III

When will I recognize myself?

THE RETREAT HOUSE is peaceful, quiet, smacked in an elevated ground between rows upon rows of trees that serve as a natural barrier from the rest of the world.

I make a point to separate myself from the group every chance I get, although it's unavoidable to share a room with the girls.

The activities are simple-or absurd is the more correct word for it. By day, we focus on group healing to process his sudden death. By afternoon, it's more focused on personal space. With a facilitator in front guiding us, we have to close our eyes, find our safe place, and release every burden, every emotion, we're carrying to ground ourselves and destress. They say it's a way to face our deepest emotions.

I don't see how that's any help to a group of grieving young adults but I try it anyway, for the sake of it.

And I'm right. It's nonsense. When I close my eyes, I see nothing. There's no safe space for me, so I just pretend to follow the activity until it's over.

The facilitator then asks me to share my experience, but my cold silence is enough indication for my lack of willingness and so he moves to the next person.

Dior shoots me a warning glance, but I shrug and leave, with an excuse that I want to be by myself.

I'm being rude, they will say. But isn't this supposed to be a time meant for ourselves?

That night, the facilitator walks over to me, patient and smiling. As our conversation starts, I get the sense that somehow he knows the activity failed for me. So he gives me a pen and paper and asks me to write everything instead. I'm too tired to say anything else so I take them and head back to our room while the group prepares for dinner.

At first, it's hard to find a place to start, but when I finally get the feel of it, I go on auto-pilot mode and unleash all of my thoughts and emotions in one go, startling even myself at how pathetic and miserable I am, then and even more now.