The five-line stanzas of the annual Pabasa of Christ’s passion filled my ears as I sat in an ordinary white monobloc chair, purple book in hand and the love of my life beside me. Weeks and weeks and weeks of frenetic mind games flashed but at this point, they already ceased to fill me with dread. The dread, the vexation, the bizarre ennui, and the despair all aggregated into a giant snowball. It deadpanned me to the ground, and I felt the decrepiture unbecoming of a woman my age.
And inside I felt that the worst has come, and I have hit the highest possible level of anxiety that a person with a mood disorder can ever have. If it goes any further, I will never be able to recognize it in myself for it has become a permanent part of me by then. A psychologist once told me that when you are crossing over the line between sanity and insanity, you are fully aware of that breaking point before you decide to let things go completely to succumb to the easier way out — that of relinquishing self-responsibility. Fortunately, I held on to this saner side of the ether although I always dangerously teeter to the thin line between intellectual upgrades and sanity downgrades.
Strangely enough, I found familiar stirrings long buried in the lines of the sad retelling of Christ’s passion. I found comfort in the somber and sometimes mindless decadence unlike I have had in any other time in my life. And the morning after, even as I struggled to walk in my 3.5-inch peeptoe slingback platforms, I had a notion of a guiding presence, the very same guiding presence that allowed me to have a saturation point to the things that try this poor soul.
Vexation has reached its point of saturation where it could not longer vex me any further. All that’s left is a somber waiting for the end of things amidst the transitory awakening. All I know is that my mortality has decreased considerably because I have become more aware that I am nearer to the end of my life than at the beginning. And it all starts falling through the cracks of my often busy skull. Few things matter, but I do my best to function as normally as possible so as not to cause panic to the rest of the people in my world who have not arrived at the same realizations as I have.
The weekend flew by in a blur, comprised of thoughts that circled on the worst, the very worst of things. Over and over, I had images of myself in various horrifying situations. And vaguely I recall when I let myself go to enjoy a slightly dangerous theme park ride a month ago. I realize as I try to follow through with the old women’s singsong lullaby that there is nothing on earth that I can honestly control no matter how much I sharpen my saw. This truth is oh so simple and yet I tend to feel that with just working hard and trying my very best, mountains can move. The truth is, the mountains remain and they grow taller and spikier as one increases the drive to climb to the top.
In my self-chastisement, I find no more desire to elevate whatever it was that I was trying to elevate in the last few weeks. I no longer had the desire to push through with whatever wall I was trying to push since the month began. It was not giving up; it was just acknowledging the difference between a boulder that needs to be budged and a fortress that can never be broken down.