The Lonely Hearts Club’s Newest Member

thanks, we’re not really strangers!

Exhausted and isolated? Sit down, Hannah Montana. I now got the best of both worlds!

If sophomore Ri experienced twenty-something me, she wouldn’t had to pretend she went through a major change or heartbreak by embodying Artic Monkey’s A.M album and probably is now a Tumblr famous because well, shitons of depressing Lana Del Rey and Marina and The Diamonds quotes would swarm in my minimalist layout. Good times. Kind of took it for granted though.

Thanks to we are not really strangers (which I’m dying to have the set cards but I have to prioritize my needs from my wants), I now know the answer to this: I am tired. And the answer has been there all along — every sigh, every slump in the shoulder, every moment I look like a banana-shaped fuck — and I thought I could explain or word it better but this is it. The exact word. Encapsulated to perfection.

When the quarantine started I knew I’m not going to last. Well, I was hopeful classes would suspend for only two weeks then it became a month, then two. Now here we are, two years in counting. I gave up working out and taking care of myself. Too bad I didn’t take a picture of my Frida Kahlo eyebrows. I stopped plucking, shaving, and threading them because no one is going to see me anyway. Oh, you dare to? You’ll get COVID. Get vaccinated first (if your government’s responsible enough to use the emergency funds requested. Can’t relate).

It took me a while to realize my mental health is clinging into mingling and partying. The way the kids coped with the absence is to create Discord channels with friends and strangers and have e-numan (in which I created a playlist where we pretend to be in katip). Every Friday we did then the streak got cut because of liquor bans. We eventually had to switch fads. Hosted watch parties left and right. Joined Bumble again out of boredom — if you’re lucky enough to find love, then good for you. Keep it. It’s rare in this dry season. I couldn’t last any longer. Two hours tops and that’s it. A conversation would be so good but then the thought of ghosting pops into my head. “I’m too tired to meet new people I know will only last for two weeks. What’s the point?” My devilish advisor would whisper in my ear. My friends would scowl at me if I don’t hold into the promise I’ll communicate before hitting ‘uninstall’. But in these times, really? Boo! Happy halloween!

Work-from-home became handy but that’s only for me (do me a favor to print this and staple it at the back of your head: not everyone has the privilege to continue work and school through online means. #LigtasNaBalikEskwela!). I got the time in my hands, but then the downfall is the exact perk. And no, you don’t have the ascendancy to lecture me about time management and upgrading my set-up to be motivated. We’re in the middle of a global pandemic. Let me have this. At least this one. I’ve lost enough opportunities and foes, my eight fingers couldn’t keep up no more.

Resorting to social media also became a daily habit. My longest screentime was 28 hours just to get away from reality. If boomers had Reader’s Digest, I have Twitter. But eventually Facebook became an obituary for the dead, and LinkedIn made me feel less worth of my credentials. Ever heard of the myth that Tiktok monitors your phone activities? I ended up giving in. I needed laughs. It’s getting depressing in here.

At this point, I’ve had four runs of How I Met Your Mother. It used to be my comfort series but I have nothing else to work on, the familiarity I seek whenever everything’s too much isn’t there any longer. I remember the scenes. “I’ve watched this already!” Did the charm go? I hope not. I still want to find a Ted Mosby in New York. I shall let the series rest for a while.

Then tomorrow I’ll find another film or series to watch because I don’t want to sleep. I feel like I’m wasting time. I’m trying to make up for the past two year’s unproductivity. My Instagram stories are filled with my laptop with a film on, it’s ridiculous. But it’s better to pretend that watching Netflix all day and doing chores in between is productive rather than listening to Frank Ocean’s Self Control at two to three in the morning while staring at the ceiling. But sleep is for the weak. I couldn’t sleep. Maybe I’m still not weak after all. Just tired. God, why is it so hard to be resilient?

Don’t get me started with that word — resilient. Once a finest trait after surviving the wraths of Zeus. Now, an insult or mockery, I suppose, to my draining strength, knowing that these playing Gods can actually end this misery. Merriam Webster should update the definition. Everyone turns fuming red when the word rings.

I also have to admit I’ve somehow sought progress this quarantine. I quit smoking — two years clean ever since self-isolation. I went out with a friend who’s going to Spain this September. Did a little puffing outside our college building where we used to burn our lungs. I couldn’t finish a pack any longer. I could breathe clearer. Then progress are made with my creative portfolio. Applied for internships, paid home bills, made Mama smile. But God forbid thanking the pandemic would come out of my tongue or I will cut it without hesitation. I could still do these without this dystopia. But that’s it. Small victories every now and then, but Elio once said, “God, we wasted so many days!”

I recently joined The Lonely Hearts Club because I found my friends in its meeting room. All online, but no one’s talking. I take the initiative to do so, then I get hurt. My anxiety tells me, “Is it me?” or “Have I done something wrong?” when I’m also caught up with the too-good-to-be-true reality. So then I ask if we’re okay because I always want to fix whatever’s at fault. Then they’ll tell me “We’re okay!” for the third time. Then I apologize for seeking answers because my hands are slippery, they couldn’t grip the reality tighter. They say it’s okay because they feel the same. So it dawned to me — we’re all just really tired. Like you, like me, we’re trying to survive by entertaining ourselves despite inconsistencies.

Even though I’m still stuck in the discussion of neglecting rest though and just keep on grinding because a) I’ve been a palamunin for so long; and b) “Everyone seems to manage somehow? Why can’t I?”. At the end of the day, I’ll still remind myself that this is valid. And I have the option to take it easy because things have incredibly been rough. Just a few more replays of Taylor Swift and Sad Boi Drake music on loop and be one with my unorganized feelings, we’ll be out here soon.

So I’ll just eat my feelings away and attend educational discussions held by The Lonely Heart Clubs. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’m not going anywhere.

See you at the meetings? No one’s gonna judge. In fact, we’ll give you hugs.