fuck the new year essay. it's time for some bloodletting.


January 2, 2019

For a second there, I thought 2018 would never end. There was some good shit last year and really bad ones too. I realized earlier that the previous year was like this huge wave that breaks just as it reaches its full height. The DENR gig, which I got after my disastrous attempt at newspaper reporting, felt like eons ago. Then work after work and a few gigs here and there and now it’s January 2 and I should be attending to my deadlines instead of writing this one.

But I still can’t write. Last night was one of the lowest of the year and not surprisingly it involved alcohol. Never mess with prescription drugs, I tell myself time and time again. I think my lows have been unbelievably low ever since I started anti-depressants. Crazy times actually. I kept losing my head to be honest. Maybe it’s time for a switch? Or maybe I just should take the medication as prescribed? Stop improvising damn it!

Right now, right now, I just want to fucking cry. Bawl my eyes out. For the things that happened, for the things that I had done, for the things that I will do, for the end that is about to come. Just fucking mourn.


Have you ever gone out searching for a lover that refuses to be found?

A few years back, an ex “disappeared” for 12 hours. This was after him coming home at the break of dawn in a fit of anger. He had snorted something sometime in the night in some bar where his once paramour was present. I don’t remember what we were fighting about that morning. I was drunk. He was coming off from a high. And it was already 6am. After exhausting ourselves hurling insults against each other we decided to briefly make peace and, well, make love. It’s just that it wasn’t really love making per se. It was more like angry sex. Then he decided to go back to his apartment and I dozed off a bit to prepare myself for my afternoon meeting.
At work, all I could think about was him cheating on me. I couldn’t focus. I asked my friend for an advice.

“Were you aware of his drug use?” he asked me.


“Did he say that nothing happened between his ‘ex’ and him?”

“He said it was awkward but nothing happened. But I’m more concerned about him getting high.”

“But you were aware of it from the very beginning, yes?”


“And you are okay with that?”

“Yes, I think his drug use is under control.”

Well, wait, let’s pause for a bit. If someone tells you that his drug use is under control he is lying. The mere fact that he is already using means he is already out of control. Honestly I don’t know how Hunter Thompson were able to operate given the amount of drugs he imbibed. But I’m digressing.

The meeting ended at around 7pm. I took a cab home and decided to call it an early night. But of course I couldn’t sleep with my anxiety banging on the door. After a few text messages to the ex with no response I started to panic. Well, not panic but I started getting antsy. I started sending text messages to friends who were going out on a Tuesday night. I wanted to go out of the apartment. I couldn’t stand being alone.

I met with a friend who was going to a meeting in Maginhawa with some of his MA classmates. I didn’t care if I was just a kibitzer. While she was mingling inside a café I was outside buying beer from the adjacent bar.

Where the fuck are you?

I was a mess that night. I wanted to go alone in a bar but I realized that if the ex finds out that I went out alone that would start another fight. So I went along with my friend to Timog where she was meeting another set of friends. But by that time I realized that I wouldn’t have an alone time with my friend so I decided to go home instead. Before we said our goodbyes, she asked me what my problem was. I told her.

“I don’t know how to help you,” she said.

I was glad she was honest. And so I hailed a cab and went home. I sat at the back watching all these building towering before us. I wanted to fly. I wanted to fly to all the windows that had their lights on and knock on people who were still up.

Have you seen my boyfriend? I may have asked.

I remember looking at the cab’s dashboard where a tiny Hawaiian doll would shake and dance every time the vehicle lurched.
I arrived home, bought two bottles of Red Horse Grande to finally knock me off. Back then, I could drink two Grandes and still be up and miserable.

At around 5am, right the same time he came home the day before, the ex finally responded. He had been sleeping the entire day. We decided to meet at some bar near Balete Drive. There we talk about our “feelings,” our grievances. Promises that we would eventually keep. I was a total mess back then. I was clinically depressed and he had just been diagnosed with a bipolar disorder. We were very self-destructive.

I once tried writing a story about that incident, about a lover looking for his boyfriend the entire night. But I wasn’t able to finish it and it got stuck on some beaten down laptop that gave out on me a few decades ago.

Looking back, I think I was too naïve then and was just overwhelmed with heartbreak. He, on the other hand, was young and pure and really loved me but at the same time had envisioned a life that I couldn’t possible fit in. We broke up.

He seems to be doing well right now. And more importantly, he has been sober for almost a decade now. I really hope he is doing well. 

And I, well, I’m going through some tough shit. Never mess with prescription drugs, I say. It will really make you bonkers.
If there is something that I learned about that experience is that if you are in the middle of a storm, try to be still. Grab something that’ll keep you grounded. I need to be grounded right now. I need to be sane.

Jan. 2, 2019 3.17 am


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