For thirty days, I tried living alone, away from the curfew and inquiring stares of my parents whenever I went home late at night. Gone from the responsibilities of being the eldest child. Lost from the grueling reality that I am running away from my own self.

Living twenty-three years of my life under the care of my parents was difficult. Hard enough for a typical stubborn and proud child like me. I would often kick myself whenever I would ask for my allowance. Then, I thought that given the opportunity, I would get odd jobs so as not to be a burden to my already worn out parents.

Oftentimes I would resort to small-time business just to make both ends meet. Funny, I am not that kind of daughter who would rely on tantrums to merely claim my parents' attention. As a matter of fact, I'd rather want that we all mind our own businesses. I would rather live my own life, be alone. And why not, if I can live by myself.

I had this perception that I could easily be whatever I wanted to be and be happy. That I could beat the cliché, "No one is an island." Or so I thought.

But moving out was one of the best things that I ever did (although it started at the most unsuitable and most depressing moment of my life). It was more of a spur of the moment decision. I was pissed off with all the pressures at home. I felt house rules and my relationship with my folks complicated my young life. I hated my dad for pushing me around and for telling me what to do. Probably I was radical because I dared to live outside his shadow.

From the moment I started to work, I already made plans of shouldering some of the household expenses. But being told what to do hurt the most sensitive part of me, my pride. I hate being told what to do, being pushed around. I wanted to make decisions on my own. I knew it was more fulfilling to experience life's hardships on my own.

On the eve of my father's arrival from one of his out-of-town trainings, I packed my bags and moved out. To hell with the high price of the studio type room that I was about to rent! I just want to escape.

Living alone began as an adventure, without all those stuff that were illegal or bad. After all, I just had to worry about my survival. No more explaining as to why I came home late. No more white lies whenever I chose to stay away from them.

It was freedom I found too. I could sleep with my girlfriend whenever I wanted. I was released from the bondage of all my family's expectation and norm.

But then, as Barbra Streisand sang, "some good things never last." The burden of paying up for my expenses came - food, electricity, water and the rent. The expenses piled up until it became depressing.

On nights when I am alone I felt the sadness that filled my room. As much as I wanted my girlfriend to stay with me, I rarely had my way.

My girlfriend has her own family and she could not afford to be independent from them. So I would cry in my room, hiding with my loneliness. Those were the moments when I truly felt alone.

Since then, I reckoned that I could never live alone as an island, for I am a human being. I started to miss my family. But still, I only missed them when my girlfriend was not around. Life wasn't easy.

Living alone made me reflect on a lot of things. I thought about the moments spent with my family, about my existence and life in general. Being alone makes me think about philosophical stuff. And I hate it when it happens.

The serious and ever logical part of me reveals itself when I am alone. Sometimes it would come to a point where I would think about ending my life. But I could never go through with it. Perhaps I was a coward.

I had this messianic complex. I felt that I was the savior of my family yet I hated the idea that I could be the one supporting them. Then I thought I was selfish, guilty of thinking first and foremost about my welfare. A traditional Catholic orientation had a lot to do with this. I was influenced to believe that suffering is a virtue. Or that women must submit themselves to men.

Hah! I despise that orientation. It is patriarchal and very oppressive. No wonder many men feel superior over women. The perception has been implanted in our backward society for centuries.

I thought of coming home but there were second thoughts in my mind. First, it would signify my weakness. Second, it meant being subjected again to the grueling truth of family responsibility. Third, I would be reunited with my dad.

In my heart, I couldn't really bring myself to blame him. Raising five children is a like a career. It could be hell. Perhaps it came as a blessing that almost all his children were obliging.

Three of us had already finished college and are now working. Two younger siblings are still in college. Somehow, we were raised well because nobody got married early, has a drug problem and our friends are good company. As for my dad, he can be annoying. Yet, among other issues, he is excellent.