The Spy in the Sandwich

Sunday, January 26, 2025

9:00 AM | After Blue Monday

Last Monday, January 20, was a day thick with contradictions—a day where reality seemed to embody the peculiarities of a David Lynch film: baffling, surreal, outlandish. Coincidentally, it was the birthday of Lynch himself, who had passed away just days before turning 79. The surreal twist? It was also Martin Luther King Day, a moment ostensibly dedicated to hope and justice, while across the globe, the shadows of despair seemed to loom large. That same day marked the inauguration of a felon as President of what was once the most powerful country in the world—a nation, I believe, is now teetering on the edge of its ideals. Add to this the declaration of National Mental Health Week and the infamy of Blue Monday, the day New Year’s resolutions typically meet their doom. Together, it made for an ensemble of events that felt both absurd—and painfully resonant.

Truth to tell, I haven’t actively read the news since November. At first, it was a conscious decision to preserve my sanity, but over time, it morphed into something darker: a slow embrace of nihilism. It’s hard to keep believing in the sanctity of things—of hope, of progress, of love—when every headline feels like another nail in the coffin of optimism. And yet, here we are, navigating the chaos, still managing our lives and expectations, and still trying to find happiness amidst it all.

(Or, are we?)

I know that life often feels like a tightrope act. We tread carefully, hoping not to fall, but the weight of societal expectations, our personal struggles, and global despair can make even the sturdiest among us waver. From a young age, we are taught to envision happiness as a goal—a destination we’ll reach once we’ve checked off all the boxes: a good job, a stable relationship, financial security. But what happens when those boxes remain unchecked or, worse, when they are checked, but happiness still feels elusive?

Lately, I’ve come to realize that managing life and expectations requires a kind of recalibration. Instead of chasing an ideal, perhaps it’s more about learning to live with the imperfections.

There’s a quiet beauty, to be honest, in accepting that not every day will be good, but there can still be good in every day. This isn’t about toxic positivity—the kind that insists on finding a silver lining in every storm. It’s an ability to acknowledge the storm, to feel its weight—and still find a way to move forward.

Today, I was invited by the staff of the Silimanian Magazine to talk about my mental health struggles in an interview, hoping to feature this story in an upcoming issue of the magazine. I did so because mental health has become a kind of advocacy for me of late—and I know I have a considerable platform where people listen, where I can actually help them find articulation for what they’re going through, because I’m going through the same things myself. When that story comes out, I think in March, I hope Sillimanian Magazine will do justice to my mental health story—and I hope it will find resonance in people who need help, as well as with people who need to understand that mental health struggles do in fact exist.

Managing mental health, especially in times like these, is akin to tending a garden in the midst of a drought. The soil is parched, the air heavy, and yet we persist in planting seeds.

For me, this has meant setting boundaries with the deluge of bad news. It’s not about ignorance; it’s about self-preservation. There’s only so much heartbreak a person can take before they begin to crack, and it’s okay to step back, to choose silence over noise, stillness over chaos.

Therapy helps, of course. So does certain tricks to grapple with my ADHD like body doubling , or even journaling—pouring out my thoughts that swirl endlessly in my mind, and giving them form and then letting them go on the pages of either my diary, or on my blog. (Or this column.) Some days, I find solace in books or music or the simple act of brewing a cup of coffee. Other days, it’s harder. The shadows creep in, the mental paralysis takes its nasty form, and all I can do sometimes is hold on, trusting that this, too, shall pass. (Ritalin helps.)

I have come to understand that happiness isn’t always a grand and sweeping thing. It’s not the fireworks on New Year’s Eve or the applause of a crowd. Often, it’s small and quiet, easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. I know it sounds corny, but it can be the warmth of sunlight on your skin, the sound of laughter shared with a friend, the first bite of your favorite meal. (Or, like what I noted last week, an OBT around Dumaguete with your beloved.) These moments are fleeting, but they are also powerful reminders that even in the darkest times, there is still light.

It’s tempting, in the face of so much despair, to surrender to cynicism. To believe that nothing matters, that all efforts are futile. But perhaps there’s a kind of courage in choosing to care anyway. In planting those seeds, even when the odds are stacked against you. In believing, as David Lynch might have, that life’s absurdities hold their own kind of meaning. Last Monday was a microcosm of the world we live in: a place of contradictions, where joy and sorrow, hope and despair, coexist. It’s easy to get lost in the noise, to feel overwhelmed by the weight of it all. But maybe the answer isn’t to drown it out entirely. Maybe it’s to find your own rhythm within it, to dance to a beat that feels true to you.

Labels: life, mental health