You and You Alone

By Cleofe Sandoval

Shit happens—a lot of shit. As we navigate this world trying to do the best we can, we meet people, get hurt, fall in love, and learn. But it wasn't until I learned to love myself that I began to heal and live the life I always envisioned.

You and You Alone is my story—I've been a foolish girl, I've also been wise on my path toward being my best self. The common denominator? I always loved others at my own expense. I don't regret my relationships, but it's not easy to reflect on this journey because it took many years for me to gain control of my
life. But eventually, I healed.

I hope that my stories entertain you, inspire you, and maybe even encourage you to have the strength you need to heal. You and you alone have the power to take control of your life.
Will you?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cleofe Sandoval
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201283551

Cleofe Sandoval

Are you attracting narcissists into your life over and over again? As soon as you escape the clutches of one, you find yourself giving everything you have to another? "You and You Alone" will help you break free and learn to give everything to the one person who truly deserves it - You. Author Cleofe Sandoval unveils her entertaining and sometimes foolish life to help you tap into your forgiveness and strength. You don't have to give up; you can cut off the narcissist that's holding you back and let go. "You and You Alone" will inspire you to love yourself and know beyond doubt that you are enough.  

Book preview

Who am I?

The islands weren’t visible from the plane, but I could see the tiny lights glittering in the distance, with darkness as its backdrop. The engine roared, and the plane gently rolled from side to side as I held onto Gabriel’s arm.

We were finally landing in the Philippines. After a 16-hour flight from Golden, I thought I would be exhausted, but I was exhilarated. I squeezed Gabriel’s arm harder and smiled. He gazed into my eyes, and I saw part of my soul within him.

Warmth coursed through my body.

He tapped my lap. Finally, he said.

That was an understatement. This trip was the result of six months of planning and watching endless YouTube videos about street foods, destination islands, and purchasing property as a vacation home.

Gabriel wanted me to get a taste of United’s first class, an airline he mostly flew when taking trips. This was Gabriel’s first trip to the Philippines, the country I was born in and left when I was four years old. So, we had flown to San Francisco the night before and fell asleep at the airport on a bench with my soft blue blanket barely covering us. We caught an 8:30am flight out to Honolulu, Hawaii the following morning, a stepping stone on the way to our future.

He glanced out the window and viewed the same lights as I did. I somehow felt a chill course through his body—it was the same sensation that coursed through mine. He whipped his head around toward me. I can’t wait to buy a vacation home for our retirement here.

Our. A word I craved and lived for. I couldn’t wait either. I was both excited for my new future with Gabriel, and nervous. The last time I had been back in the Philippines was over 20 years ago with both my kids, mom, my niece Catherine Blu and sister, Teresita, to visit my father Pa.

Pa had gone to the Philippines six months out of the year for a few years before 9-11 and built a house in the same province that he and my mom grew up helping the community with architectural services he provided. Pa, always willing to help anyone who needed his help. Both my parents were great at this, always putting others first.

I rubbed my eyes and Gabriel laughed at me.

What? I gawked.

He tilted his head to the side. You slept the whole way here. You missed out on the first-class service that United provides.

That’s not entirely my fault! You drugged me up with that muscle relaxer because my neck ached from being a hobo on a bench for the night. I rolled my eyes.

God, how lucky I was to be with this man? He was playful and kind. He even paid for our flights using his airline points to get us to the Philippines and back home. It was a much-needed trip for both of us.

As the wheels touched the tarmac, a giant sigh of relief left my lungs. I was about to see my home for the first time in forever with the man I loved. This was the start of something incredible.

I leaned my head back, looked up toward the sky, and whispered to myself, Welcome home, Baby!

I grew up in a middle-class family. Pa was an architect and Mom was a registered nurse. Both were hard workers, and Mom worked evenings while Pa hustled during the day so there was always someone home to care for us four kids until we were old enough to stay home alone.

I was the second of four children. Baby became my nickname as soon as I was born, and I shared this nickname with my aunt.

When my parents decided to move to the United States in 1968 to give us all more opportunities, they left me, my two sisters, Teresita and Jane, and my brother, Rico, behind. My brother and sisters stayed with my dad’s parents while I stayed with my grandma, Lola, on our mom’s side.

I vaguely remember our last visit to my dad’s parents’ house. They were well off and owned a large fish business, owned a few tricycles and jeepneys used for transporting people similar to cabs or buses. Owning a few businesses in the Philippines made it possible for my grandparents to own an enormous, gated estate. They had a few helpers, drivers, and other family members trailing the grounds. I would get lost constantly, my curiosity always getting the best of me.

While my siblings stayed there, I lived a few hours away, in a small province outside of Manila with my Lola and aunt, Tita Leona.

While living with my Lola, she assigned me the task of taking care of my little cousins. I accepted the challenge. I always accepted a challenge.

So, I made sure my little cousins were taken care of with their baths each night. That was the chore given to me by my Lola, and I didn’t argue, fight, or rebel. I took a small bowl with a handle, or tabo, and scooped water from a small barrel outside of the house. My little cousins were ages one, two, and three. At the ripe age of four, I was in charge of taking care of them when we played outside, as I was the oldest.

We typically played outside before dinner, and when it was bath time, I would call for each one to line up.

Halika dito! Hurry up! I would say. Come here!

I didn’t speak English at the time. All I knew was our native dialect, Tagalog.

My aunt would get the water from a nearby spigot, shared by other people in the neighborhood, and the barrel would be filled each day, and that’s how we would take baths. The water was lukewarm, and I poured it over their heads, one at a time, like little ducks in a pond.

I soaped their hair and used a small towel to wash their bodies. Once they were done, I would comb their hair, pat baby powder on their faces, and help get them dressed in their pajamas or night shirts.

Lastly, I would bathe myself and cry because I missed my parents.

Taking care of my cousins eased the burning desire within me to be with my siblings and have some type of familiarity. But I understood why we were separated. I had such a strong connection with my aunt and grandma. At least I would get to visit them in Manila.

After a year, Nanay and Tatay came for me from Manila.

Cleofe!

Hearing my name being called out with such a sense of urgency made my heart leap. It was time to go to the United States. I knew it. Mom and Pa were sending for us.

So, we all left. It was a cloudy day, yet wildly warm with a humid breeze in the air. My sisters and I wore dresses and matching coats, hats, and gloves; and my brother wore a plaid jacket and slacks, even though it was blistering hot outside. Our clothes were practically damp from the humidity.

The anxiety built within me. No more crying for Mom and Pa, I was going to see them again.

Nanay and Tatay held our hands as we entered the plane. Fear of the unknown gripped me. It was overwhelming to see so many people in one space. It was the dream of every Filipino: to go to America.

Our parents met us at the airport, and I was nervous they wouldn’t recognize me. I had grown up a lot in that year. But when I flung my arms around Mom, she nestled her face into my neck, and I knew I was home.

After living in an apartment for a year, we moved into a house my parents had bought in the small suburban town of Willingboro, New Jersey. We all learned English in that timeframe, and my parents were proud to finally have a house of their own in the United States.

My parents’ work ethic didn’t seem to diminish over time, either. They were still as hardworking as ever.

One morning, I followed my mother to the post office. What are we sending, Mom?

She smiled at me. Money to the Philippines.

At the time, I didn’t realize how significant that gesture was. Okay, so Mom was sending money back home. Big deal. But it was.

I later found out that my mom had been sending money to put her nieces and nephews through school and helped her mom, sisters, and brothers also come to the United States.

Pa, no! I yelled.

My father paddled my ass so hard with that belt. Sometimes it was a slipper, but that day I deserved a worse punishment. I honestly can’t remember what I was being spanked for, but Pa was livid.

Pa always protected us. He was fierce, and he was equally as strict. Even though he yelled a lot, we respected him. He loved us and always made sure the doors were locked, iron unplugged, garage door locked, car doors locked, and he would even have signs posted to make sure we turned off everything before we left the house. This was his routine every day and night.

When I was six years old, we had been watching TV in the morning, and Rico was holding a pen. He threw it across the room, the pen flying straight at me, striking me in the face. It was wedged, and I could see the pen sticking out of my face.

I screamed as loud as I could, horrified, as the pain and blood gushed down my face. My mom rushed me to the bathroom and started her nursing routine.

Pa immediately turned to Rico and screamed at him at the top of his lungs, Why did you do dat?

With his accent, he ordered Rico to go upstairs into their bedroom. Us curious girls knelt by the door, peeking in to see Rico on the ground. In their bedroom was a makeshift shrine Jesus altar; typical Catholic Filipino homes had shrines or altars in their homes. A statue of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, Bibles, and a couple crosses stood on a dresser near my parent’s bed.

Rico was demanded to kneel and outstretch his arms. Pa placed two large bibles probably each weighing 5 lbs each. He placed one bible atop each upward-facing palm as my brother held his arms out as if he was an eagle.

Shhh, my two sisters said to me as I loudly flopped around the floor trying to peek and listen like a ninja.

Rico had to sit on his knees with his arms out. His back was facing us so I couldn’t see if he was crying, but I knew he must have.

There was nothing we could do. As hours went by, he knelt in front of the altar. In the meantime, my mom put a Band-Aid on my face covering the gaping hole the pen left on my face as I continued to spy on my brother.

To this day, I have a scar to remind me of that pen in my face, and Pa made sure Rico would not do it again. He never did.

The Bible kneeling became a frequent punishment for Rico as we got older, but this was just what discipline looked like in our family.

After one of us did something wrong, all of us would get punished. Pa would say, Line up! He yelled like a Sergeant in the Army, and we would all line up in the living room.

We would already be crying because we knew what would come next, the whack of the slipper or the belt sound frightened me more than the swift pain we would each suffer. The anticipation was horrifying. This would go on for years until we were teenagers or until we (the girls) got our periods.

Once the red friend came to visit us, we were no longer considered children and my sisters and I no longer had to suffer the spankings. We still got scolded though, daily if we left the lights on, iron plugged in, or anything that didn’t fit Pa’s standard.

Nothing in the real world seemed so bad because Pa helped us overcome a lot of those fears. In a way, I felt invincible because my parents prepared me for the evils of the world in a safe environment.

Once we received our periods, Mom called her sisters and told them that we were now considered young ladies. They would laugh and congratulate us. My mom and aunts would comment that we were now women and to stay away from boys because we could get pregnant, but to me getting my period meant no more spankings.

I was twelve years old when I received my red friend, and I had eaten cherries that day. When I went to the bathroom, I saw my underwear had red spots. I changed my underwear thinking that maybe the cherries had seeped through me. An hour later, there it was again. Unbeknownst to me, my red friend had visited, and there