our balcony, straight down to our garden in the pitch of midnight. The doctors said it was a miracle he came out of it alive with just a broken knee cap and nine stitches sewn to close the gaping bloody wound on his forehead.

The accident, if you could call it that, could have been avoided. That’s all that I will say about it.

But it was the final straw that broke my back and say “Enough!”

Like many unmarried hardworking economically conscious Filipinas, I’ve looked out for my extended family. Taking care of my parents is a joy, not a burden. Sending pamangkins to school, giving them their much needed guidance that their parents sometimes don’t, and watching them grow is also a joy – don’t get me wrong. But sometimes, that joy – and the generosity that comes with it - can be abused. To the point that it can unwittingly hem you in and hamper your emotional freedom.

The situation is replicated in dozens of Filipino families. One family member flatly refuses to work, or keeps complaining that life has been hard on him. Since he’s blood, you can’t kick him out of the house. Since he (or she) preys on your parent or elder’s protective instinct and sometime guilt, any encouragement or advice to pull himself together and make a life out of himself, or at least for his children, falls on deaf ears. This leads probably the most independent, pro-active, driven member of the family to fill in the gap, and provide where he could (or would) not.

That mini-Atlas would grind her (chances are it’s a she) teeth, let out a few harsh words, and even threaten to cut off any more support – but at the end of the day, emotions win over. She doles out again and again.

Sometimes it gets to the point that the family members consciously and knowingly bear the complaint and the curses that come with it, knowing that, after the storm has passed, the responsible family member would continue to provide. “Magbibigay din iyan. Hindi rin iyan makakatiis,” is one phrase I heard in the case of a friend’s similar situation.

I have no problem with giving. Especially when it comes to family. I just don’t like the abuse, or being taken for granted.

But to be fair, this kind of abuse also depends on enabling on the part of the provider. The abuse would not have continued the way it had had I not tolerated it. It’s not that I wanted for advice – my friends have never fallen short when it comes to exasperated reminders that I don’t have to carry the world on my back.
But I did and I chose to, for years. And for that I take responsibility and can’t and won’t blame any family member for, not even my older brother.

Emotional freedom therapy wasn't in my to-do list.

My capacity and willingness to provide didn’t just spring from generosity or to spare my loved ones any sense of deprivation. It was a Messianic complex programmed into me by my beloved grandmother, who raised me literally a couple of rooms away from my parents, until she died at the age of 84; I was 7 years old at that time.

My childhood years were marked by loud squabbles between my parents. My dad and mom loved my two brothers and me, but perhaps coming from the hardships of World War II, they grew up acutely afraid of any possibility of want happening to any of us. They were passionate about their work, made sure their kids lacked for nothing in as much as a middle-class family could enjoy life – but the fear was always there. It would eventually leave its mark on me, too, and was probably part of the fuel that spurred my workaholism. Sometimes, though, this tension would erupt in the form of angry marital quarrels – I’d remember nights filled with my dad’s loud desperation and my mom’s quiet weeping.

I kept hearing that for seven years, yet somehow safely sheltered within the confines of my grandmother’s room. I’d hear the thunder at the other end of the hall, but thankfully never saw the lightning.

And in the darkness of our room, my grandmother would whisper to me in a mixture of Bicolano and Tagalog, “Be strong when you grow up, and take care of this family.”
My grandmother was a strong woman in her own right. She buried 7 out of 13 children with nary a tear. She sent those same kids to school on just the salary of my grandfather, who was a very honest public servant. After World War II, she, again with her husband, scoured one end of the archipelago to another to look for my soldier uncle who reportedly was seen during the Bataan Death March. I never saw her cry. She always had an answer to a problem – and when there was none, she would pray and ask God for help to make things better.

Ultimately, that was my grandmother’s legacy – that, and when she taught me to read at the age of 3. This trust latched into some hidden core in my soul and, nurtured with a sense of duty and spurred by an almost immovable drive, somehow metamorphed into what my friends called my “Messianic complex.”

I’d prepare, plan, work, and save for the phantoms that may not be there. My parents’ retirement. Land titles that had to be fixed. A nephew’s college tuition fee. A niece’s emotional vacuum.

Work, save, give. Work, save, give. Work, save, give.

That was my life. To be sure, I also had my own perks and enjoyed my few treats. But it was only a matter of time before I lost sight of myself. Others became priority at the automatic expense of my own happiness. Had I won the lotto, my first instincts would have been to create a trust fund for everyone – and whatever shopping or vacation time for me would have been at the bottom of the barrel.
I knew things had gotten out of hand when I didn’t know anymore what to spend for me – but knew acutely how much should be allotted for every family contingency.
Best intentions had gone awry and I was caught in a vicious cycle of my own making.

I didn’t even know how to cut the psychological umbilical cord.

Until my brother’s accident.

After I paid the last hospital bill, something in me just…died. There were no fireworks, no grandstanding. It was simply a quiet inner collapse that left me bone tired. More than that, for the first time in my life, I was more than willing to let go.

For the first time in years, I did not make entrega for the family coffers, as my portion of it had gone to my brother’s hospital bills. For that particular month’s end, I left it for my parents and the other family members, like one working nephew, to fill in the gap. This time, their turn.

Ordinarily, I would have found another project or raket to make entrega of some kind, to spare the others from taking out of their pockets.

But I didn’t. It wasn’t cruelty or even vindictiveness. I was just…tired. I didn’t want to make the effort to play messiah again. Let them this time take the slack and be responsible. I just wanted to rest.

I neve thought I'd equate emotional freedom with sheer fatigue, but this was what happened in my case.

That was when the wheels of my own workaholism churned to a full stop. Sure, I’d still work and turn in a good job. Sure, I’d still look for projects that would make sure the extra money keeps coming in.

But not to the point of killing myself or stressing myself out.
It was about time to be kind to me.

And in that moment of decision, I felt a new kind of freedom. Responsible, yes.

Overcompensating, no.

I was free to be me, finally.