There are memories that don’t knock.
They barge in.
They sit heavy on the chest and refuse to leave.
A year ago, I survived a stroke. People clap for survival, but no one warns you about the shadows that follow it home. How the world suddenly turns duller, darker—like someone dimmed the lights inside your head and forgot where the switch was.
The cruelest moment came during one of my episodes. Stroke rage, they call it—those uncontrollable tantrums many survivors quietly endure in the early days. Anger without logic. Noise without sound. A storm without warning.
I remember arguing with my wife. About what? I can’t even recall. What I do remember is hearing something at the back of my head—voices that weren’t there, echoes that felt real. My emotions hijacked me. My body followed. I lifted a chair.
Let me be clear: I knew I would never hurt her.
But knowing doesn’t matter when fear is already in the room.
Everything collapsed in seconds.
I was reported to the barangay hall in San Nicolas, Manila—dragged there not as a husband, not as a father, but like a criminal wearing my own face. The next day, my wife asked for legal separation. My children—my own blood—turned against me, their words sharper than any blade. They called my sisters in the province. They wanted me gone. Out of their lives. Out of their safety. Out of their story.
I felt numb. Then hollow. Then unbearably small.
Why couldn’t I control myself?
Why did my brain betray me like this?
I begged for forgiveness. It wasn’t given. They wanted distance, silence, disappearance. So I cried alone. Every day. Quietly. The kind of crying where you cover your mouth because even grief feels like something you’re no longer allowed to express.
The barangay meeting was scheduled. I waited like someone waiting for a verdict. It never happened. Maybe they didn’t want to interfere. Maybe they believed time would do what people couldn’t. But the damage had already taken root.
What hurt even more was the dream that quietly died alongside our peace.
Before the argument, my wife had applied for the 4PH Pabahay Program. She was accepted. DECA Homes in Tondo. A house in Manila. A future with walls we could finally call ours. We were only waiting for the payment notice.
She waived it.
Just like that.
A home vanished—not because of poverty, not because of fate—but because my stroke rewired me into someone even I was afraid of.
Months passed. Time did what hearts eventually do—it softened them. My wife found the courage to accept me back. I was allowed to return, but some things don’t come home with you. Trust limps. Dreams don’t respawn. And guilt? Guilt settles in like permanent furniture.
The house is gone.
The scars remain.
And the question still echoes: What if I could turn back the days?
But time doesn’t reverse. It only asks one thing: What will you do now?
So now, I rebuild.
I choose therapy. I choose discipline. I choose to face the monster my stroke briefly turned me into—and refuse to let it win again. I am not healed yet. I am not perfect. But I am trying. Every single day.
This is not a story about violence.
This is a story about illness, shame, forgiveness, and the quiet heroism of choosing to stay—when leaving would be easier.
If you’ve ever lost control and hated yourself for it,
If you’ve ever survived something and paid for it anyway,
If you’ve ever watched love almost slip through your hands—
Take my pain.
Feel it.
And know this: survival is not the end of the story.
Sometimes, it’s where the hardest chapters begin.
