035: wrestling with desire
a promise for 2025
I like to think that I have a decent awareness of how annoying I can get. Part of me believes that I can get away with it because of how much I am valued in my circles of friends (yes, I now have enough self-esteem to believe this), that maybe many of them think that putting up with these little tendencies is the price they pay for the good I bring into their lives1. For one, I do not know how to whisper, so it’s useless to invite me into secret conversations had at significantly lower decibels. I find it difficult, impossible even, to maintain cordial relations and/or keep a straight face with people I genuinely do not like, because what even is the point of being polite when I have stronger reasons not to be? I do not have the height to be the bigger person anyway. I also know that my banter can test people’s boundaries at times, and I hope that I am right in my assumption that no existing relationship in my life has changed for the worse because of my immature attempts at being funny or clever.
I want to preface this year-end reflection by saying that I am not going to devote the next 365 days constantly striving for self-improvement. I’ve grown sick of it, wondering what lesson exists in every single situation, how I can show up in the best way possible, because sometimes the answer is that there is no profound epiphany or perfect response, and all you can ever really do is be honest in your decision making regardless of the outcome. But this isn’t to say that I’m not going to change, or that I have not set goals for myself in the new year2. Maybe take it down a notch and focus on one thing at a time instead of feeling like I have to change so many parts of who I am before feeling like I’m worthy of anything at all.
Be it a real problem that needs my decision or a dilemma only existing in my head, my idea of seeking support has always been to ask various sources for advice, insight, commentary, whatever you call it. In very great detail I share what it is that is going on, what has been on my mind a lot, and why I feel stuck. In the middle of my storytelling, there is a vague idea of how I truly feel about what I’m faced with, and sometimes even what I ought to do about it, but I do not listen. Instead, I am determined to paint the picture for all my friends to gawk at me, but then quietly share their personal observations. This activity often ends the same way where I disregard the majority vote and proceed with whatever the hell I want. At least that’s how it comes off as to the people in my life.
A friend once pointed this out once, that there’s no use telling me what they think of my situation when I’ve already made up my mind. I’ve joked a few times that they caught me in the data collection stage of resolving a particular issue, needing a few more insights before any sort of analysis or breakthrough can happen. In fact from my own perspective, I only ever get to figure out what I want to do right in the midst of seeking insights from friends. But I’ve learned these past few years, this year especially, that refusing to stand my own ground by trying to let other people’s voices drown out my own has only ever kept me from being truly in touch with myself.
To finally address this issue, I visited a new optical shop somewhere in Escolta a few days ago, wanting some kind of change after being repeatedly exposed to their advertisements on social media. Despite most optometrists suggesting that I look into LASIK surgery, I could give up not having glasses anytime soon—or ever, as one of my recurring hypochondriac spirals has been about the horrors of getting your eyes zapped. Inspecting the entire shop for the perfect frames that offer a confidence I had not yet experienced, most of the frames on display were reminiscent of previous ones I’ve had: thin, metal frames that barely make their presence known when worn. Drawer after drawer, I found more bold choices, like thick frames in different colors, big and bright enough for my eyes to hide behind. Too afraid to jump to the other side right away, I found a compromise: large, square frames with a tint of color. It was so different from what I would always gravitate towards, but I had a good feeling upon wearing them. Turning to my mother and my sister, both of them were also surprised to see how the frames flattered me.
I held onto the nerdy frames the entire time, thinking that this would be my first of three choices, but after browsing all drawers in the shop, I wound up with just another frame in hand, one that looks like a previous pair that I owned. It did not take long for me to finally choose the new. Since my last eye exam was over a year ago, I had to get checked by their resident optometrist and verify if my previous prescription were still accurate. She was a middle aged woman who donned white frames that would have looked so much better on her had she kept her roots untouched. In awe of how thick my already-made-ultra-thin lenses were, she proceeded to gently warn me about my frame of choice. Because of my myopia, the lenses required to correct my vision are concave, so even if I would have them made ultra thin, its thickness would still be obvious. She said that the thickness would be more evident since my desired frames were bigger.
“I just want you to be aware of what you’re choosing,” she told me. “You can choose to work with those frames, but at least I’ve told you what comes with that decision.” The rest of my consultation with her was spent decoding my eye prescription and learning more about my disability. It was the first time I’d ever seen an eye doctor who actually bothered the way that she did, who made sure that I was well-informed about my condition so that I could be more equipped in making better choices for myself. I left her clinic with an eye grade slightly higher on one eye, but with more clarity in what I wanted for myself and by extension, the people in my life.
I browsed every single drawer one last time, more meticulously than the first time, trying to find an alternative to my desired frames. Trying again led me back to frames that looked like my current ones, and even if these were safe, comfortable choices, I felt more connected to the brazen pair that I’d been warned about. I was reminded yet again upon checkout, by the cashier and store manager this time, that having my lenses made ultra thin would not make them as sleek as prescription glasses with a lower grade, and I nodded in response, having been aware of this since my grade hit over -3.00. Resisting the unsolicited comments (even if they were well-meaning) was a strange exercise in cultivating more trust in my own choices.
The last few weeks of this year were spent announcing to different friends that I would be getting a buzzcut, a haircut I’d been wanting to get for years now. In my early 20s I only ever flirted with the idea, only getting a pixie cut/bob and an undercut instead of committing completely to a shaved head. I bade the previous year goodbye with red in my hair, thinking that this would finally push me to shave it off come the following year—the logic being that since red is difficult to get off one’s hair, getting rid of my red hair by shaving it off would be a much easier thing to do. On the eve of my shave was the last Christmas party I attended this year, one with my gym friends. That night, we were brought much closer by our random lores, so I felt like I had to honor the hangout by sharing a vulnerable truth about myself: that I would be buzzing off my red hair that they’ve all come to love and know me for. The reactions were mixed: the girls were supportive of my bold, surprising fashion choice, whereas the boys began to mourn the loss of my long hair. This gendered coincidence gave me the conviction that I needed to follow through with it, as I’d been debating on whether I should shave it off or not.
The day of my haircut was held in Paui’s condo where Ida took charge. Before the big chop, we spent a good hour catching up on each other’s lives and sharing our hopes for the new year. While listening to both of them talk about all the goals they wanted to achieve this 2025, I couldn’t help but feel sentimental about all the years we spent together—it was through the pandemic that I’d gotten so much closer to them, and they’ve been some of my favorite constants in my adult life. I felt less terrified and doubtful of my decision, well-assured that whether I like my buzzcut or not, I would still have friends who love me for me.
Ida slowly made her way to the top of my hair, as I told her that since we would be getting rid of my hair, she could experiment and practice on my hair for a while. We began with my usual layered hairstyle, one that I’ve had since I grew out my pixie. The next one was more ambitious, a fuck ass bob that, to my surprise, actually looked good and gave me the confidence—nay, the audacity—that I was sure a buzzcut could give. However, part of me was brought back to my childhood where my mother would have our family hairstylist give me this bob against my will. Besides, I wanted to stick to my word.
As Ida grabbed the clippers and started shaving my head, I was tempted to worry about making the wrong choice, but I was too distracted by the thickness of my own hair to even bother. It took us over an hour, perfecting the buzzcut alone, but seeing my friends look at me in amazement took away all my fears. Just like I’d imagined, I looked good in a buzzcut, an inch and a quarter of hair left on my nicely shaped head (an odd but satisfying comment). It was also very affirming to take away what I considered to be the most feminine part of my appearance and still like what I see in the mirror, as for a long time I’ve associated femininity with attractiveness. My therapist’s mantra for me still rings true: it does not have to be that way.
In a few days (or weeks, I’m not sure) I will get my new frames and I’m still worried about how they would look given that my not-so-ultra-thin lenses could change how they fit my face. I’m also starting to worry about how my coworkers—all of them significantly older than I am—would react to my new ‘do. Regardless of all the days spent planning for and recuperating in time for the new year, I find myself worrying a little more and more as my RTO draws closer. Even I am annoyed by this tendency of mine, I have to remember that I feel this way because I care. I care a lot! At the same time, however, caring about myself and the people in my life does not stop at that form of love alone. I like to think that I now love myself enough to be honest with and unashamed about what I truly want out of this life, never mind that I am disgusted by my own vulnerability sometimes. There are enough people in my life who love me enough to put up with me anyway, myself included.
I’m not even saying this with absolute certainty or any sort of arrogance. I really hope that there are good things in my friends’ lives thanks to my presence.
I already have, and I’ve devoted a portion of my 2025 bujo for my bingo card of goals.