pay it forward

I just remembered a Tumblr post I came across a few years back and tried searching it online and found this:

smile

This might just be a simple post, a form of vandalism(?) or a hipster-ish thing but it really is meaningful to me in many ways.

Recently, I really find it disappointing to see how people are losing faith in each other. I know this may sound too ideal, or what have you, but the littlest things can change a lot in this world. As this post shows, a stranger’s smile could be therapeutic for others.

Living in the metro for more than 5 years now has changed me but also made me love the life in the province more.

Life in the city is totally different from the one in the province. People in the city are more distrustful, even cynical at times. I have become more wary of my surroundings whenever I take public transportation and more alert with the people I interact with. It also feels like everyone is revolving around this big ball of money, running around like mad dogs trying to catch their own tails. It’s like a jungle with some sort of decorum subtly setting things in order. This actually reminds me so much of that cafeteria scene in "Mean Girls" where, in Lindsay Lohan’s imagination, the people in the cafeteria started crouching at each other like wild animals -- but in reality, they were just talking or talking behind each other's back. If ancient cultures determined winners through physical fights, nowadays, people shyly smile at each other but are subsequently and secretly stabbing each other;s back whenever a chance exposes itself.

The city reveals different kinds of people who destroy their faith in one another when an opportunity to be in a higher pedestal than someone else comes by. It feels like people are always trying to outsmart each other, to be better than someone else, to have the best...that they lose sense of what’s more important, of what is less tangible, of what humanity should be like.

Sometimes, the world forgets about kindness because people are way too scared of the kind of harm others could inflict than the kind of goodness they could share. All of these crimes happening in the midst of our daily lives remind us to always stay on guard and keep others at bay, especially strangers. It is probably inevitable especially if one had some bad experience before, but it still dismays me to see cold-hearted people who choose to turn away from something they could actually do something about. Noticing someone who seems lost and helping that someone without him/her asking really means a lot. Even a simple thank you, you’re welcome, excuse me, and sorry can somehow brighten someone’s darkest days. And yes, at times, even a stranger’s smile could remind us how such wonderful proofs we are of the existence of this world.

We don't always have to live for our careers, our education, our jobs, the materials things at our disposal...we could also live for the smallest things that actually matter -- the simple acts of kindness may it be in words or deeds, generosity despite one's economic status, trust amidst fearfulness, and a tad of optimism in this awfully skeptical world.

So smile your hearts out; you’ll never know how much that could mean to others. And move forward—to greater deeds – for a better world.

i dreamed a dream (anong paki mo sa long hair ko)

Two of my dearest team mates have resigned recently. Karen is going to pursue her nursing background and she’s currently undergoing training as a dialysis nurse. Ivan, on the other hand, wants a shift in his career and is now a policy officer at IBON Foundation, a non-stock non-profit development organization.

When Karen first informed me that she was already filing her resignation, I was a bit shocked because even if she already had plans of leaving before, I didn’t expect it to be so soon. Karen, why so soon? (huhu)

Meanwhile, Ivan’s last day at the office was last May 31. I’ve known his plans about leaving too and he was even pushing me to apply for that position but I had other things in mind. Eventually, he decided that it was time for him to leave the company and venture into a new career.

We both had farewell dinners with them and their last weeks in the office were as awfully heartbreaking as the feeling of being the ones left behind. But as one of my office mates said, ‘People come and go.’ And this time, they had the choice to leave and actually did.

So why am I writing about this. Here’s another story…

While in the shuttle on our way home, my dearest friend, Daphne, introduced me to one of her friends in the office, who happens to be a CommRes graduate from UP and is working as a part-time writer in Ortigas. They were talking about his part-time job and suddenly, she pointed at me saying: “Eto, frustrated writer.” If ears could palpitate, mine could’ve died at that moment.

I know she just meant it as a joke and nothing more but I suddenly felt my tummy growl and my body produce some sort of a bitter sting. I didn’t even know what to say. Then, it struck me. Is this what people think I am, a frustrated writer?

I graduated from the University of the Philippines College of Mass Communication with a degree in Journalism and I will forever be proud of that. Boasting aside, my experiences as a Journ student honed me to become the person I am today. Confidence, resourcefulness, wit and courage – these are just a few of the things I painstakingly earned as a Journalism undergrad. But obviously, compared to the experiences of those who are working as full-time journalists in the media, my experiences are probably just a speck of theirs.

Honestly, after graduating, I envied my friends, batchmates and classmates who work in the media. I was so eager to put to use my undergrad training and be part of a world I have always known to be my “calling”. I have always loved to write. Whatever mood I’m in, my only way out is to write. Writing has become my catharsis. If others would compose songs or draw or paint, I would prefer a hot cup of coffee and words would just jump out like vomit. I always knew I was going to be a journalist someday. Until the real calling came…

During my second to the last semester in UP, I had the weirdest and most amazing epiphany in my entire existence – “I want to be a clinical psychologist.”

Random. I know. But not really.  

I want to become a clinical psychologist. I will be truly happy if I become a clinical psychologist and I can do it for the rest of my life.

But why?

Well, my favorite television series, Bones, can be blamed partly but my love for Psychology itself cannot be measured by any psychometrician out there. I was so curios about how our mind works, our motivations, how we cope, our defense mechanisms and most importantly, how I can help others (mostly inspired by my friends) deal with their problems and whatnot.

But during that time I was already in my senior year, I decided to finish my degree in Journalism. It felt as though Journ was my first love and Psych, my true love. How dramatic. But seriously, it felt pretty wonderful to finally know what I really wanted to do.

Upon graduating, I still wanted to pursue my career as a journalist since I didn’t want to waste the four years of sleepless nights and tons of papers which turn out redder than a geisha’s lips whenever they come back after being checked. I did my job hunting for two weeks and finally landed in my current job at Thomson Reuters. Thomson Reuters is a very reputable company in different areas but as a MassComm graduate, we’ve always associated it with the media side, Reuters. So I took the opportunity.

When I started training, I was excited to learn new things but as months went by, I was getting so bored I had to drag myself and force my work clothes on just to get through the day in the office. That’s when I felt so jealous of my media friends who are working their assess off, underpaid, but generally satisfied with their work. There I was pounding on my keyboard like a madman while they cover different events, interview various personalities in business and politics and actually practice my ever loved profession – Journalism.

But after a few more months, I gained many friends in the office and work was annoying as usual but I knew better and learned to care less. Then, it struck me again, this time with realizations.

1. If you are in your 20s (or in your lifetime, maybe), you should never compare yourself to others. Ever.

~ You are different from them. You have a different background, a different situation, different priorities and most importantly, you shouldn’t be living or running your life according to how others are.

2. Just because someone is doing something that is expected of him/her doesn’t make that person better than you.

~ Why do people always have to worry about what others would say about them? Our decisions are ours to make and we also have to be responsible for them. Do whatever makes you happy and chase excellence. Success will be chasing you hands down. And people will stop pushing you to become what/who you’re not.

Insecurities, discontentment, resentment and envy – these are the main reasons for this world’s unhappiness and misery. When I was a kid, my mom once told me that I shouldn’t hold grudges or wish for someone’s misery because then my heart would turn black and die. As a kid it was a good analogy but even as an adult it makes a lot of sense, figuratively speaking.

My personal catharsis made me realize these things and cleared both my heart and my mind. I finally knew what to do.

So, by December last year, I decided to apply for the MA in Psychology program at the College of Social Sciences and Philosophy. And three months later, I got my acceptance letter and now I’m finally enrolled. Yay!

Everything I went through since I stepped out of the comforts of my ever dearest UP lead me to this new endeavor I am about to embark on. But, I am not forgetting about writing. Journalism is something that will always be a part of me and it will stay in a special place in my heart waiting for its turn. Until then, as my time and resources permit, I will set this path ablaze for my career in Clinical Psychology. I’ve never felt this much determination since I took the UPCAT and it feels so good to finally pursue something you are sincerely passionate about.

As for my friends and office mates who keep telling me I’m lucky to have had found what I wanted to do in life, here’s another very important realization:

*Sometimes, life gives you oranges when you’ve asked for apples. But walk on and you might just bump into an apple tree or better yet, stumble upon an empty land where you can plant whatever you please. As one of my favorite quotes say, “It doesn’t matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.”

As for Ivan and Karen, I am truly and sincerely proud of you. Although this means we won’t get to see each other as often as before; as long as you are happy, I’ll be here gleefully tapping you on the shoulder, smiling with your smiles and supporting you throughout.

So…Am I a frustrated writer? I leave you this question.

As for me, I don’t really care what others would say, whether they agree or not, because I know that I am happy with what I am doing and I am proud of it.

Interruptions

(A book review of Susanna Kaysen's Girl, Interrupted)

Girl, Interrupted

The first quarter of this book reminded me so much of the first episode in season 6 of House MD, the critically-acclaimed American television series, and a personal favorite.

The book basically tells the story of a teenage girl who spent two years in a psychiatric hospital, which was renowned for housing several personalities in their own special fields including Sylvia Plath, Robert Lowell, James Taylor and Ray Charles. Her experiences in the psychiatric ward for teenage girls unfolded in detail and with overwhelming surges of both sanity and insanity, and the many underlying presumptions and truths about freedom and confinement.

She starts by describing each patient in the ward in a way that will make your imagination more real about how people in these kinds of situations suffer. If I had not been previously exposed to these kinds of illnesses and much more if I wasn’t interested in psychology, I would’ve probably cringed at every story she told of how these people stayed consistent with their diagnoses.

One thing I noticed from the book is how she tried to describe the other patients in the ward as somewhat being in a lower level as compared to her, sanity-wise. She talked of their attitudes, their looks and most importantly she defined their behavior, in a way that made them seem more erratic than she is; they misbehaved the way their disorders are defined while she stood witness to all of these, feeling both misdiagnosed and pathetic but sometimes pitiful and contemptuous towards them. 

But why? The reason she remembers of being brought to the hospital was the time she tried to kill herself. If the other patients tried suicide by burning themselves or putting themselves in utter danger, she, on the other hand, decided that her 18-year old self should die by swallowing 50 tablets of aspirin. Here’s one of my favorite parts in the book where she talked about suicide and her attempt at it.

Suicide is a form of murder – premeditated murder. It isn’t something you do the first time you think of doing it. It takes getting used to. And you need the means, the opportunity, the motive. A successful suicide demands good organization and a cool head, both of which are usually incompatible with the suicidal state of mind.

It’s important to cultivate detachment. One way to do this is to practice imagining yourself dead, or in the process of dying. If there’s a window, you must imagine your body falling out the window. If there’s a knife, you must imagine the knife piercing your skin. If there’s a train coming, you must imagine your torso flattened under its wheels. These exercises are necessary to achieving the proper distance.

The motive is paramount. Without a strong motive, you’re sunk.

My motives were weak: an American-history paper I didn’t want to write and the question I’d asked months earlier, Why not kill myself? Dead, I wouldn’t have to write the paper. Nor would I have to keep debating the question.

The debate was wearing me out. Once you’ve posted that question, it won’t go away. I think many people kill themselves simply to stop the debate about whether they will or they won’t…

Actually, it was only part of myself I wanted to kill, the part that wanted to kill herself, that dragged me into the suicide debate and maybe every window, kitchen implement, and subway station a rehearsal for tragedy. I didn’t figure this out, though, until after I’d swallowed the fifty aspirin.

               

                Honestly, this part made so much impact to me and stirred a lot of feelings. Our minds can be so treacherous and even gets the best of us. I really have so much to say about suicide and these few paragraphs by the author stirred a lot of emotions within and everything else connected to suicide.

                In the Philippines, most people don’t like to be identified as someone who received or is currently receiving some sort of special psychological attention or to be more specific, therapy. I know of some friends and a handful of people who have their shrinks and once in a while get admitted in psychiatric wards for their disorders. And they always have a difficult time telling their friends or relatives about it, afraid of judgment, rejection, or worse, isolation.

Anyway, the girl, after two years in the hospital, was finally released. After her occasional face scratching, too much wrist banging and few fights in the ward, she was out.

                “I can honestly say that my misery has been transformed into common unhappiness, so by Freud’s definition I have achieved mental health. And my discharge sheet, at line 41, Outcome with Regards to Mental Disorder, reads ‘Recovered’.”

               

                And as proven by the book, there was always something notable about her, not in behavior but in paper. She stayed in a psychiatric ward and her records had it. There was no way of escaping no matter how “psychologically fit” she was. And this is really one of the saddest and most unfair things in the world. She was rejected at job applications and was often tagged as somewhat different.

                The girl’s diagnosis revealed that she actually had Borderline Personality. She had difficulty admitting it to herself and wanted a more biological illness, so that she could blame it to chemistry or to something that can’t be cured, something she could not have done anything about.

“It appears to be way station between neurosis and psychosis: a fractured but not disassembled psyche. Though to quote my post-Melvin psychiatrist: “it’s what they call people whose lifestyles bother them.”

                And this diagnosis always got to her and her life. At the end of the book, she describes her older self as more aware and somehow mature, with a rich boyfriend on the side. But her past would haunt her at the most trying times.

                        This time I read the title of the painting: Girl Interrupted at Her Music.

Interrupted at her music as my life had been, interrupted in the music of being seventeen, as her life had been, snatched and fixed on canvas: one moment made to stand still and to stand for all the other moments, whatever they would be or might have been. What life can recover from that?

I had something to tell her now. “I see you,” I said.

My boyfriend found me crying in the hallway.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked.

“Don’t you see, she’s trying to get out,” I sad, pointing at her.

He looked at the painting, he looked at me, and he said, “All you ever think about is yourself. You don’t understand anything about art.” He went off to look at a Rembrandt."

I am not an expert on psychological disorders, suicides and whatnot. But sometimes, the world forgets that we are all imprefect and that we cannot ignore the inevitable feelings within us, whether it be good or bad. And as one of my favorite lines from the movie “Bride Wars” goes, "You’re only human. You don’t have to have it together every minute of every day." Sometimes what some people need is not an advice or some sort of preaching; sometimes a little compassion and understanding could make a whole lot of a difference. 

                This book could be seen as sad or even disturbing but with the author's first hand experiences, it gives us a little light and pocketful of hope towards people who might’ve lost themselves in a place where sanity becomes a luxury and the mind becomes the playground.


P.S. The girl in the story is actually the author of the book, Susanna Kaysen. She was admitted at Mclean Hospital on April 27, 1967 and stayed there for two years. The book also included copies of her hospital records which made the book even more real but equally haunting.

*hoping the watch the movie soon ^______^