my thoughts in bare

I survived the days when it felt impossible to breathe, the nights I cried myself to sleep, the anxiety attacks, and the random breakdowns when he was still here. I survived the funeral and kept myself busy taking care of everything that needed to be done. I survived the silence that came after all of that. But one thing I realized is that the version of me who was still waiting for her father’s validation, appreciation, and acceptance was left behind. The things I waited for so long never came. And up until now, I still find myself wondering if I was ever enough in his eyes.

I've been watching some video clips on social media about families who are battling with their loved ones who have Dementia. They seem to handle it so well, and it makes me wonder, how do they do it, and for how many years? My father started showing symptoms in October 2025, but he was only officially diagnosed with Dementia around January 2026. After that, his health started to decline so quickly. His symptoms got worse, and those seven months became the most depressing and lowest point of our lives. We tried our very best to understand his episodes and took care of him during the days when he could no longer take care of himself. Most days were filled with chaos, exhaustion, and tears. Lately, I've been thinking about whether we really did our best. I've been asking myself if we gave up too easily during the days when we had no choice but to tie him for his own safety, and during the time when we had to leave him in a mental health facility for two weeks. I even find myse...

When people ask me how our life is nowadays, it feels like such a difficult question to answer. I pause for a while, and eventually I say, “I’m fine” or “We’re okay.” But the truth is, I really don’t know. I’m not happy, I’m not sad, and I’m not depressed, but I think I feel nothing. Sometimes I find it hard to sleep. It feels like my mind is busy with something I can’t even identify, like there’s something happening subconsciously. I try to think of what it is, but my mind just feels blank. I think people should stop asking grieving people if they are okay, because deep down, we already know we’re not. They can still check on us and make us feel their concern, but maybe without asking the question whose answer is already obvious. I don’t know, but I think it just makes things harder.

I cried so much when he got sick and during the worst stages of his dementia—more than I did on the day he passed away. Most days, I'm okay. Sometimes, I even feel guilty for being okay after he died. Shouldn't I be crying? That's how people grieve, right? I don't know. God, forgive me if this is wrong, but somehow, I felt a little relieved afterward. A few months before he passed away, I even thought I had an undiagnosed mental disorder because I kept choosing to set aside my own health instead of getting myself properly checked. During one of his emergency room visits, a psychiatrist assessed me and said I might have Caregiver Depression Syndrome. All those sleepless nights, panic attacks, constantly being on alert, overthinking, days of nonstop crying, and the overwhelming mix of sadness, stress, exhaustion, and every emotion in between. There were times when it didn't even feel like I was dealing with the disease anymore, especially during his severe episodes of...

Every time someone tells me that you must be proud of me, I feel a little pain. I don't know what to feel. We had a lot of misunderstandings and argued a lot. I wasn't able to give you the life you dreamed of. All my life, I struggled to meet your expectations and earn your approval. I worked so hard, but it always seemed like it was never enough. Now that you're gone, I still find myself wondering if you were proud of me, of the person I became and of the things I've accomplished. During your final moments, Mama's friend told us to talk to you and say whatever we wanted to say because you might still be able to hear us. I stared blankly at your frail body and didn't know what to say. I watched my sister cry beside you as she hugged you for the last time, and my brother held your hand as he cried silently. I stood in the corner of our house, my mind completely blank. Life goes on after you've passed away. Most of the time, I tell myself I'm fine, but the...

It's been 10 days since you left, and I still can't believe you're gone. Every time I go downstairs in the middle of the night, my eyes still search for you, just like they always did when I was working the night shift. For a split second, my mind still expects to see you there. But now, all I see is Mama sleeping alone on the same bed where you took your last breath. What confuses me the most is that I still haven't cried the way I thought I would. Even on the day of your interment, the tears never really came. While everyone around me was grieving so openly, I felt like I was just moving through the motions—doing what needed to be done, making arrangements, taking care of things. And now that everything has quieted down, I find myself wondering if there's something wrong with me. Does the absence of tears mean I loved you less? Did I not care enough? Deep down, I know that's not true. Maybe I'm still in shock. Maybe my heart is carrying more than it knows ...

I shed a few tears the moment you stopped breathing. After that, I didn't know what I was feeling anymore. I just started doing everything that needed to be done for your funeral, going to St. Peter, buying your clothes, arranging food for the wake, and taking care of all the other details. I don't understand how some people are able to cry out loud when they lose someone they love. I don't even know if what I'm feeling is sadness, grief, depression, or something else entirely. When someone told us to talk to you, I just stared blankly at your casket, lost for words and emotionally numb.  But when night falls and the world grows quiet, that's when it hits me. My chest starts to tighten, and the weight of losing you becomes harder to ignore.