em,
My mind is blank as I balance my phone on my ninth-grade science books. We have three for some reason, which is a living nightmare for someone who is utterly clueless when it comes to scientific theories and processes. In short, me.
Like, make it make sense. The guidance counselors asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up in, like, seventh grade. I said I wanted to be in Music Production and Composition and I still do. So dammit, why do I have to go through three separate quarters of Biology, Chemistry, and Physics?
Never mind—my mind is never blank.
Once I’m sure my phone won’t fall from its perch, I open the camera app. I stare at my reflection and wince at my eyebags. I've been getting better at maintaining a healthy sleeping schedule, but school has been beating me into a pulp lately. As much as I want to sleep regularly, I can't really find it within myself to take my sleeping pills when I have a paper due the next day.
I squint at my phone even more—and oh God, why are my eyes still red? I thought I already washed my face a while ago.
I take a deep breath. There is no point in stalling. I need to make that PowerPoint presentation later today. Not now, though. We procrastinate by doing our assignments from our therapist and taking care of our mental health in this household.
That is an absolute lie, by the way, but I digress.
I press record. It takes me a few seconds to remember why.
“Before you ask, yes, I spent like twenty seconds staring into the camera without speaking whatsoever. I swear I’m getting better, though. If this had happened before I started talking to our therapist, that would’ve been a good minute and a half and you know that.” My words stumble out like those university students exiting the LRT. Same volume and everything. Oh God, I hate my voice so much.
“I mean, you would know 'cause you’re me... Well, me from the future, I guess.” I start to tap on the desk in front of me. Four fingers. Three Fingers. Four fingers. Three fingers. One, usually the index finger. Repeat.
It became a habit of mine whenever I was stuck in tense situations—and I guess that includes talking to myself. The beat calms me, somewhat. It gives my hands something to do besides shaking or laying awkwardly on the side.
Call it the leitmotif of my anxiety, except I haven’t really figured out the whole theme yet.
“Speaking of our therapist, that's kind of why I'm talking to you. Y'know, with the whole depression thing, Miss Cara thought it would be good if I made a video for my future self. Something about talking through my issues and setting achievable goals or some… stuff.”
I stare at the camera again. I don’t really know how to start. Hell, I don’t even know what to say.
I want to chalk it up to my antidepressants—how I always come up blank when it comes to important things like this. But, I can daydream just fine. I can dissect the scores of Pixar movies just fine. Why can’t I talk to myself just fine?
It’s like I’m fighting with myself. My brain refuses to function when it comes to situations that matter. But when it comes to intrusive thoughts at three in the morning, everything is just dandy.
“I’ve been having a hard time, bossman. Since therapy, I feel like I’ve just been more aware of what’s wrong with me. And I know everyone says there's nothing wrong with me. And they say that I’ve only been trying my best. And I have! But, I feel like my best is not enough, and I’m just making excuses for myself… What if I’m just lazy? What if I'm really just dumb and slow? What if Ma and Pa are disappointed in me? God knows our older sister is. I pity her sometimes, y’know? Because sometimes I agree with her. I mean, all my classmates are doing fine, yet here I am missing out on school because I started bawling my eyes out over brushing my teeth." Four fingers. Three Fingers. Four fingers. Three fingers. One. Repeat.
“I just couldn’t help it. I really couldn’t. Everything was so loud, and I was all alone because Ma and Pa wanted to visit Tanya. And everyone was staring at me in school the other day. And it felt like their eyes followed me all the way home. And… and it was just too much.” I try to blink away the tears threatening to make their special appearance in the video. As much as I appreciate the company, I already cried enough this morning.
It really isn’t fair. Sometimes, I really do think that I'm on the right track—during moments where I felt motivated because I didn't feel guilty laughing over a joke, or because I was able to initiate a conversation with a staff member at a restaurant. But there come times like today where everything comes crashing down and I don't freaking know how to start picking up the pieces again. I try so damn hard, yet I still get all pissy about people staring at me. Like, yeah, I get it! I was the kid who got a panic attack in Science class a few months back. Can we move on?
I look towards the ceiling since blinking the tears away did nothing. As my gaze shifts, I see a sticky note stuck to a notebook on the corner of my desk. It’s one of those silly motivational quotes. I reach for it.
“Whenever you find yourself doubting how far you can go, just remember how far you have come.”
It’s cheesy, but Miss Cara said that the quotes would help when things get overwhelming. Besides, it doesn't hurt to try, especially when you need it.
I remember my friends helping me find quotes while I wrote some on my own when Miss Cara first gave the assignment. Pretty sure one of them said, “What’s there to worry about when you have a huge dump truck?” Never asked why, never will.
I placed them all over my room so I could spot them easily. I also have a folder on my laptop full of recordings of my parents and friends talking about how they’re proud of me. And if I have a separate folder of just me talking about my progress during each week, only I would know.
“I know I shouldn't agree with Tanya. Because, besides Tanya being absolutely horrid, if I was truly doing this for attention, I wouldn't be talking to you, would I? The reason why I'm talking to you in the first place is that I want to do everything I can to feel content with myself again. There have been times where my doubts come in and pull me downward. So many times.” My voice comes out wobbly as I try to compose myself, but it just hurts my throat and I feel like I'm about to vomit. I give up on stopping myself from full-on sobbing and let my head drop.
My eyes land on the sticky note that's now in my hand. I feel my lips tug upwards a bit as I remember those lunch breaks filled with my friends' friendly arguments and light banter. They kept trying to read the quotes aloud to see if they sounded "inspirational." Long story short, the majority of my friends should not be motivational speakers, or else they will resort to complimenting the size of your toes. But at least their voices served as background noise while I wrote a more personalized set of sticky notes. I'm pretty sure I even doodled on some of them because my friends were taking too long debating on the spelling of "believe."
They are idiots. I love them.
“But I try, y’know?” I wave the sticky note in front of the camera and try my best to smile—the best a shaking, snotty mess could muster. “So I need you to try as well, because goddammit, I don’t want all these things I did and cherished to go to waste. Because I can sit at family dinners now—well, except when Tanya is there. Tanya can go to the underworld and stay there for all I care. But Tanya going to hell doesn’t matter right now—what matters is I can sit at family dinners now! And last night I finished my entire bowl and it felt so good. Ma and Pa were smiling at me like I won a goddamn medal. It felt like I was 10 again. It felt like I owned my body again…” A laugh escapes my throat, and I start smiling while my tears continue pouring out like our leaky faucet downstairs. I think this is what they mean by saying that crying is good.
It's like I could scream for hours without losing my voice. It's like I could run a whole marathon at three in the morning with those “protagonist” playlists from YouTube blaring down my eardrums. Well, not at full volume. My ears are sensitive, but goddammit, somebody play Ricky Montgomery!
Despite feeling like there’s a whole damn train car lodged in my throat, my voice comes out steadier than I expected—probably because this is the only time I’ve been sure of what I’m going to say in weeks. “I trust you. Surprising, I know. But I need to trust you if we want to keep this up… I want to trust you, so don't fail me, okay? Well, I’ll understand if you experience some hurdles here and there. But don't give up, got it? I'll be doing my part so you have an easier time. But the future is all up to you, bossman. Have fun with it. If we don't become world-renowned composers at the age of twenty-one, I'm calling BS!” Four fingers. Two Fingers. Three fingers. Two fingers. One. Repeat.
The room falls into a comfortable silence as my fingers tap to the new rhythm. I use my other hand to affix the sticky note back on my notebook. I should probably also get tissue.
I glance at the camera and snort. Yeah, I should get some tissue. My face looks like it’s covered in tape because of the dried tears. I would say that I'm glowing with the shininess of my face and everything. But I look redder than anything. It's a miracle, though, that my snot stayed in my nose. Maybe God is real, after all.
“We’ll get through this together. Y’know, because you’re me! I'll definitely do this again. Maybe in a year or so." I say as I wipe my face dry. I squint at my phone, and yup, definitely red. Still, I can’t help but smile. I feel too damn good to even be embarrassed.
“I guess until then, see you soon, Emily. Or should I say ‘Good luck, Emily’?” I crouch down in front of the phone so I can be seen in the shot. I debate whether I should do the “Disney Channel Wand ID” thing, but I opt for a two-finger salute instead.
Before turning the recording off, I do one more of my taps. One finger. Four fingers. Three fingers.
“I love you. Take care, okay?”
Literary: Tapping to the Rhythm of Tomorrow
Content Warning: themes of depression and anxiety
Like, make it make sense. The guidance counselors asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up in, like, seventh grade. I said I wanted to be in Music Production and Composition and I still do. So dammit, why do I have to go through three separate quarters of Biology, Chemistry, and Physics?
Never mind—my mind is never blank.
Once I’m sure my phone won’t fall from its perch, I open the camera app. I stare at my reflection and wince at my eyebags. I've been getting better at maintaining a healthy sleeping schedule, but school has been beating me into a pulp lately. As much as I want to sleep regularly, I can't really find it within myself to take my sleeping pills when I have a paper due the next day.
I squint at my phone even more—and oh God, why are my eyes still red? I thought I already washed my face a while ago.
I take a deep breath. There is no point in stalling. I need to make that PowerPoint presentation later today. Not now, though. We procrastinate by doing our assignments from our therapist and taking care of our mental health in this household.
That is an absolute lie, by the way, but I digress.
I press record. It takes me a few seconds to remember why.
“Before you ask, yes, I spent like twenty seconds staring into the camera without speaking whatsoever. I swear I’m getting better, though. If this had happened before I started talking to our therapist, that would’ve been a good minute and a half and you know that.” My words stumble out like those university students exiting the LRT. Same volume and everything. Oh God, I hate my voice so much.
“I mean, you would know 'cause you’re me... Well, me from the future, I guess.” I start to tap on the desk in front of me. Four fingers. Three Fingers. Four fingers. Three fingers. One, usually the index finger. Repeat.
It became a habit of mine whenever I was stuck in tense situations—and I guess that includes talking to myself. The beat calms me, somewhat. It gives my hands something to do besides shaking or laying awkwardly on the side.
Call it the leitmotif of my anxiety, except I haven’t really figured out the whole theme yet.
“Speaking of our therapist, that's kind of why I'm talking to you. Y'know, with the whole depression thing, Miss Cara thought it would be good if I made a video for my future self. Something about talking through my issues and setting achievable goals or some… stuff.”
I stare at the camera again. I don’t really know how to start. Hell, I don’t even know what to say.
I want to chalk it up to my antidepressants—how I always come up blank when it comes to important things like this. But, I can daydream just fine. I can dissect the scores of Pixar movies just fine. Why can’t I talk to myself just fine?
It’s like I’m fighting with myself. My brain refuses to function when it comes to situations that matter. But when it comes to intrusive thoughts at three in the morning, everything is just dandy.
“I’ve been having a hard time, bossman. Since therapy, I feel like I’ve just been more aware of what’s wrong with me. And I know everyone says there's nothing wrong with me. And they say that I’ve only been trying my best. And I have! But, I feel like my best is not enough, and I’m just making excuses for myself… What if I’m just lazy? What if I'm really just dumb and slow? What if Ma and Pa are disappointed in me? God knows our older sister is. I pity her sometimes, y’know? Because sometimes I agree with her. I mean, all my classmates are doing fine, yet here I am missing out on school because I started bawling my eyes out over brushing my teeth." Four fingers. Three Fingers. Four fingers. Three fingers. One. Repeat.
It really isn’t fair. Sometimes, I really do think that I'm on the right track—during moments where I felt motivated because I didn't feel guilty laughing over a joke, or because I was able to initiate a conversation with a staff member at a restaurant. But there come times like today where everything comes crashing down and I don't freaking know how to start picking up the pieces again. I try so damn hard, yet I still get all pissy about people staring at me. Like, yeah, I get it! I was the kid who got a panic attack in Science class a few months back. Can we move on?
I look towards the ceiling since blinking the tears away did nothing. As my gaze shifts, I see a sticky note stuck to a notebook on the corner of my desk. It’s one of those silly motivational quotes. I reach for it.
“Whenever you find yourself doubting how far you can go, just remember how far you have come.”
It’s cheesy, but Miss Cara said that the quotes would help when things get overwhelming. Besides, it doesn't hurt to try, especially when you need it.
I remember my friends helping me find quotes while I wrote some on my own when Miss Cara first gave the assignment. Pretty sure one of them said, “What’s there to worry about when you have a huge dump truck?” Never asked why, never will.
I placed them all over my room so I could spot them easily. I also have a folder on my laptop full of recordings of my parents and friends talking about how they’re proud of me. And if I have a separate folder of just me talking about my progress during each week, only I would know.
“I know I shouldn't agree with Tanya. Because, besides Tanya being absolutely horrid, if I was truly doing this for attention, I wouldn't be talking to you, would I? The reason why I'm talking to you in the first place is that I want to do everything I can to feel content with myself again. There have been times where my doubts come in and pull me downward. So many times.” My voice comes out wobbly as I try to compose myself, but it just hurts my throat and I feel like I'm about to vomit. I give up on stopping myself from full-on sobbing and let my head drop.
My eyes land on the sticky note that's now in my hand. I feel my lips tug upwards a bit as I remember those lunch breaks filled with my friends' friendly arguments and light banter. They kept trying to read the quotes aloud to see if they sounded "inspirational." Long story short, the majority of my friends should not be motivational speakers, or else they will resort to complimenting the size of your toes. But at least their voices served as background noise while I wrote a more personalized set of sticky notes. I'm pretty sure I even doodled on some of them because my friends were taking too long debating on the spelling of "believe."
They are idiots. I love them.
“But I try, y’know?” I wave the sticky note in front of the camera and try my best to smile—the best a shaking, snotty mess could muster. “So I need you to try as well, because goddammit, I don’t want all these things I did and cherished to go to waste. Because I can sit at family dinners now—well, except when Tanya is there. Tanya can go to the underworld and stay there for all I care. But Tanya going to hell doesn’t matter right now—what matters is I can sit at family dinners now! And last night I finished my entire bowl and it felt so good. Ma and Pa were smiling at me like I won a goddamn medal. It felt like I was 10 again. It felt like I owned my body again…” A laugh escapes my throat, and I start smiling while my tears continue pouring out like our leaky faucet downstairs. I think this is what they mean by saying that crying is good.
It's like I could scream for hours without losing my voice. It's like I could run a whole marathon at three in the morning with those “protagonist” playlists from YouTube blaring down my eardrums. Well, not at full volume. My ears are sensitive, but goddammit, somebody play Ricky Montgomery!
Despite feeling like there’s a whole damn train car lodged in my throat, my voice comes out steadier than I expected—probably because this is the only time I’ve been sure of what I’m going to say in weeks. “I trust you. Surprising, I know. But I need to trust you if we want to keep this up… I want to trust you, so don't fail me, okay? Well, I’ll understand if you experience some hurdles here and there. But don't give up, got it? I'll be doing my part so you have an easier time. But the future is all up to you, bossman. Have fun with it. If we don't become world-renowned composers at the age of twenty-one, I'm calling BS!” Four fingers. Two Fingers. Three fingers. Two fingers. One. Repeat.
The room falls into a comfortable silence as my fingers tap to the new rhythm. I use my other hand to affix the sticky note back on my notebook. I should probably also get tissue.
I glance at the camera and snort. Yeah, I should get some tissue. My face looks like it’s covered in tape because of the dried tears. I would say that I'm glowing with the shininess of my face and everything. But I look redder than anything. It's a miracle, though, that my snot stayed in my nose. Maybe God is real, after all.
“We’ll get through this together. Y’know, because you’re me! I'll definitely do this again. Maybe in a year or so." I say as I wipe my face dry. I squint at my phone, and yup, definitely red. Still, I can’t help but smile. I feel too damn good to even be embarrassed.
“I guess until then, see you soon, Emily. Or should I say ‘Good luck, Emily’?” I crouch down in front of the phone so I can be seen in the shot. I debate whether I should do the “Disney Channel Wand ID” thing, but I opt for a two-finger salute instead.
Before turning the recording off, I do one more of my taps. One finger. Four fingers. Three fingers.
“I love you. Take care, okay?”
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