When I was four, my mother borrowed a shoe that was a size too small for me to use for the Reyna Elena Parade where I was one of the princes. I don’t remember who it was but I was told that I was only going to use it for a couple of hours anyway so I should stop being a brat and stop whining about it

By the time I took it off, there was a blister the size of an old one peso coin on my foot. I wanted to cry from the pain but I was also told that real boys don’t cry so I sucked it up and waited until I was alone before crying my heart out. They still called me a bratty and whiny crybaby anyway.

Two weeks after I turned six, I finished kindergarten at the top of my class, getting almost all of the awards aside one, the Best in Spelling award. I heard the mother of the kid who got the award telling her son that I wasn’t really smart because if I was, I would have gotten the award too. Up to this very moment, I still remember those words and there are even times when I believe every single word.

I was in second grade when I had an argument with one of my cousins. He told me that if my mother really loved me and my siblings, she wouldn’t have left to work in Hong Kong. I gave some smart-ass reply and pretended not to be bothered. I cried silently the whole night.

In third grade, there was this news that my mother was about to be executed in Hong Kong for accidentally drowning her boss’ child. A classmate called me the son of a murderer. I almost ended up stabbing that classmate with a knife. It was someone else’s mother with the same first name.

The end of primary school, I was told that I would get a bike if I make it to the top five. I did. My brother got a bike instead. I never believed in any promise ever again.

Third year high school, I was asked to beg for a special project in one of my subjects to add just one more point just so I would be eligible for the honor roll. I swallowed my pride and own beliefs even when I didn’t really care if I was in the honors list or not. The disappointment of the people around me was overwhelming when I still didn’t make the cut. I wasn’t disappointed because I knew that I didn’t deserve it.

In my last year of high school, I was told by my Filipino teacher that the short story I wrote was really beautiful. A classmate who wrote about being in love with one of our teachers for the same project told me it was trash. I knew she was just jealous but still, I believed her for a while. I still continued writing stories anyway despite hearing her voice over and over again in my head. I still hear her voice at times.

So, what’s with all the sad and melodramatic childhood memories? Nothing really.

It’s just a simple reminder we all have bad memories and painful childhood experiences. Some of it breaks us completely, while some of them make us stronger, little by little, even the worst ones, believe it or not.

We get to grow up and these kinds of things shouldn’t hurt us as much anymore, unless it’s the truth.

A lot of people in the world had it so much worse than you do but still, you don’t see them doing a Binay because of it. You shouldn’t too.

At the end of the day, all you really need to do is to suck it up and grow up. Cry a little then bounce back up. Face it all up front instead of blaming everyone else for the crap you are getting. You’re not a child. Grow up.

And yes, I just watched the new Binay advertisement in case you are wondering where all these are coming from.


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