On my family and the L-word

Last week, my granny was confined in the hospital for pneumonia. She’s out of the hospital now, but I remember the only time I visited: as Mama and I were leaving, I kissed Lola’s cheek and said, “Bye, ‘la. Pagaling ka. Love you.”
I forgot what she replied, but she smiled, and that was good enough for me.
I love you. I have always had difficulty in saying that to my family. We’re not exactly the touchy-feely type; we have fun with each other, but we’re not emotionally open. I sometimes find it hard to tell my mom that I love her; how much more the less close members of my family?

It was also only last September 16 that I told Mommy (or Tita Bebe—I just call her Mommy. Mommy is different from Mama.) I love you. It was her birthday, and I told her that only through text. I know Mommy really loves me, and it made me feel like shit, being afraid to tell her I love you straight to her face.
Why the hell am I like this? I have no qualms telling my friends (especially Mojz, Gab, Kat, and Peter Angelo) that I love them, but I can’t even say it to my own flesh and blood. Jesus, I suck at life forever.

Ela is a twentysomething who is constantly getting stuck in self-destructive behavior and bouts of low self-esteem. She struggles with depression and writes to relieve herself of her feelings. Sometimes she even blogs about other things like makeup and positivity. One of her pieces was published in the Inquirer Young Blood in October 2017. She likes cats, dogs, and sometimes even people.

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