Author: Neyzielle Ronnicque

She has a wanderfilled way of becoming her dreams.

An Open Letter to My Best Friend in Heaven

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You know every time I come home to Ilocos and visit your grave, I always ask you to come and visit me even if it’s just for a quick hello?

It took you 17 months.

I can’t tell if it was my bottled-up anger, disgust, and frustration or maybe some subliminal emotions that finally brought you around, but after all this time, you’re still the only person who can tell me the right words at the right time.

The ache of missing you remains because out of nowhere, you were there in a coffee shop with me, just casually sipping your favorite iced matcha latte Vividly, you turned to me, held my hand, and in your calm but always stern voice, you said:

“Ukinnam, agtalna kan, is-stress’em lang bagbagim. Ammok nga kayang-kayam, ngem agtalna kan, true?”

And then your favorite word: “Pakasisikuram?“

I woke up crying, almost inconsolable. Thank God, I was beside my boyfriend.

Is this your message from the grave? You only appeared and visited me when I was beyond anyone else’s control. It’s as if our connection thrived in those moments of unbridled freedom.

But don’t worry, bebe, the support has been outpouring– overwhelming even– and the private reassurances were nothing but immense. Friends have been reaching out, checking up on me, and their words of wisdom had been incredibly helpful to tame the beast of your best friend. They were telling me the very same thing you reminded me of in my dreams, and I appreciate you all so much.

Right now, as I sit here surrounded by memories, it hits me how much I miss you. Our memories together, the laughter, the plans we shared – they all rush back in a bittersweet wave.

Honestly, I know that missing you might never really go away, but I find some comfort in thinking that you’re out there somewhere, maybe watching the world twirl by. You know, you left this space that can’t be filled by anyone else. But then again, I guess that’s what makes the bond we had so special.

You can always find your way into my dreams; I promise, your presence would be more than welcome there.

I love you, bebe, and I miss you again and again, more than and beyond its meaning.

I hope you’re happy up there.

I get silent when it hurts a lot

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Have you ever had those days when you don’t know where the sadness comes from so you stare at your walls and ceilings trying to pinpoint what’s causing your dread? Or those days that people are inviting you over for gatherings, but you chose to stay alone at home?

How about those days that you don’t feel anything at all, but there is this intense pain that’s eating you alive?

Yes, those days.

I would like to believe that this is still an extension and a manifestation of my grief, but I’ve mastered the art of sleeping when I get sad. I get silent when it hurts a little too much.

I deactivate my social media accounts; I don’t respond to messages unless work-related; I become indifferent towards other people; and I don’t go out at all.

I can find all the excuses in the world to just not go out and deal with other people– but then I become way too hard on myself for not doing anything for me to feel alive.

I don’t even entertain romantic relationships anymore, because I feel like any guy doesn’t deserve a mentally unstable, emotionally wrecked little girl, because it is not his job to make me whole. The slightest sign of affection makes me anxious. No, don’t do that.

But I get sad if they stop; and I get sad a lot.

So I get silent when it hurts too much.

Not that anybody cares.

Courage, Dear Heart

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I have been lying a lot about my life lately to avoid people being concerned.

It’s dreadful, isn’t it? Having a heart full of dreams and aspirations in a body filled with dread and frustrations.

I don’t want to lose, but I don’t want to live like this either.

It’s draining. It’s overwhelming. It’s overpowering. It’s more than the most negative thing we could ever imagine. Because everyday is just another waking day of trying to survive, pretending that I am mentally stable to do life.

I stopped sending SOS messages. Most of the time, I cry with little to no help from other people. I just move on to do the works I need to do just because I have to– because no matter how much they say they will always be there for me when I need them, my anxiety tells me otherwise.

The voice inside my head always sells me out.

“Courage, dear heart. Courage.” This has been my mantra for the past weeks of deliberately choosing to be alone just because I don’t want to bother anyone.

Sometimes it works. Most of the time, I am making a fool of myself. Such a waste of time daydreaming and never really start growing.

But then, how do I grow when the drive to live is sometimes not enough to keep me sane? How do I navigate through being the old me, when I don’t even know how to act my age these days? How many times should I remind myself that I am worthy, precious, loved, and favored, before I start really believing them?

How do I start?

How do we take courage?

Courage, dear heart. Don’t be afraid.

Please do not be tired.

Please, just live.