I had this idea, riding on the train one day, and naturally as with all of my ideas, I didn’t really push through with it. Go frakking figure. I suppose “oversharing” is not that accurate because there are so many things I do not want to talk about in public, in this forum. Partly because I know my mother reads this, both because she told me and I saw it in her bookmarks (hi mama), and partly because I think I’ve been burned before with sharing too much of my shit online.
I guess growing up with and without the internet, pre- and during-cash cow blogs, it took a while for me to figure out what kind of information was still okay to share without getting into trouble. I think my need to write stuff out and publish is because I constantly feel like I misrepresent myself in the world. I always feel like this is maybe the time I get to think about what I say or be candid about it… but like, with editing. Because I will think certain things but never say them in the right way. Or something.
Also, can you imagine strangers knowing so much about you, without even meeting you? Without having to dig the dirt up themselves, because YOU VOLUNTEERED THE INFORMATION. You gave them the dirt, and so they shall fling it back in your face. Not that I have a lot of dirt, to be frank, haha. Just, you know, it makes sense to sort through stuff before you share. Because the Internet has somehow turned into an even more unsafe, ugly place. And yet, here I still am.
Sometimes, it’s the same boring, uninteresting drivel, too. I like reading personal blogs the most, or niche blogs where the actual person comes through. Even though I like good photography and like, great branding, I will endure a shitty blog layout with lo-res photos if I actually get to know some aspect of the person writing. Maybe that’s just me.
Anyway, so. That was a long preamble. I don’t even remember what I wanted to talk about. I guess I’ll start with yesterday.
Yesterday was the day I’ve been at my actual place of work the latest (the actual latest I’ve been out due to work was when I stayed at the printer to proof pages), which was 7-ish p.m. In the grand scheme of things, I have been elected as the MVP of nothing. 7 p.m. is a nothing time, when a lot of my friends and old classmates are worked to the bone until the wee hours of the morning. I usually try to beg off work in the afternoon and finish up pages at home, mainly because rush hour makes me cry but also because I like my personal computer way better. Because it is.
I don’t think I’ve talked about it much or at all here, but I started working as the Art Director for Esquire Philippines in August. My first issue was the September one, with Piolo Pascual on the cover. I think I held off writing about it here, because I tend to go on rant rampages when I’m upset. And for a few select weeks each month, it seemed like I was scheduled to be really upset. It comes with it, of course, and I actually do love the work that I’ve been doing. The process to get there is just so tiring. I’ve had quite a bit of meltdowns. (Sorry, friends I have bothered with my dumb problems.)
On my way to work vs. actually working in my cubicle: the look of despair, obviously
My stress has manifested itself in breakouts, #gastrointestinaldistress, and two weird viral infections that had me coughing, stuffing my nose with tissue, and struggling to breathe. Once, I counted just how long I had been working there and was dumbfounded when I realized I had only been around for two months.
I also think about just how weak I am as a person if I couldn’t handle this type of minor stress. Then I think about strong women who have been through much more heinous and taxing and awful things, and somehow that always seems to be enough. Mostly, I think I’m scared because I’m currently the only person in the art department. And there’s surprisingly a lot of things one needs to do every issue. You get the hang of it, but a lot of it hinges on a lot of other factors, obviously. So at some point, it felt like I was bracing myself for that inevitable punch in the face. You know it’s coming and there’s nothing much for you to do except to prepare to take it.
Surprisingly, I have not cried about it. I think my brain just shut off and glazed over everything, jumping from stress-related rage to robotic apathy, tuning out the part where I usually get a tear-filled breakdown.
This was completely not the type of story I was planning on oversharing, but you know what it’s like when things get away from you. I probably over-indulged and said things I probably wasn’t supposed to say, either, ignoring my the same advice I dished out in the beginning.
All I know is that I’m trying to make sense of things, and I think I do that best when I write.