bleak and pretty



I wanted to die yesterday so I took 100mg Benadryl. I did pass out, fell asleep for a few hours, and woke up around noon time to wait for my friend to arrive and bring me some pot.

The shitty feeling of a Benadryl overdose took over me when I woke up; my muscles tingled and my bones felt brittle. It felt like I could crawl out of my skin. With blurry vision, I struggled to keep awake, took deep breaths to fill my lungs with oxygen and watched some Dr. Phil over YouTube.

We met around 2 in the afternoon and went about our usual business. We got some good pot. For the first time in what felt like forever, I got the munchies and ate a ton of junk food. We were like weed warriors who yielded bottled water and corn chips. We listened to Sticky Fingers towards the end of the session and pretty much just stared at the dream catchers on the opposite side of my apartment.

We've been dope buddies since 2015, and I am grateful to have this friendship with him.

I've also been writing on another blog. Not planning to disclose it to anyone or anywhere soon, but here's a clipping that I'd like to copy over here:

Gusto ko nang bumalik sa Real, mag camp mag-isa sa The Park, pasanin ang board ko hanggang Magra, at itigil na ang lahat ng kahibangan na ito at maglaro na lang sa tubig.

Mas gugustuhin ko pang ma-wipe out nang isandaang beses sa tubig kesa mabigo sa pag-ibig. As in sawang sawa na ako nakakasuka na.

Gusto ko lang naman ng isang masaya, tahimik, at matiwasay na simpleng pumuhay. Yung makakapagtiwala ako sa mga bagay bagay. Ayoko nang maglaro. Ayoko nang umasa at maghintay at maniwala at masaktan.

Kung may dapat man akong mahalin, mga alon na lang siguro. Dahil alam kong kahit mawala man ang alon at pabago bago, kahit masakit ang hampas niya minsan, siya ang kanlungan na lagi kong maaasahan na hahatakin ako pabalik sa mga panibagong sikat ng araw.

In my other blog, I write in vernacular. It gives me a fresh feeling and a raw aspect in my writing. It is less deliberate, more casual, more profane. I like it. It feels like I'm just talking to a friend over some bottles of beer.

I want to write things like this more. I am refraining from posting on Facebook and just record things over here on


People will never comprehend the reality of my emotions. They just won't understand what it feels like to taste euphoria day to day, and then on the next, feel like you're attending your own funeral.

It's turbulent.

Last year, it actually felt more like my room was in a chilly, gray hospital ward, and I was supposed to die in there due to terminal illness. In my last days, nobody would even visit. There was no one but me, on my deathbed of nightmares, dying slowly.

The tattoo on my left wrist was made to cover self-inflicted scars. I remember saying, over and over, “I'm worthless, I'm worthless,” while I cut myself using a blunt razor blade. I wasn't trying to kill myself; I was just harming, hurting myself, forcing the pain to bleed out of me.

“My fuck buddy will never love me and share a deeper relationship because I am worthless.”

My thoughts, exactly, even though I also knew that he just wasn't ready or prepared to open up to someone else.

I blamed it on myself. Perhaps I wasn't pretty or interesting enough; I was not lovable, only good for quick fucks. I never really thought that people who had hurt him, or Life the Bitch, was really to blame. That he had his issues, too.

I had never felt so worthless in all my life. Before him, I was ghosted by this sun-tanned beautiful boy. I sobbed when I realized for the first time that it was just so easy for people to drop me. All happiness can evaporate and fade away in a single day, upon the receipt of a sour text message (or none at all). It hurt that they couldn't even say proper goodbyes. I just felt like trash.

Fast forward to many surf trips, hook ups, and a couple exes, I learned that I was not to blame, not at all. Hey, there's something different to see here!

You know, girl, what people decide to do in their lives doesn't say anything about you or define you; if anything, it only says about the kind of people they are.

And it just so happened that the people I stupidly fell for were just selfish, confused, emotionally-damaged twenty-somethings. I just had an accident! How could I have known the future right away? I had to gamble in order to know, in order to sustain my quest for love and thrill — and in gambling, there's always the chance of misjudgements and failure.

And regardless, it wouldn't change the fact that I was still a pretty awesome human being with talents, a big heart, rounded eyes, and a way-above-minimum-wage salary.

(I shouldn't really be crying and hurting myself. They were no loss. It's not like they stole brownie points from me, nah, my life stays awesome as it is. I just got to realize it, and not let the negativity eat the best of me.)

People are so hard to figure out, I think I just want to give up, like fuck.

I wonder why you had to treat me so nicely, only to end up tossing me into a garbage bin on the next day. Why did you ask me to stay the night after we fucked, instead of letting me go home? How could you be so nice only to use it as a currency for buying sex from me? If you didn't intend to love me, then why didn't you just fuck me, instead of making passionate love to me?

Somebody told me that it was just part of a play, a stage performance. And I was foolish enough to believe it, oblivious enough to the fact that what I considered sacred could mean nothing more than a thirst quencher to some.

Enough of blaming myself. Enough of loathing on other people for not comprehending the reality of my emotions. It's not anybody's fault that I tend to fall swiftly, more intensely, impulsively, with no careful thought (only delusional fantasy) because my mind has a hard time producing emotions that actually makes sense according to the situation.

I'm high functioning. I act like a normal person. Beneath it all though, is a turbulent storm that could either make it rain flowers, pixie dust, and falling stars, or make it shower with daggers that stab me and burn my skin like acid.

I cling to happy times. I seek them. I enjoy life to the fullest whenever I can. I truly believe that everything will eventually be okay, if I just hang on and wait for it to pass. I know with absolute certainty that something astoundingly beautiful will be on its way, because life's like that: bleak and pretty.

And that's why I haven't stopped. I continue to live and to feel through the storm. Life is a two-faced gift.

This post was originally published in Bleak and Pretty by Mia Alcantara.


Let's start with a recap of September: I was back surfing, got all my stuff organized (relocated my surfboard and rearranged my apartment), started Aerial classes, spent time with friends and family, and began talking to folks on Tinder.

It was a pretty regular month. Considering that I had stopped my medication and was handling my moods on my own, I was a good girl! Nevertheless, I had some problems staying too late watching YouTube and noticed that my appetite decreased...gotta make sure that I keep tabs on these two things.

Anything interesting happening, Tinder-wise? Nah, not really; I don't think I'll be hooking up with anyone soon or meeting any of my Tinder prospects. I got only one foot on this thing, really, and I was pretty much just there to talk and see new faces on a tiny screen.

Not much action has happened since I sent a bunch of nudes to a coworker. We're not even “talking” anymore.

Fucking an actual person feels like a chore. It's complicated, takes energy, effort, and time, and I could get my orgasms alone without any additional strain in my life.

Right now, I'm just enjoying my own company, laced with fantasies here and there. Been watching porn to get off and sleep lately – I'm thinking about getting myself a dildo soon. I seriously have a dildo in my shopping cart.

Just on my own.

Last night, I've been thinking about joining a dance troupe or a circus and just live while travelling with said troupe. Maybe become a fire dancer or a burlesque performer – anything that involves performance.

I brought this up to a friend who was a dancer, and she said:

We gotta invest on the skills we want to develop so we can get there.

Still, it's not very easy juggling anything with my full time job. I love what I do in the 9 hours that I stay in this office, where I am writing this, and I do need the bi-monthly pay to get things going in my life. Basically, there's no quitting this 9-5, not anytime soon.

Later today I am planning to work out for at least a solid 1 hour. The hamstrings on my right leg don't feel right, so I will be troubleshooting that later. Hopefully a set of stretches takes care of it.

Today has been silent for me. I'm out with a poker face and everything feels monotonous in a calm sort of way. It's easy to say that the long weekend exhausted me and I'm just needed waves...just some rides to the shore.

I hope there are good waves this weekend.


I'm starting to feel the repercussions of quitting my medication all of a sudden. I am having difficulty sleeping now, although my appetite is all okay. There's just so many things that I want to look up and can't help myself. Maybe I shouldn't have bought data so I'd be forced to sleep or continue reading 1984. Then I should get some sleep.

Well, weed is my friend here – and right now as I write this I enjoy the mellow high that makes me feel like, well, a baby in a crib.

So what have I done after coming home today? Am I wasting time or is this the beginning of a hypomanic episode?

  1. Take dirty clothes to laundry shop.
  2. Take a bunch of selfies and manipulate through Snow.
  3. Comfort a deeply heartbroken friend.
  4. Half-read an article.
  5. Make a dream catcher; pin existing dream catchers on the curtain.
  6. Check Tinder for a bit.
  7. Watch YouTube videos about dreadlocks.
  8. Find a YouTube video about Sugar daddies/babies.
  9. Watch porn.
  10. Lookup my ex's sister on Facebook.
  11. Chat up with Kevin.

Yeah, that's pretty much it. Then now I smoked – to induce sleep – and found myself writing this note.

I haven't produced any formal essay recently, though I've been wanting to write about my surfboard shaper and surfing need-to-knows. I think I was supposed to also review pop up techniques on YouTube.

It's raining outside now. I guess this is a perfect time to doze off. I can hear a plane passing by. A honk of a jeepney. I think about if I'll ever meet another version of J again.


I have decided to stop my medication...without professional advice.

Divalproex sodium was prescribed to me as medication for bipolar, a condition that doesn't have a cure anyway. It was supposed to act as a mood stabilizer according to a psychiatrist. I'd been taking it for 6 months now, as prescribed, but I had come to a point where it felt like inorganic medication wasn't something I wanted to do anymore.

The daily alarm for 10:30 in the morning is an exhausting reminder: You need to take some inorganic substance because you don't count as normal and mentally stable.

I understand that discontinuing the medication can worsen my symptoms or cause a relapse. As of now, I feel completely fine and that everything's going great. This is probably because the medicine is “working”. Like, I owe Big Pharma the reason why I have my shit together.

The exact opposite may happen sometime in the future, all because I refuse to take medicine. It doesn't feel like a big decision right now, unlike when I came to the doctor for treatment because I have lost control of my emotions and feelings, as I have been banging my head on a wall and cutting my wrist.

When I recall that day, it's like remembering a person who is not me anymore.

I was first diagnosed three years ago. I medicated for a short while, like less than 2 months, then tried to manage it on my own. I'm doing the same thing right now. I just hope I don't end up in the same position as before. I hope I don't get suicidal thoughts in the future anymore.

I think I'm gonna do well taking care of myself: I just have to eat, sleep, and de-stress like a normal person, understand my triggers, stay in a “safe zone” in life, and continue exercising and all that good stuff.

And maybe not splurge all my savings again on an impulsive surf trip to Calicoan. And maybe not meet anyone from Tinder again. Maybe. I just have to live inside this bubble, continue writing, stay away from toxic people.

I just have to make sure that my feet are planted firmly on a tightrope, hanging 5000 feet.


In the absence of waves and summer heat, I've been focusing on my website, developing personal interests, reading, and organizing my writer life...alongside full-time work.

Things aren't easy.