An ode to the frequently overlooked things

After years of being away from the ocean, several months ago I finally had the chance to smell the comforting scent of summer, feel the sand moving as I buried my feet under, and listen to the waves chasing and crashing to each other. It was soothing, yet it made me think of the small details we could've missed in a split second.

Blink, and it's gone.

And then I realized just how fragile, how impermanent our living moments are; how fast they would slip away from the palm of our hands, back to the empty void they once filled. It is the exact same reason why we resort to photographs in a desperate attempt to capture the moment and save it for the rest of eternity.

And so, we need to constantly remind ourselves of these fleeting moments that are often missing from our memories. We only remember the vivid parts, but it really is the details that build the whole imagery we hold onto so fondly.

I think it also explains why we're so afraid of losing someone dear. Years after they're gone, will you still be able to remember their voice? Will you remember how they laughed? Can you tell exactly what they looked like? Was the beauty mark on the left or the right side of their face?

Will you be able to stomach the fact that one day, you may no longer remember them that well?

My answer would be no.

Perhaps, over sharing is a good thing if it's only seen as a way to plant memories on more heads than yours, solely.

Moments don't last, memories unreliable, but you hardly forget a feeling. The bittersweet feeling of nostalgia when you find an old note from your high school era. You remember the minute details: the old journal you took the paper from, the old wooden desk on your childhood bedroom, that one t-shirt you wore over and over.

So, take a break and look around you. Notice what would otherwise go unnoticed. See what would otherwise go unseen. Hear what would otherwise go unheard. Paint it with your heart and feel it, for it is in the details you'll find eternity.

And the day it comes, the world goes in shambles

'What's next?' is a brave question.

Unless you're ready for the endless nights of pondering, do not even try to think about it.

'What comes after Monday?' is entirely harmless, but 'What comes after life?' involves uncertainty and all sorts of possibilities. It is a desperate attempt to break the boundaries of the present, a hopeful call for the slightest glimpse of the future.

The fact that we barely know anything about life until we actually go through it is terrifying. After all, we are afraid of the things we don't know. And so, we resort to asking questions. We try to make sense of what happens and what might come next. We want to be prepared, or at least have a sense of peace and calm when the future finally arrives.

As we grow older, we will walk through the same path our parents and elders once took. We reach the milestones that were once too difficult to discern. And so, we come to understand their points. It finally makes sense why they said no, and we begin to worry about the same things they did.

But curiosity never really stops.

We beg for a snippet of our future, even though the passing of time shakes us to the core. We are fighting the feeling, the friction caused by the ever-so-relentless idea of time. The idea that we might've missed a good opportunity keeps us up at night. The sense of doubt washes over, wondering if we will ever live our life to the fullest. The guilt of not doing enough is the worst of all.

The fact that we are so used to seeing time as a linear concept is probably why we are so utterly afraid of losing our tomorrow. We want to wake up in the morning and all the mornings that come after. We hold on to the beautiful moments and prolong their presence as much as time allows. We always wonder what's next because we never know when the time will take it away from us.

We act like we own time when, in reality, time rules over us.

'If time allows,' we say when hopeful.

'Time will tell,' we say while hopeless.

Our relationship with time is strange. Slightly bittersweet. It's not like we ask for it, but most people refuse to let go anyway. We are so afraid of letting go of our yesterdays but, at the same time, cannot wait for tomorrow to come. We desperately try to alter the course of time by shaping our present. All in hopes that we are prepared for what's about to come. All in hopes that we know what's next.

And so we wait.

And we wait.

And we wait.

And the day it comes, the world goes in shambles.

I'm living up to this meme

I haven't told you that I'm seeing a psychiatrist, have I?

About six months ago, I decided to come clean with my family about my issues and went to a mental health clinic at a hospital where I am a regular. The reason was simple: I didn't have to make a phone call to make an appointment. It's all in one app—the less human interaction needed in the process, the better.

Funnily enough, it was actually located in the same area as the pediatricians. My first visit wasn't as nerve-racking as I thought it would be because I was looking at (and involuntarily listening to) babies crying, mothers chatting—everything all at once. It was safe to say that I was distracted.

I had to wait for almost two hours and I was so close to leaving when the doctor finally called my name. I didn't know where to start, but as soon as the doctor gave me some questions, I just blurted out almost everything that I had in mind at the time. I just felt lost, and I wanted answers. I wanted to know what was going on inside my head, and if there was actually something going on up there.

On my next visit, the doctor began to prescribe me a mix of Noxetine and Clobazam to fix my sleep schedule and basically let me chill on a daily basis. My mother was strongly against the idea of me taking these medications at first, and we repeatedly got into an argument. I had a meltdown once and things went ugly, but in the end, we all came to terms with my condition.

I took an assessment called the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory (MMPI) even though the result was deemed invalid because I was considered unstable at the moment. My doctor said that I could retake the test later at the end of my treatment, but to sum things up, I had a mood disorder and was diagnosed with depression.

There it was, my answer.

I was wondering if I really did have a problem or if I was simply unable to navigate my way through life as smoothly as others. At some point, I thought that it was probably just me being a self-centric egomaniac. It turns out that I do have a problem, and my doctor was actually taking all my words (and my problem) seriously.

There's a side effect from the medications, though. I sleep more than ever, sometimes even when I'm not supposed to. I fell asleep and almost missed a meeting twice. I didn't tell anybody at work because I don't want them to think that I was seeking attention. They don't have to know. It's enough to just be present and give my all.

Anyway, I stumbled upon this funny but low-key deep video on the internet which says that on a day where you only have 20 percent and you give 20 percent, you are actually giving 100 percent. You are doing your best at the moment. You are giving your all. It's a rather refreshing take on productivity. Remember this every time you feel guilty for not being as productive as you planned to be.

Now, back to my psychiatrist. She is a cheerful, petite lady who wears the cutest surgical caps ever. On my first visit, it was a Baby Shark cap. On my second, I don't remember exactly, but it was either a Winnie the Pooh or a Doraemon cap. She restored my faith in mental health professionals. From the moment we met, there has never been a single judging look in her eyes.

The reason why I kept putting off seeing a psychiatrist was my trust issue. I was afraid of not being taken seriously. I was afraid that the doctor would say it was just me, which probably would've only amplified my doubt and anxiety. Thank goodness, things went a lot better than my extremely low expectation.

I don't know how long I'm going to be seeing my doctor. My next visit is due next week and I'm running low on medications, so let's see what life has in store.

To end this post, I would like to say that I am forever grateful that I took that first step—that I chose to finally see a mental health professional even though it was a rather impulsive decision. It's always hard to start, especially when you don't know what to do or where to go first, but things will eventually get better.

Take that step. Get some help.