Waiting for your menstruation to come can mean, for the most part, enduring that icky feeling down there. Like something’s on its way and you can literally feel it... but then it just doesn’t come. That’s exactly how I feel right now. I was supposed to get my period by the end of June. It’s already July, and still, nothing.
I’ve been going through all sorts of insanity and painful cramps this week, like my uterus is mocking me. Cramping as if I’m already bleeding. The familiar tangle of something in my abdomen has been killing me for days, and I just want to get it over with. This stage of the menstrual cycle is the worst. It’s not just gross, it also comes with this weird, inexplicable disgust at my own body. And don’t even get me started on how emotional I’ve been. I AM GETTING SO EMOTIONAL.
So, after pausing it for days, I finally decided to continue watching Nomadland.
On a normal day, I probably would’ve called it just another melancholic, slow-moving film. But today is not a normal day. My abdomen hurts. I’m not even sure if it’s cramps or just hunger. I woke up groggy from a girls’ night out, and there was nothing left to eat. I spent most of the early afternoon turning the house upside down, trying to clean and organize everything. I was tired... and famished... or maybe just period-ing.
After a not-so-satisfying lunch, I lay down and hit play on Nomadland.
Honestly, the film as a whole isn’t really a tearjerker. It’s flat in some places, kind of boring, maybe even forgettable. But when Dave decided to leave his nomadic life to be with his son, Fern was left alone. Then it hit me. They were never together anyway. Just two people living in RVs. Houseless, not homeless — Fern once said that to a girl. I remember.
And when Dave left, we saw Fern in her quiet moments. She was eating alone in some deserted fast food place, sitting by herself in a near-empty arcade, standing beside a life-sized dinosaur model. And weirdly, I saw myself in her. That’s when the tears started.
I imagined myself older. Face wrinkled. Maybe with shorter hair, because that’s apparently the universal haircut when you reach a certain age. I wondered if I’d even live that long. People tell me I’m still young, that there’s a whole life ahead of me. But during moments like this, I can’t help but picture a future that makes me feel... lonely. Not excited. Just afraid.
Afraid of losing things — my youth and all its what-ifs, the people who shaped me, the places that felt like home. Pino. I can’t even imagine what life would be like without him.
And truthfully, I don’t think I have a life yet. Every day I regret not being bold enough to explore the world. I’m afraid to love because I’m terrified of what I could lose.
Watching Fern at 61, alone, got me thinking. What if that’s me? Would I still enjoy eating alone in public? Would I still feel like myself, even when no one else notices that I was once a 26-year-old who wandered around malls on weekends?
Would I still watch movies alone if my eyesight’s worse and I can barely hear what’s happening?
Would I still come home to Pino? Will he still be there, wagging his tail like mad, standing on two legs just to reach my face? Would my parents still be home? Would they still nod at me when I enter the door?
What about my sisters? They’ll always be two and six years younger than me. Would they already be married, living somewhere else, and watching their own lives unfold while occasionally thinking about our younger days?
And Pino… oh, Pino. I don’t know how I’d ever be ready to say goodbye. I think you’ll be my first real heartbreak, but I also know you’ll always be my greatest love.
These are the thoughts I had while watching Nomadland.
What are we supposed to do when the people and things we love have to go?
This isn’t a typical film review. It’s more like a messy reflection. Despite not loving the film, it still managed to dig deep and pull something out of me.
Nomadland is quiet, melancholic. On a usual day, I’d probably stick with it, maybe complain a little, but I’d finish it. That’s what I like about slow films anyway. They give your mind space to drift. You can zone out and not feel guilty. You don’t need to give your whole attention. It waits for you to return, like a gentle tap on the shoulder.
Getting old is scary. But what’s scarier is watching the things you love slowly disappear. How do you keep going, knowing that time will take them, one by one, right in front of you?
I saw it happen to my grandmother. Time slowly took her — her fire, her memory, her warmth. The warmth that once scared us as kids, but also made us feel so loved. And then one day, she was just… gone.
Once we grow older, do we stop dreaming?
Fern, at 61, hadn’t figured out her life yet. Is that okay? Or should that scare me? Or maybe that’s just what life is. An endless puzzle. A mystery we’re not meant to solve. Just something we keep exploring. Maybe the questions aren’t even there for answers. Maybe they’re just there to keep us moving, convincing us that there’s something to figure out.
Anyway, I think I’ve started to ramble. Never mind.
This is my blog after all. My little corner for nonsense and whateverish.
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