I’m not lazy, but I don’t want to get up from bed today

Here we go again.

I watch the fan stir the curtains hanging behind it. It seems I have sleepwalked to the controller and turned off the aircon at three in the morning. From the windows, the morning sunlight tries to cut through the thick yellow fabric but barely could, leaving my room dim enough for my sleepy head.

I don’t want to get up from the mattress. I don’t want to start my day.

My schedule has been erratic for, maybe, seven years now, but I feel like I’ve been waking up to the same day every morning. My long to-do list. My approaching deadlines. The monthly bills, the little loans that have kinda accummulated, and everything else you can’t get gratis.

It feels endless that I sometimes wonder if life will ever get better for me. 

And I am—what—33. 

I used to not care about age, but ever since I reached 32, I started counting. My responsibilities have melted away my idealism, and it seems joy left with it.

A month ago, I had to move out of the “house” we were renting in Las Pinas. It was sort of a duplex, actually—a huge three-storey house. We were on the second floor, and both the ground and third floors were occupied. I loved our space there. One wall had windows installed from left to right, and lights from sunups and sundowns would gently enter my room. People think those living in that executive village are rich. Even I thought the same way when we first moved there—Google it, and you’ll read the word “first-class.” A friend also once called it “posh.”

I used to look at the big houses there as I jogged around the streets every evening and wished to have such a nice home someday. The village also had its own park, a club house where Papa used to do his aquatic exercises, and a big court which, I noticed, was always rented for interschool basketball leagues. 

But I later learned not everyone there was rich. We were not.

One midnight in that place, I was waiting for sleep to roll over me, when I heard a wailing upstairs. So, I sat up quickly, and without turning on the lights, I walked out of my room and eavesdropped by the dark living room.

I had been alone because Papa had been in Australia dropping off and fetching his granddaughter from school. I don’t think he still wants to go home, especially that my sister needs him there. I understand. My family worries about me living alone, and I tell them they shouldn’t. I’ve done it many times before. I don’t even feel like I need to “endure” it—I just walk into it as if it’s part of life.

But that midnight was different.

“So, what if I had drugs? Why tell the police?” I heard a guy’s voice coming from the third floor. “If only I had a knife, I would have killed him. I would have stabbed him to death.”

He repeated those words, sounding angrier and more frustrated as he did. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I was afraid it would grow into something dangerous. So, I quickly tiptoed back to my room and pretended I was asleep as if the drug addict’s eyes were on me.

I hoped Papa was with me, or that I had a husband beside me if things went awry. But since I was on my own, my senses were heightened like 110 times. If anything happens, I had to fend for myself because I had nobody else.

After that, I couldn’t sleep anymore. What if he bangs on my door or slices my screen door with a knife? What if he finds a way to open my window? What if he starts a fire or something while I’m asleep? He’s just on the third floor, anyway. But I remembered that I wasn’t—and never am—completely alone. God has been with me. So, I prayed the Rosary and didn’t stop until I couldn’t stay awake anymore.

To cut the long story short, I never slept in that house again after that night. Then, I was compelled to transfer to the province of Cavite, right in the subdivision where my relatives live. With somebody to partake of meals with now, everything’s been better. It’s supposed to be. But, of course, moving to a cheaper yet bare house also meant paying for 1 month advance and 2 months deposit, packing and transporting our stuff, unpacking and arranging our stuff, and buying new furniture to replace the broken ones. 

It’s been a month since I transferred here. I have been working from dawn till dusk, drowning my worries with thoughts of what I need to do at this hour, what’s next, and what else life demands of me. I feel numb most days, but I can pull off a smile if I have to.

Mornings have been difficult lately, though.

Maybe, I lack exercise. Maybe I need more sleep, or an out-of-town trip, or a week of rest. Maybe, I am burned out.

Here we go again.

I sit up and sigh. I look up as if I can see the heavens through the ceiling. I recite my morning prayers in my head.

Then, I get up on my feet and start my day.