It’s quite ironic how I never really saw myself as a family man, but I do feel envious of friends who have settled down with one. I can’t fully imagine myself having a family of my own, but if envy for those with one is an affliction, then it is one that ails me.


I love kids, don’t get me wrong. But they’re not for me. I’m cool with being an uncle of a godfather. Even a father figure. But having children with my rugged good looks and faulty, mental illness-plagued genes, nah.


Yet here I am feeling envious of friends who are closer to, if not the same, age as I am. Some are on their third child. Some are married – happily, I hope. Some friends who are man and wife have been together since college and are still going strong. And where am I in the 30s era? Still tiptoeing through the landmines of his own brain, broke, and unable to see himself a year from now. Two months from now, in an extreme case.

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When you reach a certain age – a certain point in your life – you start to shed certain hopes from your life. You start to slowly lose expectations and certain dreams, what you wish for becomes an impossibility.


Human connection in a romantic aspect. It’s starting to become an impossibility in my life. Given my advanced age, I feel as though I’m not meant to be in a relationship. I’m not meant to have romantic love. A reciprocated one, at the very least. Not that it makes any difference now.


Never really had much in terms of relationships. I’ve only been in three relationships. Each of those I screwed up royally. Just didn’t work, or I had tons of issues that I needed to work on first.


Now, I don’t know. I’m thirty two and still resolving my issues. And there are so much of them. Too much. I don’t know when I’ll cross the finish line in my recovery from depression. Or if I ever will. It’s possible that it’s a recovery that’s meant to last til I’m gone. If that is the case, then I consider it a tragedy – a man who was on the road to getting better, but never actually got better.


Going back to love and all that…


Yeah. Feels like I am going to be alone in the end, after all. That’s always been one of my greatest fears in life. Even before recovery, even when I was a teenager. Didn’t want to end up alone, didn’t want to be that broken man smoking a cigarette leaning on a lamppost at night, watching everything and nothing pass him by.


But the more I think about it, the more days pass by, the more it seems predestined. Like I will become that man.


What a lonely life I lead. I’m the one taking care of people best I could. Looking out for them. But there’s no one taking care of me. Can barely take care of myself, honestly speaking.


And Logically speaking, I shouldn’t complain. That’s my role – my purpose – not theirs. But emotionally speaking, fucking hell what a fucking life this is. What a fucking lonely life this is.


I’ve never felt this cold and alone before.

No More Labels

No More Labels

I’ve gone and done it. Always wanted to even when my main weapon was digital. Back when I was still actively doing music documentations with a digital camera, there was already intent to take a hand at photographing using analog. It was always “somewhere down the line.” Needed to focus first on what I did, you know, before taking on something new.


But the path I was in changed. I’ve always walked one path, a continually changing one, and the path suddenly changed back to making music. Decided to sell my camera and gear in order to fund my music (as well as to pay off debts incurred due to the emotionally turbulent holidays last year.) I was a man without a camera, but I was a musician once again.


And then the path changed once again. In a span of months, I went from photographer, to singer-songwriter, to … well … I decided to go back to my first love – writing. Figured that I didn’t need any other tool for that aside from my head and my laptop and/or a notebook and pen. But nothing really materialized from that. I had intentions and plans and ideas, but nothing materialized. Couldn’t even regularly update this here blog. When I write, I’ve always needed the use of my brain. With photography and music, it was more of natural instincts. It needed more than just my brain. Photography and music required an economy of movement from my whole body. My head since late last year was all over the place. Mental coherence was, is, a nigh impossible reach.

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This Maddening Scene

This Maddening Scene

It was during college when I wanted to work in the music industry. This was, despite the depression, during the height of my optimism and hopefulness. I had so many dreams back then that revolved around music. I wanted to work in a record label and be an A&R guy. Wanted to manage bands. Wanted to produce records. Even wanted to put up my own record label. Wanted to become a music journalist. Wanted to be in a band or write and sing my own songs on stage, but back then, it seemed like an impossibility.


I had an inkling on how to do it that’s based on movies and music documentaries, but it wasn’t enough. I was immersed in the local music scene and research involved observations on how things worked, seeing how artists interact with the venues, the roadies, the managers, the fans, etc. I was twenty-one. It was eleven years ago.

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Letting Go Of Ghosts

Battle Notes – February 14, 2017


As I’m typing this, the time is 9:09pm. Less than three hours until midnight. Less than three hours until I survive another Valentine’s Day.


But first, I have to apologize for the four month absence. Life has been, well…life. So many things have happened. Can’t even list them all down at this point. Need to focus on what I need to write.




This year’s Valentine’s is rougher than last year’s, no doubt. I was losing my shit again earlier. My breathing was compromised. Chest heavy. Felt like I was trapped in a prison I created for myself. But I know it’s my brain’s doing. It’s the depression’s doing. It’s that thing inside my head that was fucking with me again.

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The Seven Day War: A Week Without Medication

The Seven Day War: A Week Without Medication

I found myself in a very precarious position eight days ago. I had to go off my anti-depressants as I was to take anti-biotics for my cyst removal surgery. I had to go cold turkey as my hand was forced. Sort of. I did allow for it to happen so I had a hand in it. I was afraid. Very afraid. But I did want to see what would happen. I wanted to know if I was capable of surviving a week without medication.


On the days when I forget to take my meds, the stressors get the best of me. I lose my shit. For the first few days when I had to go off meds, everything was okay. “Okay” like I was still medicated. My body as going through physical withdrawals (i.e. dizziness, light headedness, lags) but nothing to be concerned about. I don’t think.


It was the lack of stressors and triggers that made those first few days…good. Sane, even. I was still in control of my thoughts. I did this “thought test” I do when the need to assess my mental situation arises. The test, albeit morbid as fuck, hasn’t failed me yet: I imagine myself holding my revolver with the intention to blow my brains out.

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A Month Away


Forgive the desolate tone of this blog post. It’s one of those weeks.





Six months to a year. That’s what I was told when I asked how long I was to take the medications. Of course, that was just an optimistic estimate. But I still held on to that. “I’ll be fully recovered in a year,” I thought. “I’ll finally free of the darkness that made a home in my head.” I knew it would take much longer since I’ve had the depression undiagnosed and untreated for almost all my life. Let’s say, thirty one years. That’s thirty one years of darkness versus a year of recovery.


A year won’t cut it. Let’s be real, here. I knew that. I knew that it will take more than a year. But it was nice to think that after a year, I’ll be the me I should have been if it wasn’t for the depression.


In less than a month, it will have been a year since I started seeing a psychiatrist. It will have been a year since I’ve been taking anti-depressants. What’s changed since then? What’s happened since I first walked into the clinic?

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