I Broke Up with Reality on a Tuesday

It’s been a while since I saw my family. Maybe six months, I think. Time’s slippery now, like soap in men's public shower. The last time I was home, my dad was pretending not to smoke, my mom was pretending not to worry, and my little sister was pretending she wasn’t smarter than both of them combined. I think we’re all good at that. Pretending's the family sport. We live in a small house that leans slightly to the left, like it’s tired of standing straight. The paint’s been peeling since I was in high school. Green over blue over white over resignation. The living room still has that plastic-covered sofa from the early 2000s. It squeaks when you sit on it, like it’s complaining about being alive too. Mom dusts it every morning anyway. “So we won't be ashamed of entertaining visitors.” We haven’t had any visitors since Typhoon Yolanda. Mom's a small woman with a big voice. The kind of mother who could scold even your ancestors into silence. When I was a kid, she’d make me recite multiplication tables during commercial breaks. Now she just sends me links to job openings at 2 a.m. with captions like “Try mo baka this time true.” I don't call her often. Maybe never. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don't know what to say. What do you tell your parents when your life turned into a sitcom without a laugh track? Still, I found courage to call her last week. It was a Tuesday, of course. The day I like to ruin. She picked up before the first ring ended. “Anak! I saw you on TV!” I blinked. “Hah?” “I saw someone on an online clip! Parang ikaw! They were enacting the Navy!” “No, Ma. That’s not—” “You look so gwapo, ah? How were the other actors?” “I don’t— what?” “I've told the the neighbors that ikaw yun! They said, ‘Ohhh, si Ate, proud mother ng famous actor!’” "What?" “I never thought you'd find such a cool job!” "...” I sat in silence I wanted to tell her it’s not TV. That the mud, the drills, and the shouting were all real, painfully real. That the camera isn’t zooming in for dramatic effect, it’s just life closing in. But she was laughing, proud, happy in that naive, delusional way mothers are when they finally see their failures on national television. Then she said it: “I always knew you’d make something of yourself.” And I almost laughed. Because “making something of myself” wasn’t what happened. It was more like I tripped into what it seems to be the structure I desperately needed. I accidentally enlisted. My sanity filed for leave, and the Navy just accepted the application. She asked if I was eating right. I said yes, even though I’d just inhaled two packs of SkyFlakes and a questionable egg. She asked if I had friends. I said yes, even though most of them are equally miserable men pretending to be heroes. She asked if I missed her. I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t, but simply because saying yes might make her cry, and hearing that might break me. Then she said, “If there's a camera again, smile ka ha? So I could brag you to the whole Barangay.” “Sure, Ma,” I said. “Next time I’m in a typhoon rescue or whatever, I’ll pose.” She laughed like that was the best joke she’d heard all week. And I laughed too, because it was easier than explaining that the only thing rescuing me is the absurdity of it all. After the call, my bunkmate asked, “Who was that? Your girlfriend?” I said, “Nah. Just my mom.” He laughed. “She sounds strict.” “Strict?” I said. “She always told me not to join a gang, but if I ever did, she’d have to join too.” He nodded, impressed. “Damn. Respect.” Yeah. Respect. For the only woman who thinks I'm an actor on TV. But maybe she’s right. Maybe all of this is television. That it's the kind where everyone’s acting, the budget’s low, and the plot makes no sense. Even if that’s the case, I'm glad she’s still watching.