This is the blog of Ian Rosales Casocot. Filipino writer. Sometime academic. Former backpacker. Twink bait. Hamster lover.
Don't Tell Anyone:
With Shakira Andrea Sison
Pride Press / Anvil Publishing, 2017
Cupful of Anger,
Bottle Full of Smoke:
The Stories of
Jose V. Montebon Jr.
Silliman Writers Series, 2017
First Sight of Snow
and Other Stories
Encounters Chapbook Series
Et Al Books, 2014
Celebration: An Anthology to Commemorate the 50th Anniversary of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop
Sands and Coral, 2011-2013
Silliman University, 2013
Handulantaw: Celebrating 50 Years of Culture and the Arts in Silliman
Tao Foundation and Silliman University Cultural Affairs Committee, 2013
Inday Goes About Her Day
Locsin Books, 2012
Beautiful Accidents: Stories
University of the Philippines Press, 2011
Heartbreak & Magic: Stories of Fantasy and Horror
Old Movies and Other Stories
National Commission for Culture
and the Arts, 2006
FutureShock Prose: An Anthology of Young Writers and New Literatures
Sands and Coral, 2003
Nominated for Best Anthology
2004 National Book Awards
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Blogs I Read
IAN ROSALES CASOCOT
Monday, October 30, 2006
"Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit.
(Maybe someday you will rejoice to recall
-- Aeneas, in The Aeneid
Only three people know about this: I broke down last month under the weight of sheer depression, it incapacitated me. I have what you can call a mild form of manic depression, nothing too clinical to certify me a nut, but I have managed for most of my life to put it under some control. But after August -- given the whirlwind of expectations and recriminations my life constantly harvests -- I broke.
It lasted a full month, ending only when I finally told a friend -- a psychologist -- what was going on with me. I told Mark, too, and there was one night when I just walked out of my apartment, and walked half the city in a daze. I can't tell you what happened next, but it was bad.
For the longest time, I've felt that I've taken this slowburning vacation from my life -- a gradual descent that has me flummoxed, bewildered, disoriented. Sometimes, when I take a shower especially, I get this shiver of recognition about what a sorry state this existence has turned out to be so far. Involuntarily, I'd curse out a prayer, always an "Oh, Jesus, I need your help." It would be cute if I didn't do that like twenty-four times a day, always after being bitten by this shadowy rebuke, this sense of failure.
But I have always been my own worst critic, and to my mind, I have yet to reach my full potential. And it pains me no end to realize that I have fallen short of my expectations. Sometimes, my own prayers seem to reach only deaf divinity.
Let's hope I'm wrong.
Labels: life, psychology
 This is Where You Bite the Sandwich
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