There is a ghost in my house. It looms over my shaking shoulders and giggles at my tearstained cheeks. It doesn't touch me—it can't—but I feel its grasp on my aching head, forcing my eyes to the floor. It's almost comfortable this way. After all, this isn't the first election I lost.
I follow politics in two countries: the Philippines and the United States. Being a dual-citizen is a privilege that I honor and one that I take very seriously. But it comes with the price of getting my heart broken two times more, and I admit I'm falling apart. I'm in a state of mourning. The recent elections has left me oscillating between anguish and emotional numbness. I can't seem to find a middle ground, and I fear that if I do, I would sully the people I used my vote to protect.
What disturbs me the most is how strikingly similar this was to the 2022 elections in the Philippines. Ferdinand Marcos Jr., son of the late dictator, ran against our vice president at the time, Leni Robredo. The support for Leni was profound. We broke records at rallies, made sure the young and old alike heard us: our future was better off at the hands of a qualified woman. That we must not let our country fall back under the Marcoses' control. That we deserved a leader who truly cared about us. And yet, somehow, that wasn't enough.
It never is.
This year, the same shade of red stares back at me, as the voices of cult-like supporters ring in my ears like gunfire. It's the type of image where you've looked at it for too long that you see it crystal clear when you shut your eyes. I cannot escape it, and it's turning my body to ashes.
My heart burns as if I've lost someone, and in a way, I have.
Feeling helpless is the worst part. I did everything I could, but even that had little impact. Now, I sit here, in a country so far away, as I mourn the other nation I call home. My thoughts drift to the people of Palestine, to Ukraine, and to everyone who will be affected by the upcoming changes. I weep for my fellow members of minority, and how deeply sorry I am that we failed.
God knows how much I hate failing. He knows how much I hate to see the wicked take seats of power, grins spreading on their ugly faces as they control the world and leave the good to perish. I hate that there is nothing more that I can do than to cast a vote that does not win. That all I can do is write, wondering if someone will read this and resonate with my desperation to feel something—anything other than hurt.
Grief is a vampire. It's drunk the energy from my veins and swallowed it in a single gulp. I am left dry on the pavement of my powerlessness, dehydrated from the ocean of tears I've shed—enough to fill the gap between my two countries. I am voiceless. My throat is dry, and perhaps that's why I'm so desperate to make noise in prose.
Grief is a ghost. A very large one. It takes up the first story of my home, and I imagine it will follow my every step. I feel it on my skin, so heavy I wonder how I have the strength to type this out. The ghost is loud, yet only I can hear it. It’s haunting, like whistling wind in the middle of a typhoon; I worry it will shatter the windows and pierce me with shards of broken glass. It taunts, amused at my state, its hyena-like laughter clinging to my eardrums as it drives me to madness. You were wrong to hope, it tells me. Naive. Optimism never suited you.
Maybe it's right. Given the state of my countries, I often say they are difficult to love. But as I type this now, my mind wanders to that line from WandaVision:
What is grief if not love persevering?
And that's when it hits me. Grief is neither a vampire nor a ghost. It is a reminder. It tells me I couldn't be more wrong. The Philippines and the United States are not difficult to love. In fact, it's easy. Because if I am willing to relive this cycle time and again, it must only mean that I love them.
It's because I love them that I weep for every loss yet hope for another chance. It is the reason I resent those in power—those who hold back the wonders and potential these countries could achieve. Love is why I stay, why I face disappointment, why I risk heartbreak as many times as I need to for a chance at something good. It's why I vote. And it's why I keep trying, even when it feels hopeless. Because neither country is hopeless.
Grief sits on my shoulders. It compels me to stay on my feet. It moves my fingers to type this as my body begs to lay down and break. It forces tears down my face so I never forget how this shatters me. It screams into my ears to stay firm, to never surrender. And I listen.
That is what grief is. And this is the way it haunts me.
grief and the tidal patterns of the ocean. i sometimes hate that it manages to find its way back to some of us. hay, we love to talk and write about grief, huh? thank you for sharing this beautifully written and deeply felt piece. 🤍🫂
Revisited this again after coming home from work ❤️ and sending you support in your grief. Beautifully written