our family lived in Culalabat, Cauayan. Looking back, those early chapters of my childhood were supposed to be filled with innocent laughter and carefree. Instead, they became the foundation of a profound and lasting trauma that would shape my entire existence. By the time I was only in Grade 3, the innocence of my childhood was abruptly shattered. My father was a chronic alcoholic, a reckless womanizer, and a man driven by uncontained rage. The most excruciating part of it all was watching him physically abuse my mother right in front of us. As a helpless little girl, I had no shield against the horror. My siblings and I could do nothing but huddle together, trembling in the corner, our eyes stinging with tears, watching the woman who gave us life being broken down by the man who was supposed to protect us. At such a tender age, I carried a heavy, unbearable weight of pain—both physical and emotional. I vividly remember the terrifying moments when my father’s wrath turned toward me. I experienced the sheer horror of being beaten with a dos por dos—a thick piece of wood—that tragically had a sharp nail protruding from it. Amidst that living nightmare, my paternal grandmother’s home became my only sanctuary. Whenever the violence escalated or whenever my fragile body succumbed to sickness, I would flee to her house to sleep. She was my protector. When the physical and emotional toll became too much and I had to be confined, she was the one who personally rushed to my side, staying with me in the cold hospital rooms. Yet, the paradox of my father was that he never neglected our material survival. He provided for our education and ensured we had food on the table for our daily life. But his financial support could never heal the emotional lacerations he inflicted. He eventually grew so brazen that he would bring his mistresses into our very home whenever we were out. Worst of all, one of those mistresses was my mother’s own niece. They shamelessly deceived my mother right to her face, weaponizing her immense kindness and gentle nature against her. Eventually, the truth caught up with them, and my mother discovered the affair. The betrayal triggered a wave of chaos that rippled through our neighborhood. The husband of the mistress found out, and our lives became completely upended. Because our house was situated right next door to theirs, the enraged husband would constantly throw heavy rocks at our roof and walls. The constant clatter of stones raining down on our home robbed us of sleep and peace. It was a terrifying, volatile environment, marking the absolute worst period of our lives in that place. Driven by the desperate need to survive, we packed our lives and relocated to Duminit, Cauayan, when I was in Grade 7. I naively believed that a change of scenery would miraculously change my father, but a change of place does not change a man’s heart. Because we had no house of our own yet, we temporarily nakitira—squatted—at my aunt’s house. That arrangement lasted for only a month because whenever my uncle got drunk, he and my father would erupt into violent arguments. We were forced to move again, this time to my paternal grandmother’s house. That stay lasted a mere two weeks; she was a heavy drinker herself, and the moment we fell short on contributing money for the electric bill, her temper would flare bitterly. Realizing we had no stable ground, we hastily sold our old house from our previous hometown at a meager price just to raise enough funds to build a small, modest structure on a piece of land my father had inherited. We moved into that cramped house even though it was not completely finished, desperate to secure a roof over our heads and avoid further conflict. By the time I reached Grade 10, the cycle of trauma renewed itself. My father continued his unfaithful ways, and this time, his mistress was his wealthy boss. My father worked as a construction foreman, and the very house he was pouring his sweat into building belonged to his mistress. That was when our ultimate calvary began. Heavily influenced and emboldened by this woman, my father’s abuse reached terrifying new heights. The violence became unpredictable. I survived being strangled tightly while I was fast asleep, being brutally whipped with electrical wires, and enduring endless psychological torture. Unable to bear the suffocating atmosphere, my older sisters and brother chose to marry at a very early age. They chose to build their own families just to escape the domestic prison we lived in. Consequently, I was left behind completely alone with my parents. I became the lone witness to the unfolding tragedy. I had no one left to share my pain, no older siblings to shield me, and no one to help me pull my father away whenever he rained blows upon my mother. It is an incredibly lonely existence to be the bunso and, at the exact same time, the “last card” of the family—the final child carrying the burden of everyone’s unfulfilled hopes. My older brother now has his own family and two children; my second eldest sister has a family, two children, and a thriving business; and my third sister also has two children of her own. They have carved out their own lives, leaving me to anchor a sinking ship. When I graduated from senior high school, looking at the financial strain and the emotional decay of our household, I made a quiet vow to myself. I decided I would stop studying and find a job to help support them, even though they never explicitly obligated me to work. I managed to find employment during the break before the college semester started, working tirelessly as an incoming freshman just to build up a small savings account. Eventually, the doors of the university opened, and I entered my first year of college. Nothing could have prepared me for the crushing weight of higher education. This was the harsh reality of student life that everyone warned me about—an endless cycle of financial anxiety, emotional depletion, and physical exhaustion. Navigating academic demands while constantly worrying about money is draining enough, but the true heartbreak happens when I walk through the front door of my house. Instead of finding a safe haven, I am met with biting words, being called a worthless, lazy, and completely useless child. More than anything in this world, I yearn to come home to a house that I can genuinely call a sanctuary—a peaceful home devoid of screaming, a place enriched with emotional intelligence where someone actually seeks to understand my silence, validates my exhaustion, and stands firmly on my side. But that reality does not exist for me. I return home physically broken from school, only to be confronted by a filthy house, a mountain of greasy dishes waiting to be washed, piles of heavy laundry to be scrubbed, and meals that need to be cooked. I am expected to be a machine, operating as if my body never feels fatigue, as if my heart never aches. Now that I am in my second year of college, standing at the crossroads of my youth, I find myself deeply hesitating, having second thoughts about whether I even have the strength to continue my course. In the midst of this overwhelming darkness, a small saving grace arrived in the form of my friends. They have become my absolute refuge, my escape from the suffocating walls of my daily life. They are the only souls in this world who truly look at me and understand the depth of what I am going through. Whenever I am surrounded by them, a profound sense of happiness washes over me. For a few beautiful, fleeting hours, it feels as though I don’t have a single problem or care in the world. They give me the laughter that my home steals from me. Compounding the strictness of my upbringing, I had a secret relationship when I was eighteen years old. My parents were incredibly overprotective and strict, a reality worsened by my status as the youngest child. My boyfriend and I only lasted for a single year because my parents eventually discovered the secret. Remarkably, that breakup was not entirely painful; I recognized that I was still very young at the time, and my heart had not yet fully matured to understand the depth of romantic grief However, the absolute biggest, most devastating heartbreak of my entire existence happened this year. My beloved grandmother, my lola, passed away. With her final breath, the last pieces of my emotional armor were stripped away. Now, I truly have no one left fighting in my corner. There is no one left to sit with me in the quiet afternoons to tell me old stories, and no one waiting by the stove to cook a warm meal for me whenever I walk home tired from school. The immense, unconditional love she poured into my life—acting simultaneously as my grandmother and my true mother figure—left a void that can never be filled. I am left navigating the storms of my second year of college, grieving the only anchor I ever had, and wondering how much longer the “last card” can hold on before she finally breaks
All Rights Reserved. © 2026 | rosiemaeburinaga.online