In the immediate preceding term, we had this discussion in our optics class about lenses. To illustrate the concept of magnification, scattering, and aberration, Professor Caguioa’s slideshow presented an eerie-looking deer, its eyeballs in white. He says that deers often die when they cross the street because they get blinded by the cars’ lights. I do not understand the motivation of the “deer in the headlights,” but it was a nice try for him to, at least, unboring his weekly lessons. Dr. Caguioa, along with other professors I had that term, will be missed. According to the university’s academic calendar, the midterm should be around next week. I did not tell Nanay that I did not enroll this term. She did not seem to bother, anyway. Still, no one in this house appears to notice that I have not been doing my fortnightly churning of hieroglyphics in recycled A4 paper. It has been two months since I entered into this unannounced LOA-cum-gap year. Everyone close to me expects me to graduate on July 31, 2023. Verily, that plan ceases to exist.
I had planned these quiet months to calibrate myself: (1) That I should continue doing research work, despite the prohibition of my research adviser, Dr. Yu, from attending any research meeting. She cites this arcane university precedent that students on LOA are as if not students at all; that, in essence, they are as good as out-of-school children. (2) That I should fix myself, in terms of health. (2.1) The ungodly mix of the pandemic and Herculean junk-food eating habits has rendered me barely mobile and a few ticks below the centennial mark of the weighing scale. (2.2) At the same time, I have found difficulty taking care of myself, that I go for days without bathing or brushing my teeth. Thank God for the tropical Philippine summer for forcing me to bathe more often and scrub off the days-old layers of dried sweat, saliva, wherever, whenever. (2.3) I should also fix my eyes, they keep on getting blurry. Probably some aberration in my retina or corneas prevents light rays from hitting the right spot.
It’s not that I’m not doing anything. I checked myself into a psychiatric facility that specializes in alcohol and substance abuse. Thank God for the passage of the Mental Health Act–I’ve been able to enjoy subpar, and possibly a sanitation hazard, eight, free, in-person, consultations in a Department of Health psychiatric facility in San Fernando. Those eight sessions went by in a breeze but whenever I sat in our consultation room (which, I suspect doubles as a sanitarium and/or a slaughterhouse), time dilated as if we’re closing in on the speed of light. I tried, I swear to God, I tried. The therapist, Dr. Bautista, was OK, but she just kept on blabbering incantations and chants which I could do whenever I thought of killing myself or whenever self-loathing would reach the point where I just couldn’t get out of bed. She calls it my “toolbox” and it has: (1) worry decision making tree, (2) positive self talk and pleasurable activities, (3) journaling, (4) breathing exercises, and (5) thought challenging exercises.
“The answer must be in the attempt,” wrote Adria in her Twitter bio a few months back. I attempted, really, to rectify the situation, but nothing seemed to work. Eventually, I realized that, maybe, I needed a break when I would do nothing. I was doing the last problem set for Dr. Yanga’s class when I realized that. To hell with midyear, I need a break, I need to rest, I need to restart, I repeatedly told myself. Maybe, after all, the answer is not in the attempt–but rather, the lack of attempt in itself.
I love being on my own, so this temporary AWOL from the people from the academe is pleasurable. There is also a satisfaction, on my end, that I am no longer trying to presuppose that I am not alone–because now, I am very much alone. I have friends and they pretend to listen. I have a two-plus-year relationship with a girlfriend-but-not-really who is always working, and so I really try not to bother her with my existence, unless she asks. Sans her presence–physical or otherwise–I spend a significant part of my day (1) recalling our fond memories, (2) making up fake scenarios about us, just to preoccupy my mind, or (3) daydreaming how nice it would be to have her now. It has been just like that for countless days. My contemplation of hurting myself isn’t intense anymore, though, unlike back then in high school. Maybe, the hubris and angst have faded already. Maybe, I will just pretend that the remaining months of this self-imposed vacation is a form of self-care or mindfulness or whatever lexicon a self-righteous “mental health advocate” would conjure.
One of the first memories when I entered the university was on the concept of a Schwarzchild black hole. It posits that any object may become a black hole, provided that it is sufficiently compressed into a very tiny space. For instance, the sun must be compressed to an area equivalent to Makati City for the former to become a black hole. I find comfort in those concepts, in those tidbits of trivias. Maybe if I slowly allow my deathly thoughts to percolate and seep away from my consciousness, they would–miraculously–transform into a black hole within me. It isn’t satisfying nor correct to mend emptiness with another void–that’s like dividing zero by zero–but maybe that’ll do the trick. Here’s to hoping that this is not a dear-in-the-headlights moment, for the rays ahead are too bright and the light is not converging well.
This piece was awarded a consolation prize in the 2022 Life UPdates literary contest of the UP Institute for Creative Writing under the short story category. Weird, right? 🤭