Weeks leading to my trip back to the Philippines after more than 2 years of being away, I felt that undercurrent of nervous energy colouring my days in anticipation of it. Not excitement, not the giddiness of finally going home. Nerves. I remember one night, lying beside C, waiting for sleep when I whispered “I’m scared". He asked why, and I remember trying to articulate reasons as to why. But I always kept feeling guilty about the things I came up with before it even leave my lips. It’s crazy how the most vulnerable thoughts become sharper when the lights are already off and you’re staring at the ceiling, your heartbeat and slow breathing the only prominent sounds in the room.
On a superficial level, the immediate thing I am most anxious about is all the comments about my appearance when I meet people that I haven’t seen for a while. Be it friends, family - it never change. For some reason, people have the instinct to always comment on your weight and appearance when you meet them. While I already accepted the fact that it is (culturally) a norm in this part of the world, it is - objectively speaking - still rude. I know that, for most cases if not all, these are just passing comments and they only comment the first thing that comes to mind because it’s what they see. But for someone whose self-esteem is shaky at best lately, it can be destructive for my psyche to hear it (AND anticipate it) constantly. I find myself mentioning it first, playing it off as if it didn’t bother me. My brain’s thinking is that if I am the one criticizing myself first, it won’t hurt me as much when I finally hear it from others. (I realize I am exposing the quality of my self talk here, sorry.) I can clearly see the effect environment plays with how I see myself: once I got here, when I look at myself in mirrors, my hips are suddenly wider, my legs and arms are chunkier, my double chin more pronounced. This is especially weird because before I left for home, I can still find pockets of myself that I find pleasant to look at. Now, every inch of ‘imperfection’ is magnified - I don’t think 2 weeks can make that much of a difference. This issue is probably something I should process and talk about more separately but TL;DR this place makes my body dysmorphia and insecurities worse.
Another point is the amount of performative people-pleasing that, I feel, is inherently imposed when you come home. In the Philippines, people who work abroad are put in an entirely different (and higher) pedestal. While I am blessed to have a white collar job that gives me a lot of choices and provides a certain level of comfort compared to others, it’s still not all rainbows-and-butterflies. I’m sure you’ve seen the “reality of moving/working abroad" videos permeating social media so I don’t need to describe it in detail. But every time my ‘accomplishments’ are being paraded in front of other people by well-meaning family members, I feel my imposter syndrome uncomfortably skyrocketing. Once you get home, you suddenly feel the need to pay for most things, if not everything. Coming home can never be a chill holiday, it will always be a financial affair that you have to properly plan out and save for. Note that this is coming from the perspective of a panganay (eldest child) and breadwinner in a large Asian family, so it probably is not always the case. But for me, coming back somehow makes me feel like a fraud.
Lastly, is the amount of triggers this place holds. While I’ve done (and still continue to do) tremendous inner work to process and tackle my various immediate identified traumas, it still is a little disconcerting to be in a place where I associate a lot of things that I wanted to get over from. The way a place bring up random memories, random triggers bring up random unwanted emotions. Thanks to therapy and the various self-help tools I’ve learned from my sessions and my years of research, I think I already came to a point where I can function normally. But healing is a non-linear process, and I am, admittedly, still in the thick of it. When I moved to Belfast, my therapist told me that it probably could be a good thing for me. After all, I was told that one of the things that seem to work for people with PTSD is to remove themselves from the place where the respective traumatic event took place. It was a revelation: feeling like I could exhale and breathe properly for the first time in a while when I moved away. I feel this validated over and over each time I come home.
While I still strive to see the romance and magic in every situation as I cultivate my gratitude practice, I believe that it’s essential for me to recognize and acknowledge the gnawing feelings I have for my once-so-called-home. I find myself thinking to myself multiple times that I can no longer envision myself living here. It’s a complicated feeling. It also feels selfish leaving behind everyone and moving on. And above all else, there is a sense of overwhelming guilt attached to it.
There are still good things here despite everything. Almost all of my loved ones are here, and that alone makes me see this place through rose-coloured lenses every time. I still love all the places where I made so many precious memories and, each time I remember, they still put a smile on my face. I still thrive on the comfort of familiar things (as most people do), the routines that used to make my days: Easy access to my childhood-favourite foods. The routine of starting the day with pandesal or taho. The constant sound of familiar language being spoken everywhere, the immediate understanding even if I don’t try too hard. Knowing what to do by instinct because these things are what you’re born into. But at the end of the day, if I peel back the layers of my current feelings, I am operating more from a sense of nostalgia rather than active affection - there’s a difference.
Perhaps, I have outgrown a phase of my life and I am building a new sense of self that is finally not tied to things I’ve gotten used to. Maybe part of the necessary pains of growing up (I feel weird saying this as a person in her 30s but I suppose it never ends) is to shed things that have caused you hurt for so long when you have the convenient opportunity to start over, again. I realize these things are mostly related to people, but what is a place if not made by the various persons we encounter along the way? Everything about this place will always hold a special place in my heart and my identity, but I think I’m ready to shed my attachment to most of these to make space for new things.
Onwards and upwards. This a note to myself to finally stop feeling guilty for moving on.
Who knows, maybe time will change my mind and attitude towards it.
This reads too much like a diary entry that I balk at the thought of people reading it. But there is also a part me that wants this to be out there in the wild so other people can answer the question running through my head all the time: “am I alone in this feeling?”.
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Beautifully written, Riza! Sending hugs <3
Really enjoyed this, Riza!
To be honest, I had similar feelings when going back to Malaysia and Hong Kong in October. They're countries intrinsically linked to my past, present and future and, arguably, chunks of my heart are left there every time we return to see family. But there's a cognitive dissonance between how I remember and romanticise it and how it is: the distressing comments about my body that I rarely directly experience in the UK; the difference in how progressive the countries are and aren't.