MussoLOLen is Always Right! |

It’s that time of the month again, and I don’t mean my period. Depression, as I experience it, works like karma. For a month or two I’m happy, calm, stable, fun, and confident that I can take on all the curveballs life throws at me. Then the depression gets triggered by a minor disappointment, or something as arbitrary as the way shadows fall on a building. For about three to four weeks I move around in a zombie-like state punctuated by the occasional crying jag. Then, just as suddenly as the depression started, I bounce back into my “normal”, relatively happy self. Rise, wash, repeat.

At the moment I’m going through one of those downs and it’s gotten so bad that I actually cried in public no less than three times this week. My friends say they’ve seen me in worse shape before, so I guess there’s no reason for me to panic. It’s just one of those things I have to go through. Of course, it doesn’t make the present any less awful for me.

I noticed something interesting about this particular down though: my musical taste expanded to accommodate classic rock and folk music. Well okay, maybe it has something to do with the fact that the most depressing songs (in my opinion) fall under those genres. If you listen to most the sad songs made over the last five years, they’re usually about getting screwed over by love. Nobody sings about getting screwed over by life anymore. I don’t want to hear songs about getting dumped because I don’t have a broken heart; I have a broken soul. Or at least, that’s what it feels like. I wish I had a broken heart because at least I can point out where the problem lies. But I don’t even have the luxury of blaming some stupid boy for this horrible, inexplicable sadness I’m going through at the moment.

Because writing about depression is getting old, I figured I’d share what I think are the five most depressing songs I know. I’ve arranged them in ascending order, from the song that make me think about difficult but not entirely unpleasant things, to the song that I would most likely play whilst committing suicide, if I were actually suicidal. Which I am not.

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Last night I dreamt that all the 21-year olds in the world were struck by a debilitating disease that manifested itself as large, acne-like bumps on their skins that eventually erupted into itching, bleeding sores that spread all over the body as fast as ants can crawl. Once the body was covered in sores, the brain went next, bleeding out of both ears in gray and red wormlike chunks. As soon as the brain was done slithering out of ear canals, the person struck by the disease would be rendered incapable of speaking in coherent sentences. Then the person would commit beastly atrocities you’d never think any human being could be capable of doing. I can’t remember exactly what these atrocities were, although at some point I do recall feeling so overcome by a sense of horror that I couldn’t move a muscle even though I wanted so badly to scream and run.

I got the disease and I was panicking, crying, desperately searching for a cure because I was so so scared I’d turn into one of those moaning groaning monsters. I ran into my parents’ bedroom to ask for their help and nearly died of shock when I saw that they were covered in the scars from the red boils that once covered their clear, smooth skins. They had blood on their hands.

The disease, I was told, was called Growing Up. And there is no cure for it.

People who ask me what high school I graduated from usually receive an ironic smile and a singsongy “Secret!” in response. I’ve been thinking about changing that policy because it’s a hassle to explain why I’m being so secretive. See, I was the token Weird Chick back in high school. The kid everybody picked on for the dumbest of reasons, the freak who couldn’t seem to fit in or be understood by anyone. I bet if you were in my place, you’d make a conscious effort to avoid being friends by association with anyone from your alma matter. Or maybe that’s just me.

A portrait of the freak as a young lady

I’m not completely unforgiving though. Lately I’ve been thinking about getting in touch with some people from high school–the few ones that are worth talking to anyway–mostly out of sheer curiosity but also because you can never have too many friends. Yesterday, I spoke to someone from my high school for the first time in years. And I don’t mean like we exchanged pleasantries over Friendster; we had an actual conversation about what we’ve been doing with our lives and where we are now. Then she dropped the bombshell and told me that there are certain individuals from our batch who still bitch about people from high school. Not too far down their shit list was Lauren Dado. According to them, may sarili akong mundo (I live in my own little world) at masyado akong show-off (and I am a big show-off). Overall, I am nothing but a loser. Yeah, I don’t get the logic either.

I was tempted to bring out the guns and wage an all-out bitch war, until I realized that there’s no glory in shooting down the spineless. Seriously, what kind of loser spends afternoons in Starbucks (without buying anything, mind you) bitching about people from high school? I’m not saying I haven’t done my share of people-bashing in a coffee shop, but not even in my lowest moments did I ever pick on old schoolmates I didn’t like. Talk about a preview of how the rest of their lives are going to turn out. I bet ten years from now, they still wouldn’t be able to afford a drink there because they chose to spend their twenties living in the glory days when their stupid little clique ruled the school, instead of getting off their sorry asses, getting a fucking job, and getting a life. Jesus. If I had to consort with characters like those to “fit in” and be “popular” for four stupid years, then by all fucking means I’m glad I was the biggest loser in high school. I’m glad I was the loneliest girl there.

I’d love to show off more pictures of me and my friends being happy
but there’s too many of those and not enough space

I don’t suppose I need to list down the reasons why I think they’re still picking on me after all these years, but I’ll do it anyway. I’m gorgeous, intelligent, and an excellent conversationalist. I have the sweetest, craziest groups of friends and a loving, stable family. I have a band that’s going to go places someday. My weekends are always packed and even when things are slow, I find ways to amuse myself and be happy. The love life doesn’t exist, but I’m perfectly fine with it. I don’t know about you, but being romantically unattached is far better than being the battered girlfriend of a guy whose face resembles watery dog turd. Seriously, I imagine people my age would make better life choices than that.

The last thing I want is to be a hypocrite and get stuck in the past like they are, so this will be the last time I’ll ever talk about high school (in my blog anyway). It’s sad and amusing to discover that after all these years, the same old people are still picking on me for reasons I don’t know. Well, whatever makes them happy. As for me, I see no point in being bitter about high school when I’ve got places to go, people to love, and a whole life ahead of me to live.