Holding back. Holding out.
Retreating into my shell. I'm innocent, but, why am I acting guiltily? That I had done something wrong and I don't want to be seen. Why am I choosing reclusion?
Why am I scared to be in front of the camera again?
They just want me to say a goodbye-thank-you message for being a part of their program, after they conveniently sacked me, but, I couldn't make myself to be all chippy cheery. I can't wish them luck nor thank them for having me for 6 months.
6 grueling months post-breakup.
I forced myself to wake up early for the 4am call-time having slept a good three hours the night before. I would come back home to sleep at 10am then go back to the office around 2pm then slave away until past 10pm.
This would happen quite a lot I've lost count.
Most mornings they'd assign me to go to the farthest places to do the most dangerous or at least most daring stuff just because I could memorize the script in a cinch and I really didn't mind pushing myself to the limit just to get over the pain or the numbness. To feel again. To at least know I'm still alive.
But they don't know this.
It was quite convenient to hide everything behind a smile though I knew my eyes were transparent enough to show the sadness or the emptiness that I felt. This is still my biggest flaw. My face always showed how I felt no matter how hard I try to morph it to show otherwise. Friends who know me too damn well could detect this immediately--it's embarrassing. But that would make another good story...
There were mornings when they would conveniently "forget" to put me on the set despite my efforts to be there early or be at least on time. I felt there was some kind of discrimination happening or some sort of tension between our Executive Producer and my Evening News co-host that it somehow spilled over to me or whatever. Or maybe they saw past my mask. Basta. I was just too much in pain then to even bother to assert myself. I just wanted to pass through my daily existence or have a semblance of a life.
And yes, they just added to the pain that has numbed me beyond repair.
Then it was time to go. They had sacked me after 6 months. The official reason was that both my co-anchor and I were working two shifts: am and pm. It was bound to kill us, sure. Like I cared if I lived or not.
After a while I got used to oversleeping or getting an extra day job to help my family's expenses. I'd come in at 1pm and leave until past 10pm. The routine continued for a year or so until it was time for me to stand up and fight against another oppressive force, who won't stop hitting me with invisible battering rams until I'm finally defeated.
There is nothing left to destroy. My heart is already a wasteland.
Retreating into my shell. I'm innocent, but, why am I acting guiltily? That I had done something wrong and I don't want to be seen. Why am I choosing reclusion?
Why am I scared to be in front of the camera again?
They just want me to say a goodbye-thank-you message for being a part of their program, after they conveniently sacked me, but, I couldn't make myself to be all chippy cheery. I can't wish them luck nor thank them for having me for 6 months.
6 grueling months post-breakup.
I forced myself to wake up early for the 4am call-time having slept a good three hours the night before. I would come back home to sleep at 10am then go back to the office around 2pm then slave away until past 10pm.
This would happen quite a lot I've lost count.
Most mornings they'd assign me to go to the farthest places to do the most dangerous or at least most daring stuff just because I could memorize the script in a cinch and I really didn't mind pushing myself to the limit just to get over the pain or the numbness. To feel again. To at least know I'm still alive.
But they don't know this.
It was quite convenient to hide everything behind a smile though I knew my eyes were transparent enough to show the sadness or the emptiness that I felt. This is still my biggest flaw. My face always showed how I felt no matter how hard I try to morph it to show otherwise. Friends who know me too damn well could detect this immediately--it's embarrassing. But that would make another good story...
There were mornings when they would conveniently "forget" to put me on the set despite my efforts to be there early or be at least on time. I felt there was some kind of discrimination happening or some sort of tension between our Executive Producer and my Evening News co-host that it somehow spilled over to me or whatever. Or maybe they saw past my mask. Basta. I was just too much in pain then to even bother to assert myself. I just wanted to pass through my daily existence or have a semblance of a life.
And yes, they just added to the pain that has numbed me beyond repair.
Then it was time to go. They had sacked me after 6 months. The official reason was that both my co-anchor and I were working two shifts: am and pm. It was bound to kill us, sure. Like I cared if I lived or not.
After a while I got used to oversleeping or getting an extra day job to help my family's expenses. I'd come in at 1pm and leave until past 10pm. The routine continued for a year or so until it was time for me to stand up and fight against another oppressive force, who won't stop hitting me with invisible battering rams until I'm finally defeated.
There is nothing left to destroy. My heart is already a wasteland.
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