From Newsroom to Therapy Room: Finding my Path

Writing has always been my passion. Well, it started with reading. We have tons of books at home, from encyclopedias, almanacs, academic references to novels, poetry, short stories, and essays. In gradeschool, I was already reading Edgar Allan Poe, Hellen Keller, F. Sionil Jose, N.V.M. Gonzales, Kerima Polotan-Tuvera, even Greek and Roman mythology. Because of them and many other prolific writers, I was inspired to write. I wanted to do it as a profession someday.

In the fourth grade, I was introduced to Campus Journalism and had, since then, wanted to become a journalist. Fast forward to 2012...I graduated from UP with a degree in Journalism, eager to write about things that matter from the micro to the macro level. I wrote so many stories over the course of my training as a Journalism student. Some papers would return bloody, others with a more positive remark. I went to almost all government agencies, interviewed countless people including politicians, entrepeneurs, people in authority, people from almost all walks of life. I was suddenly pushed out of my comfort zone and got sucked in unexpectedly to a whole new adventure that both scared and surprised me. That time, I was idealistic as my youth and my UP education have filled me with the propensity toward making a difference. "Iskolar ng Bayan. Para sa Bayan." I wanted to change the world one story at a time.

But the realities of life hit me like the basketball that never failed to bounce on my head whenever I was near the covered court in high school -- inadvertently but hard. (Rant: Bakit favorite akong tamaan ng basketball noon? Why? Why me? hahaha!). And so I became a part of the work force when I was 21. I haven't even marched or gotten my diploma (because Octoberian baby) but I was already working a 7am-4pm shift, toiling away in a, well, rather spacious cubicle. A little after a year in the corporate world, I had an existential crisis. What am I doing in this corporate jungle? Where did all my ideals and hopes and dreams of changing the world drift away? What am I doing with my life? Intense, I know. (haha!)

That was when I thought about Psychology. My Psych 101 class had a big impact on me and so I took several Psych classes as electives in college. In 2013, I finally decided to apply for the MA program in Psychology at UP Diliman. Luckily, I got in and so the loooong journey to becoming a clinical psychologist began. Through and through over the course of completing my MA degree, I found my calling. I will be a good, if not the best, clinical psychologist. I will change the world one person at a time.

People would sometimes tell me how envious they are of me because I've found what I want to do for the rest of my life, or at least until I retire haha. But it wasn't easy. Journalism is my first love. It molded me into the person that I am today, taught me things I wouldn't have learned had I followed my parents' wishes of me pursuing Business Economics. I will always be grateful and forever proud of my training at the UP Journalism Department. But things change, hearts sway, and dreams evolve from the bubbles of idealism to the realms of the inevitable socioeconomic realities in this awfully capitalistic and highly competitive world.

It is not easy to change careers. But weighing both advantages and disadvantages (including economic and personal variables hehe), I decided to dedicate my life to the helping profession.

And every year since I started in the MA Psych program, I feel transformed as a person and as a clinician-in-training. Every learning, every experience brings me to realizations and to a personal resolve of how I can live my life better. The most tranformative and life-changing experience in this journey has been my practicum. Doing actual counselling/therapy was overwhelming, exciting, exhausting at some point, but it was during these times that I realized I've made the right choice of shifting to this career. I've never felt more alive, more needed, more useful, more important and valuable in this society. While I struggled in the beginning, eventually, I found each client/patient as a challenge. I would learn more through reading, talking to people, friends and other counsellors/therapists. I felt that, finally, I was in the right place.

I've never been more sure about what I wanted to do in life. This is it. This is my calling. This is where I feel I belong and I am genuinely happy. In the therapy room, I found chaos and peace, light and darkness, being and becoming. I found the convergence of life's questions and answers as well as the in-betweens. I craved to learn more, to improve, to help more and become more efficient and effective in my craft. I was a ball of positive energy, confidence, courage. I was again full of idealism - that I could make a difference - but with more realistic viewpoints and expectations. I was full of life...until a death occurred.

Pipe Dreams

I've always imagined myself withering away, rather gracefully, in some secluded beach in the coast of southern Peru. I'd be listening to stories of people that come by for the beach, for the seclusion, for that irrational longing for a place they've never been to, or for the illusion that everything is okay because they're somewhere far. I'd probably still write, a lot. I'd walk by the beach in the morning just to see the sun rise; with cigarette in one hand and coffee in the other, if neither of them has killed me yet. I'd learn to make cocktails and chase my morning coffee with vodka by 10 a.m. I'd knit or crochet in the afternoon, maybe take a nap, and hopefully stay away from any kind of meds despite the frailties that old age entails. I'd wake up to some old playlist I used to listen to when I was younger and then remember some people who, hopefully, are still part of my life. I'd dance to the music while making my afternoon tea. Tea is always best in the afternoon. Then I'd write, maybe letters or essays, a poem, or a short story based on a random traveler or stranger's life story. I'd write until I tire and I'd walk again by the beach to watch the sun set. I'd wonder how many people have gone to the moon by now; did another planet get demoted? How far have we gone for science? And what about the arts? By nighttime, I'd be reading a book on my porch facing the sea. And as I get attached to a character, as I devour each page with fervor and ardency, I'd smile. I'd smile and probably cry a little for the innocence in my childhood, the impulsivity and intensity of my youth, the triumphs, blunders and struggles in adulthood, my either strained or unfeigned platonic and romantic relationships. I'd chase off the thousand thoughts that have always plagued my mind for as long as I don't remember anymore. I'd write in my diary and drift off to sleep as my memories live again in dreams, in figments. What a modestly splendid life. 

May 2, 2019

I am

"I am not water. I am neither drop nor gush. I am not a book on a shelf waiting to be read. I am wildfire. I am the blue that rips through words. I am the crack that hollows underneath. I am both midnight and midday. I am a fool. I am full of doubts and worries. I change my mind on a whim. I am stubborn, straightforward, unapologetic when I am right. I am cunning. I can still desire what I already have and give away what I never had. I am extraordinary, I am even for what I am not."

- Jenina (April 1, 2017)

Hi-a-tus (n) : an interruption in time or continuity

“If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.” – Lord Byron

It’s been three years since my last post on this blog. I actually wrote a couple of stuff (?) during the past three years but I haven’t really written something long-form. So, as lame as it may sound, here are some of my excuses. (I am allowed to have excuses, am I not?)

I think, I kind of stopped writing when I started working on the nightshift. After being a scholar of my parents for six months due to conflicts in my work and school schedules, I decided to work again. Luckily, after a week of job hunting, I was accepted as a research analyst at this start-up company. I was assigned on the night shift. Although I was a bit worried at first, I thought it was a good schedule since I had classes in the afternoon. And so I spent my nights working, my mornings sleeping or studying, and my afternoons were dedicated for MA classes. I wanted to write, badly. I had so much in my mind. But whenever I had spare time, I wanted to rest and not think. I just wanted to sleep or just waste time because I was always busy with school or work. I felt tired all the time and it’s as if the creative juices in my mind have dried up. Had I been famous, people would’ve called it a slump.

It was also right after that semester ended that I had one of the scariest, most painful memories of my life. It was an ordinary afternoon at home and I was watching TV when my dad came home from work (he runs our store located in a barangay, just a few minutes away from our house). He went to the kitchen and talked to our house help. My face was glued on the TV; I remember I was tuned in to Star World. I heard our house help talking to my dad and when I turned around, he looked like he was about to faint. We asked him to sit down and just a few seconds after, he vomited blood. I couldn’t remember clearly how everything transpired but I recall screaming for my mom. I went to my parents’ room, screaming to my mom that dad just vomited blood. He was still vomiting a lot when she came out. I couldn’t forget that image, how our living room became flooded with his blood, how the clean cream tiles turned red, how scared I was I just screamed and screamed for help. Even as I am writing this now, I can see flashes of that day; while typing, my hands still tremble at the memories. Nobody wants to see their loved one in pain and to see my dad that way…it was unbearable. I was shaking when my aunt and cousin came to our house. My older cousin carried my dad on his back so he could ride the tricycle to the hospital. No one else knew how to drive a car --  another reason that kind of pushes me to learn how to drive. When we came to the local hospital, there were no doctors because, apparently, they were all attending a conference in the city. Luckily, the ambulance of our local government unit was available so my dad was safely transferred to a hospital in the city. Gastric ulcers. It may sound like a simple, minor diagnosis but the fear, anxieties and pain it had brought my family, especially my parents, will never be forgotten. I remember the sun setting while we (my mom, dad, and I) were in the ambulance. It was a beautiful shade of red orange with hues of yellow, dark blue and gray splattered on the sky. The sight was to behold but what I was feeling that day…I never want to experience again.

The upside of that incident was that I was home, had no work or school, so I was able to help my mom take care of my dad while he was at the hospital. I think God really works in mysterious ways. However, after that happened, I barely wrote. I had no inspiration to write, no will, no creativity.  
Then came another diagnosis that changed our family for both good and bad. End-stage renal disease. It happened last March 2016 when we had to rush my dad to the hospital again due to vomiting and high blood pressure. Doctors in Naga suggested that my dad undergo hemodialysis but my mom didn’t want to. And so they flew to Manila. Sadly, the diagnosis came out and we had no choice but to have dad undergo hemodialysis. Days, weeks, and months that followed were hazy, full of anxieties. Every time I would get a call from my family, my heart would skip a beat and my mind would just run around this maze, trying to prepare myself for whatever news I had to hear. I was also sinking into a pile load of school work that time. I didn’t know how I got through 2016 but I did. Sadly, my writing was pushed to the side again. I couldn’t write. I would have some ideas, some topics in my mind but every time I write, my fingers quiver, my mind goes blank, I feel heavy inside. Every time I write, I would stop at the first sentence. I just couldn’t. Until now, I still don’t know why.

So three years since my last post, I am here again, attempting to write again. And I think this is a good sign. I am happy to have found the courage to write about my dad, about what happened to him. I probably still can’t write in detail since there is still this pain and fear in me. Also, this post is about new beginnings. Actually, as I’m writing this, my dad is probably lying on a hospital bed right now. He was rushed to the ER two days ago after he vomited blood again. Gastric ulcers. Again. I think part of me kind of became numb to bad news about my dad’s health. And my mind is still in a maze right now, I’m not completely sure what I think or how I feel about all these. Sometimes, I want to shut everyone and everything out so I won’t have to feel anything. But that’s not how life works. So I mask my anxieties and fears with a smile and a positive attitude. Most of the time, it helps. Other days, I just feel lost. But I feel kind of lighter now after hearing news that my dad is stable, blood transfusion was done, and my mom is ok as well. I hope he gets out of the hospital soon. Also, when my mind becomes more organized, I hope I can write more about our family’s experiences regarding my dad’s health. It would be a good reminder someday of the many things that we take for granted as well as the many lessons only such experiences will teach.

So there, my excuses. I apologize for a very cluttered post. My train of thought is obviously messy right now, chaotic even, but please bear with me. I’m writing something this long in quite a while so sorry for the word vomit.

Anyway, I’m ending this very informal, muddled, full-of-excuses post. I promise to write more sensibly and judiciously in future posts. I will write more. I will.

A Beautiful, Dangerous Mind

A book review of Thomas Harris' The Silence of the Lambs

Just a disclaimer, I was able to watch the movie before I got hold of the book. I guess there is always a little less imagination and a little bit of a bias whenever you read a story you’ve already watched. Less imagination -- because you just can’t help but think of the characters in the movie while reading about them in the book; and more bias because you already associate the characters in the book with how they were portrayed in the movie.

Anyway, I was extremely thrilled when I bought this book along with its sequel. Just how I usually get bored with the first few chapters of a book, I had to resort to remembering all the characters being presented at first. The story basically resolves around a case about a serial killer called Buffalo Bill who targets women and leaves them floating in some river with their skins peeled off. The FBI remained stalled, with very little progress in the case until Behavioral Section Chief Jack Crawford summoned an FBI trainee, Clarice Starling, to talk to a former psychiatrist who is now in a prison asylum and is known for eating his victims –the infamous Dr. Hannibal Lecter, or Hannibal the Cannibal. Crawford was hoping that Dr. Lecter would shed some light to the Buffalo Bill case knowing his psychiatric background and the likeness or somewhat consistency in serial murderers known for their unusual trademarks in killing.

Some may think the book is gruesome because of the “Hannibal” but it really is like watching a very intense, deeply psychological, neurotic even, and extremely creepy episode of CSI or Bones. The characters get into your head, the thoughts and gestures of Dr. Lecter haunt your imagination. It makes you feel like you’re in the same room as Starling and Lecter – watching them reveal a little bit about each other with Starling cautious with what to say and Lecter driving you crazy with the uncertainty and fear he induces from the conversation. It is reveling in a way that it makes you think, makes you hope for something good from Starling. It is also distressing, frustrating at times because of how Lecter makes you feel like he is always, ironically, in control of the situation.

Thomas Harris is a literary genius. He has woven these characters into the events that transpired with wit, tension, fear, anticipation, psychosis, remarkable intelligence and a great deal of courage. I was also curious how things ended in the book although I already knew how things ended essentially. But Harris was still able to create the suspense as the book finishes. I guess it would’ve been more surprising, thrilling for others who have read the book first. But I was still in awe when I was almost finishing the book. I remember waking up early in the morning (which is unusual for me) and reading this book until a little about 2pm. I only stopped when I felt my tummy grumbling and pleading for food. And I only had 75 more pages to go. When I finally reached the last few pages I was trying hard to breathe because even if I knew what was going to happen, Harris’ way of narrating the ending was curiously exciting, tremendously nerve-wrecking.

Well, I guess I’ve said so much but this was really a positively crazy but amazing read for me. And whenever I hear or read about this book, I’d probably remember two statements that have left an impact on me. While Clarice returned to the first victim’s home and tried to find clues again from her room, the author noted this:

“Nothing makes us more vulnerable than loneliness except greed.”

And yes, it is true, whether it be on television or in books, greed makes us vulnerable, irrational and it always, always gets the best of us. And all the major characters I believe became greedy at some point. Jack Crawford was working hard to solve the case and even sent a trainee to talk to a psychotic serial killer even if he knew that Clarice’s life and mental well-being could likely be in danger. Clarice was also trying hard to solve the case and prove herself that she had to put her life on the line and become vulnerable to Lecter’s mind. Buffalo Bill, on the other hand, is an epitome of this statement. He had to kill because of greed, because of something he could not have but wanted to so badly. He became vulnerable to both pleasure and pain without knowing the differences between the two. Lastly, Hannibal Lecter became both vulnerable and powerful because of greed. He talked to Clarice, giving her ideas and clues because he wanted to know about her, about the silence of the lambs. He told stories about Buffalo Bill, which helped Clarice in solving the case but he also used this power about such information to get what he wanted. He really is a madman, a killer but severely intelligent and always equipped with vulnerabilities he covers in wit and he eventually reveals through his neurosis and greed.

Lastly, this statement is I guess really the most important and most chilling revelation of the whole story. While talking to Clarice about Buffalo Bill, Lecter asked her:

“What does he do, Clarice? What is the first and principal thing he does, what need does he serve by killing? He covets. How do we begin to covet? We begin by coveting what we see every day.” 

We covet what we see everyday. And all human beings do this. And not only do we do this but we also covet what we think we need because we see them everyday. We yearn for things, qualities, details, feelings and even people because we always think we deserve better. And yes we do, but in coveting, we become slaves of something we have not even gotten hold of but has already driven as to greed, emptiness, loathing, dissatisfaction, decadence and at times, madness.

I always have something to say about how a book’s less than positive points but I didn’t find it in this one. Although I was bored in the beginning, the whole unraveling of minds and mystery of the story made up for it. This is definitely going to my 'favorite books' bookshelf. *grins*

Dearest angels in heaven

Dearest angels in heaven,
Please whisper to the flowers so they they may bloom by daylight.
Sing lullabies to children whose parents forgot to kiss them goodnight.
Please watch over old couples and always keep them warm.
Dance with the winds so they may calm down.
Don't forget to stay beside men and women alike,
Who think they got everything figured out,
For they are the ones who need most of your light.
Dearest angels of God,
Please hold the lost souls and carry them back.
Smile above us and lead us to dreams of our pasts.
Never keep the waves from touching the shore,
For they may carry with them answers to questions untold.
Please cry with us in joy, in agony, in peace and sorrow.
Remind us to pray that we may become better, wiser
With every word we say, every hope we hope for.
Dearest angels of heaven,
Please guide us when we forget how to love unselfishly
Keep on strengthening us whenever we wish for something than can never be.
We may never see you beautiful angels but we believe and pray to you.
I whisper this prayer; a prayer unto the earth, a prayer unto God, a prayer unto you.

twenty-first after nine

I love you and your little quirks, your seemingly silly but shrewd dreams. The way you frolic innocently whenever you tease and coax your mischief into charm overwhelms me with both frustration and wonder. I love you, not how they describe it in books or movies, but how you live in every piece of literature that I write. I wish we could live the lives of the characters that I create. But, our countless arguments and constant contradictions prove that we are bound to make mistakes and that we are wrong sometimes.

I love you for not always agreeing with me, for pushing me to my limits, for holding my hand during those times. I love you and the certain slyness of your little dark side, how it scares, confuses and thrills me at the same time. You've always loved me with all the hundred different persons that I am. I love you without reason or doubt, in a hundred different ways, in between who we are and what we will become.


~~September 21, 2013