That would’ve been a good farewell note. For a few nights, I’ve been tempted to leave this on my Facebook wall, perhaps wait for a few minutes for the trickle of reactions and alarmed messages, or if none came, just let it be and at once be done with everything. I still remember that knot I’ve learned when I was twenty-one and was failing to find a reason to live.

I am notorious in my family for being the last one to rise in the morning. For the past weeks I’ve slept late, not because of work or the papers to write for my online classes, but because I was either busy convincing myself that I am alright and that I am worth something, or I’m crying on my bed because I failed to win this one argument with myself, which kept on coming up just as I was to call it a day.

I once told a friend there might be something wrong with the wirings of my brain. You see, for the first few nights I tried reaching out to people I am close to, who were kind enough to reassure me and give me recommendations like breathing exercises and online counseling I wouldn’t have to pay for. As the days go on though I’ve begun to suspect that I’m turning into that person they would have to walk on eggshells for when talking to me. Also, I am well aware that they too might be suffering the same sentiments.

On these nights I try to place myself in the grand scheme of things. I thought this would make me better. After all, when I try to hold my self-doubt against the backdrop of this pandemic—myself beside those who have to fight this virus head-on—one might say I’m fortunate. I have parents who provide the basics -- a mattress to sleep on, a job that pays even when I’m home. Our quarantine pass isn’t even in my name. These, among quite a few others.

And yet I still question the point of trying. In the silence of the night it is easy for the mind to be clouded with questions. What am I here for? Why do I have to bother people? My friends? My family? Who is that ugly and shapeless blob looking back at me in the mirror? Why are you not good at the things you are supposed to be good at? At times there are no questions at all, just this hollow feeling as I look up at a dead clock on the wall of my room.

These questions and emptiness reduce me to this man clutching at his heart as everyone in the house lay in a peaceful sleep. The pain in my chest would sometimes be too much that I would think this beating organ within my ribs would rupture. Sometimes I have to punch myself in the gut or my head just to fool me into thinking that the pain could be worse. Whenever I fail to die from a heart attack, I make a trip to the kitchen to stare at the knife rack and wonder how deep a cut should be to wipe me off the face of the earth. Sometimes I assess the power of my blanket to carry the weight of my swaying body from a pole in the ceiling.

I don’t get the answers to my questions from myself, or if I do they often are the wrong ones. However, I did realize that the answers could come from outside of myself, beyond the clutches of my cynicism. Sometimes I am convinced to keep on living when our dog barks at me as if I’m a stranger in our own kitchen. Sometimes, a sentence from a good book. A love song from a foreign TV series. Eating a certain variant of instant noodles. Hearing my father greet everyone in the house a good morning. Seeing my mother beam with pride when we tell her how good the dish she cooked was. Or just that hope—however frayed it is—that we get to live like we used to.

One time, I told one of my teachers that her class, which now must be done online, is one of my reasons to live. The class is a writing workshop and in it I have the chance to read a slice of my classmates’ lives and realize that they too have gone through tough times.

That we are not alone is perhaps a good reason to soldier on.

“What am I here for? Why do I have to bother people? My friends? My family? Who is that ugly and shapeless blob looking back at me in the mirror? Why are you not good at the things you are supposed to be good at?”

I am not saying all these because I got it all figured out. I still have trouble sleeping at night and, during the day, I try to just stay in my room so that the people I love won’t see the pained and distant look in my eyes. I miss school deadlines and sometimes have a hard time finding the drive to face the work piled on the monitor. I still stare at the knife rack. I stifle tears when faced with others.

It is a given that a lot of things in our life is out of our control, like this pandemic, or my wanting to tell everyone “I wish to inform you of my intent not to wake up tomorrow.” But I must also acknowledge the fat chance of waking up tomorrow, of opening my eyes to see the sunlight filtered by my room’s jalousie window, to see the shadows of moving things on my wall. The fat chance of getting better.

By the time I sit with my family at the table, I’ll face my breakfast while they trudge on with their lunch. I am notorious among us for being a late riser, not because I wake up late, but because for the past few weeks I take my time to justify the need to rise.

For better or for worse, I still do.

A version of this essay was published in the Philippine Daily Inquirer, May 12, 2020.

George Deoso, 23, lives in Quezon City and, like everyone else, is doing his best to survive and is hoping for everyone’s safety.

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I Wish to Inform You of My Intent Not to Wake Up Tomorrow

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