Who I am wonders who I could’ve been and mourns all the possibilities that never came to be.
How do I even begin to write about the last few months?
I should’ve known that things can change in a moment. Everything can fall apart and it can all be taken away from you.
I turned thirty. I’ve been though multiple bipolar episodes. My grandfather passed away and I’m still living with the grief. I mourned the anniversary of my friend’s suicide. I’m stuck in a dead end, meaningless job with a culture dedicated to ruining me.
It’s been over a year since moving to Ottawa. Six months ago, I was getting used to being in this foreign place. I’ve made friends that I can go to concerts with (or what few happen in this city). I’ve found coffee shops and bars and restaurants that I like and have gotten to know the friendly people here — the baristas, the bartenders, the small business owners. I had a job that was meaningful, with a manger who trusted and empowered me.
What do you do when it feels like your life is falling apart, shattering into a million different pieces?
… I am thankful today again for every reminder of how I have outlived my worst imagination. I will walk slowly through the garden of all that could have killed me but didn’t.
Hanif Abdurraqib, There’s Always This Year: On Basketball and Ascension
I never thought I’d make it to thirty. Why do I feel so old yet so young at the same time? Why do I feel so stuck? Is this what they mean when they say “You’re going through a quarter-life crisis?”
In recent years, I’ve been telling people that I’ve lived multiple lifetimes. I was a youth group leader, wannabe musician and filmmaker, Model UN club president, Board Director for different non-profits, music writer, passionate barista. I’ve taken different jobs, just trying to survive. I completed a Masters degree. And now I find myself masquerading as a Policy Wonk. Isn’t this what I’ve wanted, what I’ve worked for all these years?
I’m not young any more, and it feels like I lost out on opportunities to be a young leader. I see these younger kids doing great things and accomplishing so much. If I may be honest, I wish that was me. I thought I could’ve done so much more. As James Murphy sings:
But I'm losing my edge
To better-looking people
With better ideas and more talent
And they're actually really, really nice
My therapist says I should be proud of what I’ve accomplished. All of the obstacles that I’ve had to overcome. So why does it feel like I haven’t done enough?
I’m not a kid anymore, but I don’t feel like an adult. There’s bills to pay, taxes to file. Am I ever going to get my shit together? It feels so scary getting old.
I’ve lived many lifetimes and I’m so tired.
Is aging a blessing? Should we embrace the grace of growing up, when many were not given the grace to grow old? I want spilled drinks, I want Lover’s Spit left on repeat, I want the midnight streets — I want it all back.
We all kept striving to be better, we all kept trying harder and harder, not fully understanding that the playing field and rules were not conceived for us to win…For me, this inadequacy complex is a major reason why being a Filipino can feel like we lead a life of constant striving, a life where we always need to be productive, where we need to keep improving ourselves.
Mila Bongco-Philipzig
I want to be great. I don’t want to just be mediocre. I want to make a change. Is it so wrong for me to want that? But as a Filipino immigrant living with bipolar, I know the odds have always been against me.
As a Filipino immigrant who grew up in a suburban public school, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know law school or grad school or politics or the public service were options for me. I didn’t know how to interact with the academic and political elite. I was not like the rich, white private school kids, and I would never be. I never wanted to be.
I’ve worked hard all my life. I should be proud of how far I’ve come and I am proud. But it’s hard not to feel like it’s not enough. It all feels fragile. I’m not allowed to fail. I’m not allowed to ask for help. Because once I do, once I let go, the floor will collapse under my feet. I have to start over again.
Being Filipino feels like I have to do more and I have to do better and I have to continue striving and I have to keep fighting. Keep proving that I’m “worthy,” prove that I’m just as good, if not better than some arbitrary standard of excellence.
I struggle to understand my Filipinoness in a culture that does not see Filipinos as leaders. I’m still discovering how I can live up to my responsibility to my kapwa. I know I have a lot to give to the world. I will continue to fight because I know too much and I owe too much. I will continue to fight and to do more and to be better because that’s the Filipino spirit.
You can mark my words…
Frightened Rabbit, “Head Rolls Off”
While I’m alive, I’ll make tiny changes to earth.
Living with bipolar disorder is like living with this shadow that I’m always doing a delicate dance with. We’re forever entwined, caught in an invisible struggle while I’m here in this now and in all the possible futures while I’m still here.
Everything in my life is one depression, one hypomanic, one mixed episode away from being destroyed. My relationships, my friendships, my career — my life. It is all so fragile and that is terrifying. The instability that at any moment, everything can be taken away from you.
Julien Baker sings, “There’s a comfort in failure.” I don’t know if that’s true.
For a short time, I was proud of all my achievements in a job where I felt fulfilled. I took time off work because of a bipolar episode that threatened to overwhelm me. And when I came back, all the things I worked so hard on were taken away from me. It takes one moment, one episode for everything to fall apart.
I failed, once again. And I’m feeling resentful, angry, terrified.
And this is exactly what I knew was going to happen.
So how do I pick up the pieces? How do you even begin to rebuild your life after an episode? And how do you know it’s not going to be taken away again? It’s an impossible task.
All I ask are questions and I never get back any answers.
When someone commits suicide, did they lose the battle? Or did they, in fact, build up the courage to finally let go of their suffering and find their own peace?
After a week in the hospital recently, after the fear of losing my life, after Will’s anniversary, after all the reflection of death and suicide around me, I wish I could tell you I was brave. I know to keep fighting and that there’s miles to go before I sleep. But actually, I feel afraid. I am mourning all the possibilities that could’ve been.
I’ve seen death and stared into his face. I chose to leave — many times — so why am I still here? I’ve learnt how to dance this delicate dance with the darkness that wants to overwhelm me. I take my meds, I go to therapy, I hang onto the people who love me enough to keep me around. And yet, I’ve lost friends to that darkness and I’ll never see them again, except in my dreams.
I’ve been listening to Frightened Rabbit, a Scottish band led by Scott Hutchison — who unfortunately died of suicide himself in 2018. His words in “Head Rolls Off” haunt me. I don’t know how much time I have left, but while I’m alive, I have to make tiny changes in this world.
It’s inspiring, but in reality, it’s terrifying. What the fuck am I doing in this life? Am I actually making a change? Is this the best life I can live, with everything I can bring to the world, with all I know and all I can do? Again, I ask questions and get no answers.
But Scott does something fascinating in the second chorus. He sings “Mark my words, I’ll make changes to Earth.” And in a time where everything seems to be going against me, where it feels like it’s all being taken away from me, I have to tell the world, “Just fucking watch me.” I’m not done yet and I won’t be done for as long as I’m alive.
Everything we feel, we have to put into words. Sometimes, I just want to feel things.
The Worst Person in the World (dir. Joachim Trier, 2021)“Oh, dear, I can see you’ve had a rough few months…
Cassandra Jenkins, “Hard Drive”
We’re gonna put your heart back together
So all those little pieces they took from you
They’re coming back.”
Who I am wonders who I could’ve been and mourns all the possibilities that never came to be.
I grieve for all the times I’ve attempted suicide. I grieve for all the “me’s” that could have been. I grieve for all the endings that I’ve conceived in my mind. But I’m not done writing my story.
I’m not asking for your pity. I’m not looking for your advice. I don’t need your comfort and platitudes and I certainly don’t need you to tell me that it’s not too late for me to achieve it all.
What I hope though is that if I’m going to stumble in the dark and fuck up sometimes, I hope we do it together and I’m not alone.
I want it all. I want life with all of its complexities. I want the whole breadth of emotions and experiences. I want a full story with a beginning, a satisfying ending, and all the chapters in between. And I want to be my own storyteller, not just another tragic story told by others.
I’ll keep fighting, because that’s the Filipino spirit. While I’m alive, I’ll make changes to this Earth, no matter how tiny — mark my words.
