One would think of all the overthinking overthinkers do that they would have already thought of at least a million ways to cure or alleviate the, at times, maddening thoughts that occur when one is overthinking.
Yet here we are. Simply stuck in all the maddening thoughts swirling… Traveling through years and light-years. Of the fiction and non-fiction memories in varying resolutions. Of mentally recorded conversations. Of what might have beens. Of what could be.
Overthinking.
08.25.2018 03:25am
[Thoughts written as I revisit my love (nay, obsession?) with Paolo Nutini while drunk on mint tea coz I’m hardcore like that]
Write everyday. This is something I’ve been told by many people in my life many times over. Write everyday. Write something – anything – everyday.
I used to write everyday. I grew up keeping a diary which I gave many nicknames coz I wanted to be original and since I treated my diary like a friend it seemed only fitting that my friend would have a name that’s not generic as ‘diary’.
The obsession with keeping a diary started perhaps when I was around 9 or 10 years old. The diaries started out filled with dreams I could recall and also showcased my love for Backstreet Boys and how well I knew MTV (back when MTV was still MTV).
As the years pressed on, the pen and paper later became my outlet as I entered the weird and confusing and angry teenage years. I wrote and wrote and wrote. I had friends but it felt better when I wrote. I understood myself better when I wrote it down. Unloading emotions that my teenage heart and mind could barely hold.
I am being dramatic, of course. I don’t think my teenage years was all that complicated or that I was complicated but I guess part of that was because I had something to turn to. I had my music. I had my writing. Left with in my room a radio, my guitar, a pen and a few sheets of paper and maybe my diary, I was good. That was heaven.
Write everyday.
I used to write everyday.
Then I started to work and growing up took more of my energy that I couldn’t write down things anymore. I didn’t want to write down things anymore. What was there to write? What was the beauty about growing up and having to own up? I had no more daily mundane things to write because it was all becoming much too big and heavy to bear most times that words didn’t do any of it justice.
I focused on my music. I always tried getting a song out of me at least once every two months. I wrote alot of songs that were, looking back now, quite honestly good and were significant in helping me learn about myself and the world around me. In my youth, I was fearless and hopeful. That showed in my writing.
The deeper I got into my relationship with coffee, I discovered, the better my writing got. The more caffeine I got, the wittier the lines were and tighter the structure if it was a song or a poem.
But like I said, growing up became too much. It took all my energy. I had nothing left to spare. I couldn’t shut the noise in my head that was screaming for the noise of the world to shut up.
However, it’s in these moments that I try. I wait for a calm to come around. The calm that takes place before the madness. I take a few deep breaths. I pick up a pen and find a few sheets of paper – still feels as good as it’s always felt – and I write. It will start off rusty, words won’t come as smoothly as they did but I write. You’ve first got to write off the dust before you find yourself again.
And here I am, writing. Revisiting my old self. To when I was sure and fearless.
An introduction – nay, ‘excuse’ – to my absence, my lack of posts:
April 15th, I celebrated my 29th birthday. Alas! The last stretch of my twenties has officially begun and am now left to wonder what else is ‘out there’.
My twenties haven’t been easy. As a matter of fact, to say ‘it’s been a pain’ would be quite the understatement. Each year, a new challenge has come up to shape me up and tear me down and put me back together again. No, my twenties – so far – hasn’t been all bad. It has, of course, had its fair share of loveliness that’s allowed me to withstand and survive each year.
This has brought me to my own version of ‘Life is a balance’. It’s not exactly original but, allow me to explain:
I believe everything in life ultimately balances itself out. For example, if you’ve had a bad morning, to balance it out, the gods, fate or whatever you believe in, will come together and make sure you’re going to have a good, or at the very least decent, evening. This ‘balancing out’ comes in every version of the bookends. It’s in every hour, every day, every week, every month, every year. If you’ve had a not-so-good start of year, trust that you’re going to breathe a sigh of relief at the end of the year. It will balance itself out.
This is something I’ve come to believe in as my introvert self continues to contemplate over life, its inner workings and intricacies. It’s not so much an out but more of a saving grace. This allows to me have something I turn to whenever life sneaks up on me and shows me I’m not in control of things – really, of anything. I learned to just take deep breaths, pause, and tell myself, ‘it’ll balance itself out’.
About a week after my 29th, a new concept popped up in my orbit. I read Leslie Odom Jr’s book, Failing Up. A lovely, enlightening, uplifting book. There’s a bit that talks about Saturn’s Return and I was immediately intrigued (as I have an interest for things that are not necessarily within this atmosphere we exist in). The book eventually explains that since Saturn takes approximately 29.5 years to complete its orbit around the sun, your 29th will be the first time ever that Saturn’s been back in that same spot it was when you were born. This cosmic activity is often thought to bring about significant changes in life. Taken with a grain of salt, I thought deeply about this.
There’s no denying that the 29th year, the last of your 20s, your last go at being a pseudo-adult, is meant to bring in a tidal wave of changes. Bookends, remember?
However, it’s good to keep in mind that whatever those changes are, they are left entirely to however you perceive and accept them to be. So, it’s best to make the most out of it – something we always hear but needs to be repeated constantly.
Breathe through it. Breathe through your highs and lows. Breathe through your laughter and suppressed pain (please know you’re not alone). Breathe through all your endeavors. However cosmic or minute the bookends may be.
When I created this blog, I had every intention of publishing content at least once a week. Now, only a month into this project, I found myself with plenty of ideas – unfinished entries, incomplete ideas. But they’re just that: unfinished and incomplete. All stuck at ‘Save as Draft’.
I suppose it has to do with the fact that I haven’t allowed myself the freedom to write to declutter the madness that goes deep within that when this project happened, the floodgates opened up and now I’m trying to figure out just how to make sense of all the madness scattered all over.
See, writing, to me, has always been a way to make sense of the world outside me and the world in my head. It’s one of the ways I’ve learned to process things and to deal with life and all its versions of madness.
When I was much younger, I could keep a journal and write an entry at least once a day. As an introvert, not knowing how to share my thoughts to other souls meant my writings were my bestfriends. Writing was where I could unload the most random and obscure things that ran through my young mind. This was how I got to know myself.
Writing was the thing that got me through all the ever dramatic teenage angst. It was the thing that made me realize and understand the world in my own way. I learned the power of words. How it can help you process traumatic things and eventually heal. How it can help you tame your demons. How it can keep you sane.
As growing up slowly took over, the writing started to become less a thing. What no one ever tells you is that growing up can eat up all your energy and you find yourself going through weeks and months and years without writing down a thing. Everything started to become a blur and insignificant. No matter what I do and no matter how much I wanted to keep a journal, I couldn’t. I’ve tried different variations of it: less a journal, more a notebook of just random thoughts written down when possible. Nothing much happened.
I could no longer declutter. Hence, the madness just kept building up inside.
I suppose this is why many adults start to lose their minds little by little and it’s all beyond our control. We are, unfortunately, in a world that keeps telling us to run fast then faster, then even faster til you outrun everyone else and you become the fastest. Afterwards, you take pride on being the fastest but that’s all you’re left with because along the way you’ve lost sight of the things that keep you human and sane.
We have to remember we have a say in this. That we have every right to hit pause or even stop when it all gets too much and too mad. We may not be able to control the world but we can control our world and we owe it ourselves to pause, to stop. To breathe in the space we’re in. To breathe in the moment. However sweet or sour. However peaceful or chaotic.
So, I’m writing again. You could say I owe it to this blog. It demands to be maintained and requires content to be written. I’m making up for my sloppy previous weeks but will do everything in my power to produce content at least once a week. For this blog. And really, for my sanity.
As you were, world.
Black like my entire wardrobe
Black like most of my makeup
Black like how I color my nails
If I had it my way
It’s how I’d paint everything
Paint it black
Black like how I take my coffee
Black like all of my gadgets
Black like the ink used to write my notes & my music
If I had it my way
It’s how I’d paint everything
Paint it black
Black like the backdrop of the night sky
Black like the shadows at play
Black like my room when I build worlds & want to feel even closer to music
If I had it my way
It’s how I’d paint everything
Paint it black
Black allows me to create & see sceneries
Black inspires me to play with lights, shades & bring out splashes of color
Black is the plain canvas on which I paint
I have it my way
It is how I paint everything
Paint it black
* This was a little thing I’d written for an online contest. I didn’t win but I got this out of that experience so, to some extent, I did win.
Breathe.
For moments when it feels like the world is going madder than the usual and everything is out of your control.
Breathe.
Remember no amount of darkness can ever defeat you. You are braver than your demons. You have a fire within you that no one can ever take away. It may not burn as brightly as you need it to on some days, but remember it’s in you.
You are fire. Just breathe.
Society has this unfortunate mistaken view that shyness and introversion are more or less the same. This assumption is so ingrained that for most of my life I thought I was an extrovert. See, shyness was never something I had. Especially while growing up. People who’ve known me since I was a kid can attest to this.
In school, I was always first to raise my hand if I knew the answer. I led my classmates into participating in my own dance routines all throughout grade school. In sophomore year, I got into a fight with a classmate coz I was always answering and always had something to say in class (Hermione-like to some extent). In junior year, I spoke in behalf of our class during a huge class meeting before a teacher we disliked. Months after, I was asked to do the welcome speech for our prom.
I was and am not shy so I thought myself as an extrovert. How incredibly wrong I was…
What I was didn’t dawn on me until I was working alongside a colleague of mine named Joey who, in my own opinion, is the embodiment of an extrovert. In my heart of hearts, I believe that if you look up ‘extrovert’, Joey should be the example in every dictionary and search result.
From a glance, we were alike in a lot of ways – artistic, enjoyed being in the spotlight, expressive, loud, we both shared the same love for coffee and music – but this friend was always a league above everyone else when it came to energy levels. We worked closely and nearly always had the same roles in the office but somehow I could never keep up. This inability to keep up confused me – I thought I was an extrovert, what was up?
A lot of internalization, self-assessment and research went into wanting to justify this confusion that later led to me realizing what I am. Turns out, I’ve shown symptoms of introversion as early as childhood. Always preferring to be on my own and living in my own head and creating things safely in my corner. I mean, maybe the overprotective approach my family had on me as a kid aided by my innate laziness and aversion towards anything strenuous may have contributed to my introversion. There may very well be a great psychological explanation in relation to that theory but regardless of, here we are. I am an introvert!
I’ve always chosen to be alone and thoroughly enjoyed being alone. This didn’t always sit well with other people within close proximity.
In my first year in college, I was alienated over the fact that I didn’t want sit in the same overcrowded table as with nearly 30 of my course mates. This might seem as an exaggeration, but allow me to site an example. They all wanted to sit and have lunch together at the cafeteria – they and moved tables and chairs to get everyone seated together the way they wanted which was all nice and lovely but it all felt too congested and suffocating so I sat at another table with three of my friends where it wasn’t as loud and we could actually talk about something that meant something without talking over everyone else. After that incident, traces of disentanglement started to appear and whatever little strands of friendships were built in the first few weeks quickly frayed. They couldn’t understand that as much as I was one of them (coz neither parties had any choice), I wasn’t like them. We were young and naïve with heightened emotions and thought we knew everything, as everyone tends to do at that age. They thought me weird. Maybe be I was. Maybe I am. And maybe I love my weirdness. And maybe they just didn’t get that. They didn’t need to.
The enormous crowd I had to deal with in that university, topped with the realization a that the course I’d taken on did not make any sense to me a few classes into the second semester, brought me back to my old university.
This has been one of the best decisions I’ve ever made in my life. I switched courses and took up music which was a department of around 30 people (if my memory serves me right which I think it won’t). Don’t get me wrong, we were also a loud bunch that was always together. A group of artistic, musical kids huddled up together? There’s no way it won’t be a party all day every day. It was much like those musicals you’d see in the movies where someone just bursts into song and everyone else joins in chorus or takes out their instruments and starts playing along. We were a bunch of show offs. The difference was (aside from this course made sense to me) that it was a collaborative, synchronized, musical loudness. Always. There was always timing and rhythm and melody and harmony. Even in the moments when the music wasn’t really involved. Another difference? As much as all of that was happening, we were also listening intently to each other.
There, I met my people. There, everyone was weird and it didn’t matter what kind of weird you were, you were celebrated. Like I said, one of the best decisions ever.
Then came “adulthood” (in quotation marks because let’s be honest, are we really “adults” now? I mean, really? Can you honestly say you’re “there” now?… C’mon). In workspaces, I’ve always lived for the moments when I could take a break and step outside even for a few minutes. Even moments alone in the bathroom stalls were and are just total gems. I often take lunch breaks by myself and that activity has always baffled my coworkers. I always got asked if I was going through some emotional stuff and I need to emote and sulk. Um, no. I just thoroughly enjoy having my meal, savoring my coffee while listening to music and writing down things after I eat, thanks.
After my discovery of my own introversion, I’ve just reveled in it. I found comfort in the fact that I now know why I respond to certain things differently. The more I look into introversion, the more I make sense to me. Why I always got angry when my class in second grade was so noisy (in defense of my anger, we really were. Our class had to move to another building far from the principal’s office coz we were that loud). Why I always sat in front of class as much as I could coz not only were those seats almost always close to the door (in case of emergency, leave all other humans behind) but also to avoid any distractions and any chitchat that will end up filtering the information coming from the teacher (this practice, of course, is only reserved for classes that’s actually piqued my interest). Why I always put on my headphones when I could sense the noise picking up volume. Why I always found a sense of order and peace with music. These are things I’ve always done but now have more meaning over how significant they are to my psyche.
Introversion needs clearer, more positive representation in society. Introversion can be – like everyone else, really – friendly, collaborative and fun. Humanity, in general, needs to get over being so scared about things that are different and start embracing uniqueness.
So, here’s to the next generation of introverts – may they never experience being left out because they’re different or can’t mingle with everyone else like everyone else does. Introvert and proud!
Allow me to open with a little backstory. This was written almost a year ago after a coworker kept pressing me over why I wasn’t attending an outing. He said, “Write me an essay explaining why you’re not joining us”. I took him on it.
April 05, 2017
Let me begin with I am an introvert. I need my alone time to recharge and find peace.
As an introvert, I need long stretches of time alone to recharge. This recharging would usually take place during the weekends and although I seem like someone who likes going out, I actually don’t. I stay at home – I hardly even go outside of my room – listening to music, reading (I try to read at least a book a week). If I’m up to it, if I’ve had enough coffee and the madness starts swirling in my brain, I’d be hunched over my bed, putting pen to paper wanting to make sense of the world and of the oddity that is me or, if I’m really lucky, I could be sitting with my guitar, working a song into being.
This is my version of peace. This is my version of a holiday. This is how I’ve always been. I opt to not take part in such big gatherings 95% of the time I get invited to one because I’ve tried many times in my lifetime to attend events and have found myself by myself, in my own corner, spacing out, wanting to find an out, begging for the heavens to take me back to the comfort of my own four walls.
Yes, I attend concerts or, more like, used to attend concerts. I’m also incredibly picky with the concerts I go to. There are requirements that need to be met: I have to really love the artist and I they have to have songs that has actually struck a chord or their musicality has to make me curious enough to make me want to see how they translate studio recordings into live performances.
Concerts are short bursts of energy. And if I’m being completely honest, concerts are best when I attend on my own. I can stand all the noise and sounds overloading my senses for five hours – tops – or if I somehow get a coffee refill along the way, I can maybe do six hours. I can do that because I’m not there for the people. I’m there for the music. It’s strictly between me and the artist and the music that they pour their hearts and souls into and in turn, I take as my soul-food. After all that exchanging of energy, I go home, spend time by myself, and process the entire thing that just took place and revel in that. Then, that’s it for a long time, until another concert comes around worthy of me stepping out of my room.
A couple of years back, I tried to be more outgoing, attending events and being an active member of an incredible community. However, after a year, I found myself swirling into depression and it was not a lovely place to be in. It is something I still deal with but realized I can’t be surrounded by and engaged with that much external energy for long periods of time.
I found out I need an ‘off’ period where it’s just me and my brain. Otherwise, being ‘on’ all the time drives my psyche into madness and feel like I’m stretching myself out too thin then it’s just another downward spiral from there.
And so I end with, I am an introvert. I need my alone time to recharge and find peace.
For the moments when I can’t read, I write. For the moments when I can’t write, I read. This is a recent development. One I’m more than happy to report.
For the longest time, reading wasn’t part of the equation. Not that it was non-existent, it was there – Harry Potter plays a major role in my life and has played that major role since I first saw the first movie when I was 11-years-old – but reading books, in general, was something I couldn’t fully invest myself in. Not until I stopped writing.
See, writing was always something I could turn to. Writing is something that runs in the blood and that thought was something I took to heart. I wrote my first ever poem when I was six or seven and it got published in one of our national newspapers (back when printed newspapers, and well, newspapers, were a thing). One of my favorite things to do when bored in class, particularly in high school, was folding up one of my intermediate papers, and write and not stop writing as my teacher would drone on and one about whatever it was they were meant to instill in my head. I’m incredibly method about it. I’d clear out my desk, take out the pad, rip one out and fold it – I have a very specific way of folding it – and start writing. This is a practice I still do to this very day.
(I’d like to take this moment to apologize to my teachers from grade school all the way to college who thought I was heavily invested in taking notes and capturing everything they were saying verbatim, because I wasn’t, I was trying to save myself from dozing off as well as being remarkably witty and creative in my writing.)
However, there’s something that happens when you lose a loved one. You lose a part of you. And somehow, when I lost my father, the writing part of me went with him. More specifically, the musical part. I couldn’t write. The one thing I’d always known I could do, I couldn’t do. Picking up the guitar he got me for my 15th birthday felt completely foreign to me. Playing songs, songs I’d written, felt unreal, uncomfortable. This went on for years.
When the writing stopped, I thought it was just taking a vacation and I held out hope that it would somehow come back. So I waited and waited. And waited and waited. I waited until writing didn’t make any sense. Until putting words together on paper didn’t make sense. Until coming up with melodies felt trivial and creating something completely my own felt insignificant.
A few people in my life later told me to start reading. I also figured, if I can’t write, might as well read. So, sometime towards the end of 2016, I started to pick up books again. One book after another. After another. After another. It hasn’t stopped. In the year of 2017, I may have read more books in those 52 weeks than I ever have in my entire life. Just don’t ask me how many was read because the whole thing was so new to me and I was simply taking it book by book that the thought of jotting down the books I’ve read didn’t cross my mind until the end of 2017 when I was reminiscing the year that was (as one tends to do at the end of the year) and realized I’ve just read and read and read and read. I can try to remember the books but one thing about me is that my memory is faulty. Half the time, I don’t remember things that happened just 24hours prior, so I can try but I will fail miserably at trying to remember the books I’d ‘experienced’ in 52 weeks. I say ‘experience’ books because I consume literature in physical books, eBooks and audiobooks.
In all of these moments, music is constant. It may not be my music, but it was music that I identified with, that spoke to me. Music is always playing, it never stops. The only time music stop is when my mind is too noisy and the can’t find the music amidst all the noise. These nonmusical moments very rarely happen.
All my life, I thought I was just a weird kid who grew up watching too much MTV (back when MTV was MTV) so while kids my age were talking about the latest cartoon shows and games, I was in my own head trying to imagine what the music video would be like for my favorite songs off of the latest cassette tape I’d just gotten, or try to come up with choreography for one of the upbeat tracks so I can have something to teach and present for our monthly culminating activity in school along with my classmates and schoolmates who had no choice in the matter coz I had something they could also contribute to for the activity.
Dance, before anything else, was my first love. It seems strange, I know, I’ve only just brought it up. Dance was my creative outlet very early on. I was always that kid that was asked to dance during family gatherings, and I, the introvert showoff in my childish confidence, would just step right up and dance to whatever they played.
One of my more memorable dance moments had to be when I was around six or seven (MTV era) at my father’s company Christmas party. I danced to the Backstreet Boys’ ‘Get Down (You’re The One For Me)’ (Backstreet Boys played, plays, a huge role in my life but that’s a whole other thing that’ll require its own post, so – later). I freestyled the whole thing, something I often did when I didn’t have to coordinate with anyone else, again, in my childish relentless confidence. I don’t remember much of what I did, I just moved to the music. I remember the applause that came afterwards. I remember the sheer awe in my parents’ faces – this may have been the moment when they realized the extent of their youngest child’s natural and awesome weirdness (I can say that coz they love me). I remember my parents enjoying the performance so much that they didn’t get to take any photos.
I danced all throughout my pre-teen years until puberty hit. Dance was always something I could go back to every few years. Something that revives a part of me that can only be accessed by movement. When the dancing started to not be the focus, songwriting slowly started to come into view. At the heart of it all is music.
Music, from the very beginning, has been the thing that allowed me to create something entirely my own. Music taught me to dance and when the dancing stopped, it gave me songs to write. My relationship with music is ever evolving and so is the opportunity to create something through music in whatever shape it may take.
Music has saved me more times than I can count. It has allowed me to find myself, find my own place, as a young kid who was accepted at home and in school but was also acceptably weird. It was my safe place during the angst-ridden teenage years. It is where I find moments of peace in adult life in the moments when the world gets a little too mad. It’s what calms me down whenever I have my anxiety and panic attacks. It’s what helps me deal with my own demons.
“Suok”, noun, in Bisaya means ‘corner’
“From this suok is vague enough, specific enough and random enough to apply to any and all things I could write about.”
– Me to The Love, January 5, 2018
As mentioned in the first post, a lot of thought went into the creation of this blog. I’ve had blogs before and as much as I love writing and pouring my thoughts onto paper (or, in this case, onto the screen), I have quite the commitment issue when it comes to maintaining a blog.
However, the dire need for a creative outlet outside of my own head and room urged me to create this page and is leading me to actually committing to this page. The dire need to save oneself as we continue to live through this mad world has contributed to finally move from ‘I want to’ to ‘I did it’.
This will be filled with my notes and thoughts on books, fandoms, coffee, wine, music. There is a want to ensure that everything on this page will be positive but still allowing space to show the light and dark that exists in all things. There will be attempts at being poetic (of which I will surely fail at but leave me be). There will be random posts about random thoughts. Posts that will both be miles long and one-liners. All from my perspective. From this corner of the world. From this neck of the woods. From this nook of my home and hometown. From this suok of my head.
From This Suok 