elle's journals

never thought this would get published, i just wanted possible feedback from the editor :)

a rewrite of The Boy Who Cried Wolf

I've known it since I was eight — all that I have dreamed of in my sleep became the reality that I woke up to.

And yes, I've seen it in my dreams. Not just a wolf, a pack of them. Chasing my sheep, my pure, innocent, obedient sheep who do nothing but follow what I, their shepherd, want them to do. What a smart herd they are! They've been under my care for three years now — of course, they have a special place in my heart.

I still remember that day. "Our business is growing," father said. "I can no longer attend to my sheep. Does anyone want to look after them?" My brother said no. My sister said no. Mother suggested we hire an errand boy or that we sell them.

But no! That's not how it is in my dreams! I made my way to the living room and I — like the way I've seen myself in my dreams — presented myself to my parents. A big, proud smile.

"I can do it, Ma, Pa!"

"Can you really, though?"

"Yes, I'm—"

"Alright, alright. Take care of them, then." Pa kept glancing at his watch. I guess he was in a hurry.

But it had been a secret with myself, the thing about my dreams coming true. It has been helpful, knowing how things would eventually turn out. It would have been helpful to other people in our village, too, but everytime I wanted to talk about my ability to other people, they just won't have the time to listen. That's why I want to be a child forever. I have a lot of time to listen to stories! 

My sheep stayed with me. They were my only friends. And so, of course, they have a special place in my heart. What wouldn't I give just to keep them safe!

And then this dream, a very odd dream. A pack of wolves chasing my sheep, my friends. If there was only a wolf, I could have fought it alone. But there were lots of them!

Then I woke up. Was that a dream, or a nightmare?

All I know is, this has to be heard. This is an important thing, and I need the help of everybody in the village. We could fight the wolves together.

"Wolves! Wolves! The wolves are running after my sheep!" I ran, knocked on every single door in our village. "I need your help!"

I raised my voice louder. Two, three, ten. Ten villagemen came to help!

But all they saw was my sheep, unharmed. I tried to explain that the wolves aren't there yet, but soon they will be. But they exited fast. They didn't have time to listen.

And I tried again the next day. Three,six, seven! Seven villagemen came to help!

But all they saw was my sheep, unharmed. I tried to explain that the wolves aren't there yet, but soon they will be. But they exited fast. They didn't have time to listen.

The next day, the wolves went chasing my sheep. Again, I shouted, the loudest I could. One…

Zero. None.

No one came out of their house.

I wonder, will they ever have the time to listen?

In our Probability Theory II class, we are required to reflect on our learnings after every topic, before going to the conceptual / computational exercises. Sometimes I get too emotional writing them.

(Of course, I can still reword this, but most of the time I just turn in reflections without trying to beautify them because I think there's beauty in rawness. Also, I love how this class encourages reflection. I can really feel my progress as the sem goes by.)

I just hope that what I'm doing right now is not inconsequential, especially since it is HARD, and I mean REALLY HARD to find motivation to do things when the world around me is falling apart. I hope future me looks back, and thanks myself for trying.

As I write this, there are two things that are true about me:

About a month ago, I turned 20.

The first song on my auto-generated On Repeat playlist on Spotify is Never Grow Up by Taylor Swift.

Maybe it is a birthmonth phenomenon -- I remember adding this song to my 17th birthday playlist when I was just starting to dive into Tay's discography, then playing it all the way to my 18th, 19th, and recently, my 20th. Maybe, I am drawn to the song's acoustic and calming nature. Or maybe, I just need a song to hold on to. Maybe, as I bid my teenage years goodbye, I wanted to hear from someone else's voice the phrase "darling, don't you ever grow up", to give my constant feeling of not wanting to grow up the validation it always wanted to have.

You see, writing -- or should I say ranting -- about not wanting to grow up is not a foreign territory to me. I have wandered in it in daydreams, in poems, in essays, and even in random doodles at the back of my chemistry notes. When I'm not writing about stupid crushes, my sadness, or my loved ones, my go-to topic is how I wish to be a child forever. Childhood is like a fairytale land for me -- there I am innocent, carefree, and most importantly, happy. I have made myself believe that if I try, and wish with all my heart that I'd never grow up, I won't.

I think it's a universal feeling, too, as I watched my older peers tweet about being scared about hitting the two-decade mark in their lives, and my younger friends, about turning a year older. After all, who doesn't want to stay young forever? Who in their right minds would gratefully embrace the responsibilities, and the bills (and the loneliness, perhaps) that come with growing up? Who would want the complications that increase directly proportional with their age?

Not I.

And well, because music eases the pain, and ironically, music listens to my inner desires, I let myself bask in the glorious masterpiece that Never Grow Up is. In the song, Taylor Swift sings what is almost a precaution: how we should never grow up as it could stay this simple, which implies the existence of a not-simple life when you grow up. The song fades out to her singing just never grow up. Because I adore her, and trust her words, I put the song on repeat until it became etched so deeply in my existence that it became who I am.

Except, of course, that didn't happen.

I woke up on a Thursday, 11th of June 2020, a 20-year-old person. And as difficult as it is to say this, even when I have convinced myself for years that the solution to half of my problems is staying a child forever, I present to you my most controversial opinion: I think it's okay to grow up.

We should grow up, because first, that's what is meant to happen naturally, anyway. We are bound to celebrate completing another lap around the sun, because we have stayed on our orbit and found ourselves back at where we started, but this time, a little wiser and stronger. It's okay, because growing up is the only way we can reach milestones, like a year being clean, or a week being productive, or a day of not second-guessing your actions.

We should grow up because even though childhood is warm blankets and tight embraces, big smiles and feeling safe, it is also dependence on breakable things, like kindergarten friends that we would part with after a year because we didn't go to the same primary school, or happiness that a lollipop brings, which lasts for about five minutes only.

We should grow up, because sometimes we carry so much pain from those heartbreaks, and our tiny frames need to grow, and grow, and grow until such time it finally is bigger than anything that could crush us -- until the pain becomes a part of us still, but in a small, dismissible amount.

We should grow up because even if childhood is one big festive, energetic, bright phase of our lives, sometimes all we really need is the tranquil, the quiet, the calm.

We should grow up because sometimes it is the only way we'd be free, and true to ourselves -- when we no longer depend on others, when we have the time to really connect with ourselves.

I admit I still have a hard time convincing myself, too, but I hope we grow up, beautifully and abundantly so.

what teaches fingers which keys to press, or which strings to strum,

when the mind has forgotten the lines and melodies,

long after the used-to-be-favorite song has been replaced by new ones?

what guides the feet where to go,

after they have been a thousand miles away,

after the wind has erased imprints of former trails?

and, what tells a heart to hum,

a soft, soft serenade,

in a dark, cold night,

with nothing but the moonlight

shining through an open window,

in a room where a broken piano sits?

what tells the heart it is the same melody, when the ear can no longer hear?

what tells the heart it is the same place, when skycrapers have replaced the greens?

and, why do we wish to go back,

over and over again,

to the places and people our hearts used to beat for?

well, the heart is a muscle.

no wonder the heart remembers.

-

Wrote this as my final creative nonfiction piece, for my Introduction to Creative Writing Class.

***

Antidepressants.

My system despised that word, a term for medication which relieves symptoms of depression. So, when my doctor — my psychiatrist — brought it up for the first time during our counseling session, my instinctive reaction was to try to talk her out of it. Out of desperation, I threw in some poorly-constructed arguments about how I couldn't afford to buy them with my meager allowance, along with how maybe I didn't really have to take them — maybe counseling and therapy were enough to make me heal, anyway. For someone who stutters a lot, my confidence was at its peak then: an 18-year-old college freshman, trying to outsmart someone who studied the human brain for years. As one might expect, she remained unfazed by my persuasion attempt.

She handed me a small box that contained green and yellow capsules inside. Pills tiny enough, that I could fit all 14 of them in my hands. Green, the color of nature, of growth. Yellow, the color of sun rays, of optimism. Yet at that time I didn't see my capability to grow, nor did I think I could be optimistic, because I was me. And I just wanted to be me.

Antidepressants. I wondered how that word for something that was supposed to help me heal could sicken me. There's no other word that can tone it down, unlike how I loved to coat the word "psychiatrist" with "doctor". Medication is medication. And I hated hearing even its synonyms — pills, capsules, drugs. They all sounded the same to me, like a voice telling me “you won’t be able to function without me”.

After the session, I hid the box of pills in the drawer under my study table. I almost believed that if I wished it away, it would actually disappear. I dove myself under the covers, wishing myself away as well. Yet, I woke up.

The morning after found me in front of my study table, staring at the box and my water bottle. The instruction sheet for my take-home exam paper, which I still hadn’t done, was also on the tabletop. It was due in two hours. At that moment, I didn’t have the time to think about that paper, though, as my mind only seemed to be comprised with a side-by-side collage of thoughts about my impending first dose, and replaying in my mind clips of my conversation with my doctor.

“Do you think your sadness is permanent?” she once asked, careful not to use the word “depression”, as if I didn’t already know I had it. She had to try and make her words less painful, for I refused to believe her diagnosis on me when she first suggested it. I nodded.

I wondered, until when would people keep on translating their words into a softer language, to minimize the impact? How long would they tone down their sentences when talking to me? The kind words in place of a truth slap trade-off was exhausting. Every move and touch were calculated when they were around me, it was if living in an artificial world.

My psychiatrist told me that the pill would stabilize my mood and I would not feel down at random times of the day, that my body clock would be in perfect rhythm again and I would be able to get out of my bed for my morning classes — like how it was before. It might sound ideal, but to me, it only meant that if I would be happy, it’s not because I’m happy — it was because of that neutralizing pill. I felt small, compared to that tiny pill, realizing how such a thing could hold so much power over my existence. I would not be myself anymore after it. And even before it, I was already living in a world of lies, of people using kind words to make me feel better. There was no way out.

With having no escape being my sole running thought, I found myself scrolling through my friends’ list, sending each one a message, telling them that I love them. I had once prided myself for being genuine with my words, but I didn’t know if I could still claim my words, my I love you’s to be genuine, to be coming from my heart, when I know a pill is taking over myself. I had accepted that after the first dose, I could never be sure that I would be sincere whenever I would write letters for my friends. Not only would the pill be a painstakingly robotic routine, taking it daily without fail, but it also got me thinking, what if people would love the drugged me more than who I really am? After all, people would want it when I would no longer be a burden, a crying mess in front of them, right? Yet, would that person be really the same as who I am, before the pill?

When they run into a dead end, and nothing seems to go right, humans cry. So I did. I could already taste the medicine, prior to actually taking it — it tasted like disappointment, regret and hopelessness.

It was almost ceremonial, when I finally downed the capsule. It felt like I was draining my old — my true — self out of me. I swear I could feel the pill in my bloodstream, erasing my entire existence: my involuntarily shaking right foot that was called "distracting" by a classmate, my suicidal tendencies that were a bit too creative sometimes, my always-trying-to-be-honest words, my body that doesn't have a concept of time, that could go through a whole 24 hours of sleeping and still want more. I might as well have dressed in black.

Again - I cried.

But, the world did not stop spinning after that. Time did not stop for me, even when I with all my heart thought it would. I felt like a blank page, an endless nothingness, and if I had a choice, the only thing I wanted to do was to stare at the ceiling. However, I knew I had to work on my exam paper on full turbo mode, because I wasn't special and the deadline wasn't pushed on a later time for me, while I was taking the pill.

I would be lying if I'd say that it went smooth from there, that the next morning I did not fear taking the pill. The truth was, some days were even worse than that first morning, while some days it was a breeze. Some days, the pill still felt too powerful, too heavy that my hands shook whenever I touch it. But, some days — though I struggled to admit it at first — I felt a sense of pride whenever I would look at the green and yellow capsules. As much as I hated them, sometimes the color green reminded me of growth and health; the color yellow reminded me of the sun that makes things glow, of the sun rays that I could feel on my skin, when I was outside because getting out of my bed and my dorm felt easier.

I wish there was a way to know then, that first morning, that after a few months, I will find myself in my psychiatrist’s office, again. This time, I will not cry, my voice will not shake, and she will tell me that I am getting better. I will be the medication-free person I aspire to be. And I will still feel truly loved by the people who are important to me.

And I wish there was a way to tell myself then, that after a year, the word which used to make me shiver will be the first word in one of my drafts. That I just really had to go through all that, and it will get better, as the cliche goes.

I would have not made a big fuss about my first dose if I knew then. But I wouldn’t have lessons, and this story to tell either.

my prof said i could turn this into a picture storybook. best comment i've heard so far.

I was listening to gospel songs on my way to class earlier, and this line struck me:

"Here I am to worship."

I grew up listening to and singing this song in church, but today, it spoke to me in a way I have never thought of before.

The first part, "Here I am" is a reference to our existence. It is a declaration, a claim. The second part, "to worship", is a declaration of purpose. I think this part is the more important one to reflect upon. Without the second part, it would be empty, meaningless even.

I often indulge into this thinking that I don't have a purpose, or that I might never find my purpose. But this line from the song is a happy reminder, on a Thursday morning, that my purpose isn't something that is directed inwards, but something that goes towards the worship of God.

And so, from this day on, I want to do everything, I want to live my life, as a worship to God.

As 1 Corinthians 10:31 says,

Grassy Green Grounds

August 28, 2018

It was a Tuesday. I was in my fourth week of being a college freshman, and I had a really, really bad day at my Kas1 class.

We had a group activity where each one of us were expected to say something about a topic assigned to us. We only had a few minutes to brainstorm with our groupmates. None of my groupmates were from my block.

And since it was a bad day, obviously, I messed up (surprise!). Hearing how my classmates (as they were the first groups to present) were so eloquent and collected while speaking threw my nonexistent confidence to the floor. I ended up just standing in front with my groupmates, and not utterring a single word. I was afraid of too many things all at once but most of all, of saying the wrong things, and people disliking me for it. (For some reason, I didn't want people to dislike me even if I dislike myself.)

My groupmates told me it was okay, but I knew it wasn't okay. It was on my mind like a broken record, playing over and over again the part where everyone was excellent, and everyone was UP-worthy except me.

I was supposed to have my major after that, but thank God my prof cancelled the class. I hurriedly went straight to my dorm room, where I planned to sleep my sadness and frustration away, before going out again for my 5:30 p.m. class.

But I didn't end up sleeping my sadness away. Because a few minutes later, I got a message from one of my blockmates. I went down the entrance of the dorm I was staying at to see Jean and Charlene holding three mango shakes — one of the cups was for me.

It was the first time I actually settled down with people from my block. I spent my first few weeks really trying to get away from my blockmates (and journ batchmates) as I thought of myself as that bad kid who ruined everything she touched. I was afraid because I felt too different to belong to a group. I was afraid that people will just befriend me out of pity and not because they actually want me to be their friend.

With Jean and Charlene, I had a different feeling. They were actually the people that I wanted to be friends with, even before we started talking — I guess I felt that their vibe and energy matched mine.

We went to Sunken Garden, and I forgot I had a bad day at class. It was so relaxing to sit there with people who I actually like being with. It was a funny thing also, as we all wanted to be friends with each other, but we were all just too shy to approach each other. That special day, however, the world made it happen for the three of us.

I remember looking at the grassy green grounds of Sunken Garden, not knowing that after a few months, it would easily be my favorite resting place. I remember Charlene telling Jean and I that the trees look like broccolis from afar. I remember appreciating people with them. It was one of the first days I felt happy in UP.