I found it so funny when I first heard comedian Rex Navarette say it: Every Filipino has a Tito Boy. (I extend that theory further that if not a Tito Boy, there is a Tita Baby or a cousin named Jun-Jun). It's an old joke, but it still makes me laugh because it's kinda true.
I have a Tito Boy, and almost everyone I asked has a Tito Boy.
Anyway, this post is rather about my Tito Boy. It's not a sappy memorial-slash-dedication for a favorite loved one or anything like that. Before I go on, lemme just make a confession: I hated Tito Boy when I was a child (Oh I hope he doesn't find this post! Peace tayo Uncle! hee hee) - you'll see why in a while. It's just that I remember him often these days when I see how I carry out during a depression. Not that I see him in me; the commonality is not in the least bit in physical characteristics, but more of in the er, uh, chemical imbalance. I haven't yet picked up the nasty habits and the depressive lifestyle he had, but now I feel like all the judgments I threw toward him are boomeranging back at me. Bwahahaha!. I mean, if I don't watch myself I might just get sucked down into becoming that thing that he was.
Tito Boy and I are just two people in our clan who were unfortunate enough to inherit the blasted "family curse".
Nagiging aswang kami pag gabi.
But seriously ...
Tito Boy, according to my other aunts and uncles, was supposedly a really good-looking guy. when he was born (sometime in the 1940's), the neighborhood rumor mill was busy manufacturing news that my Lola had an affair with an American lover. But from the time I was old enough to recognize him as my uncle (which was, let's say around two or three, around that period when I saw him punch my dad in the temple), up to the time that he moved to Cebu, I never saw whatever "good looks" those people were talking about. For one, he was overweight. He was also sloppy and slovenly, with long-ish disheveled hair and bad skin. He reeked of nicotine and mold; I almost always saw him with a beer bottle and / or a cigarette in hand, wearing his yellow-tainted, threadbare, moth-eaten clothes. I wondered why he always wore dishrag-like clothes. He dragged his feet, wearing his slippers out into bacon, and walked as if he wore an overloaded nappy. He had the kind of voice that kontrabidas in pinoy action movies had, the kind between a growl and a bark; he even spoke with a slur, much like Erap when he isn't making an impressive speech.
He scared us. He was like a kid-eating hog-troll who perspired moldy nicotine and porn. I found him absolutely repulsive. Whenever we saw each other, he would ask for a kiss an nd ick, I'd only give him one because he'd asked me to.
We lived with him for a few years in our Lola's House. I noticed that he slept most of the day - or spent time doing who knows what in his room. That awfully disgusting room littered with cigarette butts, used filters and evil magazines. It had bacteria for wallpaper and smoke for air conditioning. I have no idea how he survived in that room. He usually woke up around noon, coming out to have lunch or whatever, slugging his way out with his shirt folded upward exposing his belly. Then he'd leave in the p.m., head off to who knows where, then come back in the early morning. Some life. I knew he was supposed to be a pilot, but he was such an eyesore of a bum that I wondered why he wouldn't get a job and make his existence more worthwhile.
I heard a lot of vile reports about him. You know, the kind that adults don't want kids to hear about but they idiotically discuss things in their children's presence because they don't think kids can understand. Some things about his paranoia, his depression, his divorce, his drug habit, his drinking problem. His appalling behavior at a certain social funtion, his crime stints. I heard that he tried to kill somebody. Somebodies. I think he tried to kill himself. Those "adult stories" that i heard about him made indelible marks on my psyche. He wasn't the kind of person a kid would say to, "When I grow up I wanna be just like you".
By manner of eavesdropping on the ignorant adults' conversations, my little mind made out that he finally snapped and was eventually confined somewhere for rehab or therapy of sorts.
After Lola died, I didn't see him for a couple of years. The next (and last) time I saw him was twelve years ago at my grandfather's funeral in Cebu. When I saw Tito Boy then, he'd already had some successful rehab, therapy and some good drugs. He cleaned up really well; he lost a lot of weight and apparently re-learned grooming and breeding. That was when I started seeing the "good looks" my aunts were talking about; he actually had a likeable face, the kind that probably would have made ladies swoon when he was younger. He was pretty decent, and I didn't mind greeting him with a kiss that time.
Now that I'm here and now, I begin to understand the old Tito Boy.
I mean now that I've been diagnosed with a psychosis of my own, with a (culturally and legally acceptable) "drug" habit of my own.
Now that I am currently
Now that I have huge holes in my itinerary and thus spend most (agoraphobic) hours at home (but I'm not into hot porn so I watch series on DVD and award-winning films instead).
I understand now why he spent his days sleeping and his nights awake.
I understand why he kept drinking and drugging himself.
I understand why he didn't - couldn't - get a job.
I understand how he could have done the crazy things the other aunts and uncles said he did.
It's because he felt like he was a victim, and that he had no better choice but to give in the the sickness. Depression can do that to you - especially prolonged ones.
I can't totally relate with his old predicament of course, since I never really was that close to him to know what to relate to, but I sort of see how he got to where he was.
And like I said, if I'm not careful about my decisions, I'd fall into that too.
But I'd rather not play the victim, right? I'd rather play Jack Bauer.
My advantage over the "family curse" is that I was dragged to church as a child - much to my dismay - and was therefore well-indoctrinated about morality and spirituality and such.
I went to a Catholic school with values education and religion classes (the kind of school that teaches that coffee is a drug and that kissing your boyfriend is a sin) so for all my youthful willfulness, I had a nagging conscience that always told me to stay out of trouble. I didn't always follow it but it managed to do its job somewhat.
I met the Lord somewhere through all that, and I eventually chose to build my life on the foundation of His word. I know how to turn to God for help - not just when I think I'm about to detonate.
And because of that, I have hope.
I've had mentors and counselors as a young adult. Not many get that privilege.
I've acquired a devoted Hubby who endeavors to keep me alive even when I don't want to.
I have some artistic talent and a few small hobbies that keep me occupied and productive.
And I have my pride that prevents me from being a useless waste of cellulose ;)
Thanks to those little things, I managed to not to be enslaved to the treacherous imbalance and become fodder for all the vile beasties that go with it (such as addictions, destruction, suicide and world domination). I learned a lot of practical skills to keep me balanced and push me forward.
I'd hate to be the foot-dragging, substance-emitting, ever-unemployed Tita Bum that kids won't ever admire or emulate. Though i admit that I just don't want to fight for survival, I don't - and wont - want a loserly life.
