GIGI GOES GAGA

ROOT ROT

Most people I know can stay in the same place for a very long period of time, maybe even their entire lives, and be perfectly happy -- or at least adequately content. Some can stay in the same jobs and maintain routines, day in and out, and find a way to make what they do fulfilling, quite challenging even. I think of these people as towering oak trees with roots as deep as the earth; they stand where and as they do and serve a great purpose to those around them. These trees protect those underneath them from the harsh glare of the sun, and shower soft streams of filtered light through their thick, broad leaves and allow them to flourish and grow. All kinds of creatures take refuge within their strong branches and children sit at their knotted feet and lean upon their massive trunks as they try to get a bit of rest from their play.

But me, I get root rot. And I'll never be an oak tree.

The only thing constant about me is change. As soon as I was old enough to be independent I moved from Manila to Los Angeles -- and kept on moving. I moved between schools, residences, jobs, even relationships. I moved every time I felt as if I were about to get waterlogged, although sometimes I had to because I had no other choice, even if I wasn't ready to. But each time I did, I managed to figure it out; I learned how to make the unfamiliar a bit more agreeable and build up a new home around me.

The funny thing is that I don't do much globetrotting, at least not yet -- unlike, say, my older sister who can throw a backpack around her shoulders at a moment's notice, hop on a plane, and find a brand new place to explore. I like to, instead, stay in one place for a while until the scenery's burned into into my mind's eye, and then only move when I feel like I have nothing more to learn.

Perhaps my restlessness is a result of my belief that I've not been fulfilling my potential and purpose, as well as due to my intense desire and need to live with passion. I've always been afraid, however, to define just what my potential, purpose, and passion is. Whenever I've been close to discovering it I start to fear what it might mean for me to find it: will I be alone? will I be poor? will what I need to give up be more than I'm willing to part with?

And so no wonder I merely move around -- learning something new each time, but never really finding myself. I've always thought of myself as a person who jumped with both feet, and only recently realized that I was tethered to an invisible bungee cord that I forgot about. This year I've decided to cut that cord and simply jump. I can't begin to describe how utterly terrified I am, and of so many different things at that. But I'm seeking my home now -- whatever or wherever that might mean for me -- and the only way I'll find it is to work through the fear and make real change.

A few years ago I bought a rare Japanese Maple tree online, in the smallest size they were available because it was all I could afford. I was thrilled when I saw it slowly thrive and grow; within a year I moved it from its grower's pot into a larger, prettier container, where it continued to bloom during Spring and shed its leaves in the Fall. But last year, nothing happened as the seasons came and went, and even now again as the other Japanese Maple trees in my garden have begun to show off their brilliant colors. This little tree remained leafless and frighteningly still for an entire year.

I was afraid that perhaps it had died of root rot, even if its fragile trunk appeared to be (barely) alive. So a few weeks ago I decided to make one final attempt to save it: I took it out of its pot, gently spread its roots, planted it in a much larger wooden tub, replaced the soil, watered it...and waited patiently. This afternoon I discovered that it finally had begun to bud -- my precious tree was still alive after all!

Nature always reminds us whenever we find ourselves withering, that perhaps what's needed is to get ourselves out of rut we're in, maybe this place we've outgrown, and find somewhere else we can spread our roots and thrive again. There are never any guarantees, of course, so it requires tremendous courage to change and seek a better place in the sun. But if we know ourselves, understand where we've been and have an idea of where we want to go, there's a good chance we'll make it. Otherwise, if we decide to stay where we are and hope that everything around us changes instead, then we'd be betting on things we can't control.

Even tenacious oak trees, after all -- if they're planted in the wrong soil or subjected to harmful elements -- can waste away. The key is to pay attention always, so you know if you're standing still -- or simply still standing.

MEANT TO BE

Thanks to all the moving around I've done in my life, I have a fairly large social network. Because my friends and acquaintances hail from widely disparate worlds and walks of life, I'm often gobsmacked at how many of them are linked to each other -- and not through me either. Truly, we are all interconnected on this planet somehow.

My friend T is probably aware of this more than anyone else I know. Before we even met we were already connected to each other through various people and networks; it was inevitable that we would have met somehow if we hadn't when we did. For instance, his high school best friend was the son of my mother's family friend -- and he was also quasi-related to a new friend of mine, whom I had met on the plane headed for Los Angeles, where we were both going to study. T and I have since discovered many other ways we might have met; there was just no escaping each other, in this lifetime or any other.

So he calls me up from time to time, usually to ask me if I know someone he's doing (or about to do) business with; sometimes he sends me a late-night text message when he's at a party to ask if I've ever met someone he just has. Once he asked me if I knew this guy he had recently partnered up with to produce a concert (T's in the entertainment industry); I told him I certainly did -- he was my older sister's first boyfriend. 

T also knows me better than almost anyone else does, in that very scary way when someone knows just way too much about you. Which is why I'm relieved he's still around: when someone has seen you at your craziest, most vulnerable, and most off-course self and still thinks you're OK -- well, it's simply the highest form of validation there is.

The other day we were on one of our five-minute phone chats (because that's all the time he ever has these days) and I mentioned that someone I knew was going to contact him about a possible venture. T wanted to know how I was connected to this guy.

"Well remember B, that ex-boyfriend of mine for, like, a month -- way, way back when? This guy's related to him somehow."

(Silence.)

"C'mon, you know...that punk rocker dude who wore these red and black tartan plaid pants with a zipper that went all around his crotch?"

"Um...uh...I'm...I can't...you can't..." T was snickering uncontrollably through his words. What he wanted to say -- and this I'm sure of since I can still sometimes read his mind -- was "you can't possibly expect me to remember every one you ever went out with." Sometimes I hate T, I swear.

And then it dawned on me: T and I, for a very brief not-so-shining moment, were once a couple, too. It was more of a failed experiment at the time, I think -- a result of a "why not?" question we had asked ourselves because we happened to be best friends. Sort of like a real-life When Harry Met Sally but without any of the sex (we had wisely decided to hold off any kind of physical intimacy for fear of damaging the friendship if things didn't work out).

In my life I've moved around a lot, met a heck of a lot of people, and done a whole lot of things that don't seem to make much sense. And I'm still the kind of girl who wants to keep moving and meeting people wherever I go, still the kind who keeps asking "why not?" when the smart question might be "why?" But in the midst of all the craziness, I have friends like T who never get lost in the shuffle -- simply because they were always meant to be here, to keep me from ever going astray, and to let me know that no matter what other people might think, that I really am OK.

FEEL THE PAIN

I don't normally read "Self-Help" books. Not because I think I don't need the information -- or the help, for that matter -- but I suppose there are just so many of them out there, often containing contradictory information, that I only get confused. And it seems that with every smart, sane one there are a couple more written by fake experts who are really only brilliant marketers in disguise looking to make a quick buck (at least this is my opinion). It's sort of the same way I feel about the gazillion diet plans out there.

But I have a good friend who reads these books regularly, and she frequently tells me about what she's gleaned from them and how each has helped her. She has this particular gift for distilling only what's truly useful to her, which she's blended together to create her own personal philosophy and guide to life.

Now I have a lifelong tendency, you see, to do two destructive things: One, I beat myself up for making mistakes -- especially when I believe that I should have known better than to make them; and, Two, I deal with hurt by trivializing it and its effect on me. Both have to do with my ego and pride, of course. For instance, the last time my heart was broken I kept telling myself that the man wasn't worth my tears -- but then I kept hitting myself over the head whenever I felt the pain. And of course, I did the very same thing the last time before...and then the time before that, too. What I do, essentially, is numb myself to the original hurt by hurting myself more so that I feel only my own destruction.

The best way for me to describe what I do is by explaining what I used to do when I suffered from horrible eczema as a child. The itch seemed to come from this really deep place inside of me, one that I couldn't reach because it felt like it was lodged between bone and muscle, and so the frustration was so overwhelming that the only way I could make it go away was scratch viciously until my skin became raw, tore apart and bled. I could live with the pain, which was of my own making, but not the itch, which seemed to come out of nowhere and which I couldn't control.

So going back to that last time I found myself trying to beat myself over the head again for falling for the wrong someone for all the wrong reasons and at the wrong time. I was talking to my friend, trying to figure out why I couldn't get past my feelings of stupidity but also why I couldn't stop thinking about the guy; for instance, at any time of the day I still knew what he was probably doing because I knew his routine so well. I told her that just when I thought I was over him and that I was finally OK I'd feel a pang come out of nowhere and realize I was still stuck. It was like an itch I couldn't get to -- and it was driving me crazy.

"That's because you have to allow yourself to feel the pain," she said. "You have to let the pain go through you and you need to fully experience it -- and then let it go." At first I thought she'd been reading one self-help book too many: how could she say that when clearly I was still feeling all this pain that she said I wasn't? Patiently she explained that what I was feeling was my hurt ego, not the hurt from the experience itself. She suggested that I find a bit of quiet time and space, and then let all the emotions go through me, past me, so that they were finally behind me.

I remember how difficult it was to do just that, even if it sounded so simple and easy. That's when I realized that years and years of protecting and shielding myself didn't stop me from repeating any of my harmful patterns; they only prevented me from healing afterward each and every time. I hadn't been allowing myself to be human, to acknowledge that I was capable of making mistakes and failing; in fact, I was punishing myself by pretending that no one and nothing could -- or should -- scratch me. I was like that kid again, who preferred to feel my own destruction rather than admit that someone or something else was capable of causing me any kind of damage.

It took me a while to learn how to do what she suggested -- to feel and live through the pain so that I could let it go and not look back. But I remember that when I finally decided to give it a shot, it was like I'd given myself permission to be human and I felt a bit of the weight lift off from my shoulders without doing anything else. It wasn't easy -- and it still isn't. Like my mother often tells me, I like to do things on my own and not ask anyone else for help. But part of the problem is that even when I'm the only one who can help myself, I stand in my own way whenever I refuse to acknowledge that I need it in the first place.

It's difficult feeling so open and raw. But I've since discovered, thanks to my friend, that it's necessary to start from that place in order to heal. Look, I even have scars to prove it.