Selfishness as a necessity

Selfishness as a necessity
I’ve mentioned somewhere, Twitter maybe, that giving up on life isn’t an option for me anymore. I’m not consciously inclined to let go of my life, nor of my existence. I may feel like it, I may feel “it” – taking my own life – but I know damn well that I don’t want to die. I know damn well that I want to continue on living.

Doesn’t matter if it’s a life not ideal. Doesn’t matter if it’s a life that’s less than what I have in mind. Doesn’t matter if it’s a life that’s mediocre. I want to fucking live.

Therein lies the crux of it all – death is not an option anymore.

There was a time when it was always an option, especially when I’m losing grip of it all – my sanity, my dreams, my goals my mission. I took solace in the fact that I could just end it when I couldn’t deal anymore. I had that plan. I had a last resort.

As I said, that’s off the table now. I’ll live on.

I’ll live on with the unbearable pain and heaviness my soul carries day in and day out. I’ll live on with the arms of depression around me, at least until I’m cured. I’ll live on in the darkness that has plagued me all my life.

I’m not saying that I’m not going to be depression free someday. I do know that I’ll be alright someday. I do know that the arms of depression will dissipate. I do know that I’ll kick depression in the ass.

But for times like these when I can’t find the light in this path I’m on, when I’m being pulled in by forces unseen and those caused by my irresponsible strategies of survival, it feels like whatever flicker of hope inside me is fast dying. And I’m backed into that wall I’ve built that separates me from suicide, the pressure of everything pushing me forth until I’m left in ruin.

To help others. That’s always been my mission in life. But I have to help myself now. I consider it selfish, as it entails me leaving my post and become a deserter to assignments that I’ve already signed up for.

I have to be selfish right now. And for my selfishness, I apologize. My sanity – my life – is at stake.




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.

Continue reading “The Seven Day War: A Week Without Medication”