Most, if not all of those who have known me see me as a strong person. Well, some of them have heard or seen me fight for my principles and for my rights. They have known how proud I am to be gay (which might have created the impression my sexual orientation does not affect me at all). They think I am a happy person because I can always throw any kind of joke at them--either by my not really funny punchlines or by my strangely preposterous actuations. And most of the time they see me smile or hear me laugh. I also think this impression is due to the air of confidence (according to a former student, air of arrogance) I display when with people.

Looks deceive so let me try to change (not to correct) the misconceptions.

I am not, at all times, a strong person. I cry alot. In fact, I was crying last night for believing that my life is a waste. Although I have helped people in whatever possible means, I have the inkling I have let down myself in a lot of ways.

I am perpetually afflicted with skin, scalp, and nail problems, which often make me feel conscious when in front of people like my students, who, despite understanding my condition, do not find the "problems" bearable. Well, my nail problem was once (or has been) satirized during a supposedly scholarly presentation. A couple of times, too, students blurted out "patay na kuko" (dead nails) when I remarked the class seemed grieving for someone who had died. Of course, I just laughed with them, but deep within me, I wanted to yell at them and tell them I did not wish to be sick of this! The sad part is that it is an immedicable disease--I might have been able to lessen the problem but I cannot eradicate it. And so, for as long as I live, the discomfort caused by the red spots on my skin, dry scalp, and chipped nails shall live on, too.

I read in a book that stern persons keep the truth that they are actually weak. Yes, I am weak. I get so depressed very easily, and although the depression doesn't seem apparent during the day, it creeps into my system when evening comes and when I think that I am all alone--something I haven't really outgrown with the passing of time. I try to amuse myself by watching TV. This is to divert my attention to something enjoyable, to tire my eyes to sleep, and to allow me to forget the troubles even for just a while.

I am flattered by my students who seek for my advice on a variety of problems--mostly heart problems--but it is completely ironic that I cannot give myself a piece of advice concerning my usually aching heart. But to expound on it, I have very fragile emotions. Paranoia engulfs me when I feel a loved one ignores me. When this happens, I cry myself to sleep with the promise to put an end to my own idiocy. The next day, I realize the person has been a blessing to me so the promise is trashed out. While there are moments to remember (even the minutest details I can perfectly narrate to anyone close to me even with unexpected interruptions), there are also those worth dumping, but wherever I wish to dump them, that will not change the fact they outnumber the good ones--such an enormous difference!

No, my depression, as I see it, cannot be attributed to work problems. I have essentially believed I have an excellent work attitude although at times when papers start to pile like mounds, I begin to think that work shatters my idea of a simple life. But I perfectly understand stress due to work is part of the whole package.

I may be loud-mouthed, harsh to erring people, and however you call that I-am-an-invincible-creature attitude, but I often regret what I say. Two months ago, I sent some journalism students out of the room for not doing what I had asked them to (it wasn't the first time they did that in class, to justify my action). But it was not the usual chastise of offense-loving students--I was shouting at them! But even before the class was over, I apologized for an ill-behavior very unbecoming of a teacher. I know no amount of justification can probably alter their opinion of me after the incident. Of course, it meant selling my principles, taking my word back.

Sure, I smile alot to almost anyone I know. I greet my friends, co-workers, and students in glee as though I were a beauty pageant contestant wearing the most stunning national costume. But hey, I don't smile at or greet those I feel or know do not like me (but they sometimes affect me in a disturbing way--again, paranoia). I also believe "laughter is the best medicine." I laugh even at the silliest joke. TV sitcoms make me laugh so loud that I seem not to care if my housemates are already dead to the world. The always funny punchlines of fellow gays (with whom I rarely spend my time) tickle me to the bone even if I have heard them say those lines repeatedly and in almost the same way of delivery. But laughing is not the best medicine at all. It rarely replenishes my too often distraught life. It doesn't change the fact that I am actually a sad person.

Before I slept last night, I received the same text message from a student and from a friend (whose message was a reply to mine which says I am tired of living). It goes this way:

"Most of us miss out on life's big prizes--the Pulitzer, the Nobel, Oscars, Tonys, Grammy. But we are all eligible for life's small pleasures--a pat on the back, a good word, a hug, a full moon, a glorious sunset, an empty parking space, a great meal, a good joke, hot soup, cold drink, ice cream, hot pan de sal. So don't fret about missing life's grand rewards. Enjoy its tiny delights...."

Right now, I am at work, had been to a class as the same jolly persona, displaying the same facade they know me of, laughing to my heart's content, and, apparently, posting this entry. I wish that when I lay my tired body tonight, I wouldn't be enveloped by the same morbid thought of retiring soon.