Running on "Empty" (somewhat revised)

For the last four years, give or take a few months, a big chunk of my time has been spent stuck sitting on the ever-menacing plastic with which college classroom desk-chairs are made. Fine, not all classroom chairs I’ve encountered in college were plastic. Some were metal and others were made from wood. Nevertheless, the fact of the matter is, I’ve had my behind on one of these desk-chairs for a long time. It’s an incredible feat really, given that I’ve only lived for a little over twenty-one years. I’m not going to do the math for you on that one, I’m an historian by training and I don’t do those things. Trust me; you wouldn’t want me to anyway. I don’t even remember the first time I actually encountered such four-legged entities. All I know is that it wasn’t even in the same country; you can only imagine the variety of desk chairs I’ve sat on.

I finished high school in the Philippines, the land of Pansit, Lechon, and about eighty million Hispanic-Asians. Trust me; had I placed a picture of myself with this essay, you’d see what I mean. With the risk of going mildly off-topic, the explanation for all of this confusion is that the Philippines is a hodgepodge of Chinese, Malay, and Spanish cultures, hence my Asian features and a very Spanish name. For us back in the Philippines, college was the obvious next step after you graduate high school, none of that taking a year off scenario that some “western” kids go through. But unlike some of the people I knew, I was quite looking forward to college. I had gotten tired and bored with the seemingly endless torture of high school. It was the same old subjects every day with mind-numbing intensity. My only respite being the mandatory school, and government sanctioned, military training that high-school students had to go through in the Philippines. At least then we got to move around and, at times, shout orders. I couldn’t wait for a change of environment.

The two years of college I spent in the Philippines was full of ups and downs, overflowing with experiences, some I would like to forget, others I’d treasure forever. I incurred the wrath of my parents’ anger several times for things I should not have done, like smoking, drinking, staying out late. There was a time when I came home staggering through the door with one shoe on and somebody else’s shirt. You can only imagine what my father said to me that night. Well you have to. I can’t remember much of that night. I also did some things of questionable legality (at least under Philippine law), some of which my parents learned of and I was punished accordingly. On the other hand, there were good things about those two years. I met some of my most significant friends in those two years, people that I can count on, trust my life with. I also learned to love someone (or at least I think so) and I learned what kind of person I was looking for in my life (kind of). I also learned to appreciate people for who they are and not for what people say they are. In essence, I grew up in those two years, more than anyone could ever imagine.

On the advent of my junior year, I moved to the United States. To New Jersey actually. Why? I really shouldn’t explain, at least not for now. It would require a whole other essay, a very boring one at that. Let’s just say I moved for the opportunities that were in store for me in the United States. I enrolled myself in a small university, only half-an-hour away from the bustling life and seductive temptations of New York City. The change was incredible, new country, new school, new people. I was forced into a crash course in the American college system of education. Instead of the 24-27 college credits I was used to taking per semester, I was literally only obliged to take 12 credits to maintain a full-time student status. It was incredible! I couldn’t believe all the free time I had. I spent the first month or so of my first American college semester bumming around the town I moved into, walking through parks, hanging out (although by myself). It was fun for a while, having all that time to myself. I lived in my own apartment, paid my own bills (well, not exactly), cooked my own meals. I was my own man, or however much a “man” a college student can be. But things got old pretty quick. It’s though when you’ve got nobody to share it with.

By around October of that fall semester, I found myself an on-campus job. At first it was about the extra cash. Admittedly it didn’t pay much, but eight dollars an hour then wasn’t something you’d scoff at, and at least it was at the university. It also gave me something to do instead of bumming around, which was really becoming like a chore. Soon enough it wasn’t about the money anymore. I got along with my co-workers quite well, perhaps because of my willingness to be at work. They didn’t know that I just couldn’t stand being alone. As funny as it sounds, though my academics kept me busy and intellectually hungry, it was this job that I though of as a safe-haven. I didn’t expect that I would meet the kind of friends I had met years ago back home working for the school rather than in my classes, as was the case in the Philippines.

I never consumed myself in the college life that movies and television glorify. Sure, I’ve enjoyed some of its benefits, like crazy college parties filled with stupid, reckless abandon that would rival any rave. But that was the exception rather than the rule. Sure, I had my fun with friends, crashing at some of their houses (apartments) more out of necessity than convenience. But like I said, it was normally a special event, rather than the norm. I found myself focusing more on my academics, putting more effort and genuine concern into the kind of work of which I could be proud. Maybe it was something about moving out here alone that made me look at things differently. Perhaps it has something to do with all that growing up I did in Manila, perhaps it’s the tangibility of my future has brought me to embrace my current duty. I don’t know exactly. But what I did know were these: I wasn’t bored, I was learning, and I knew this was where I needed to be. This college life is something I know, something I can touch, something I can navigate.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m just like most upperclassmen. I just wanted to finish as soon as I can and to stop paying for the ridiculous tuition fees (or start paying for loans in certain cases). It seemed to me, that the road I traveling seemed so very long. Paper after paper, class after class, semester after semester, it seemed like it would never end. Every time a semester started, I felt like I couldn’t wait for it to finish. But now, I’m at my final semester. I can clearly see my most coveted finish line, with all its promises for the future. The idea of finally living in the real world, finding a real job, moving and living in a real place, is right over that hill. I can smell it, I can almost touch it, all I have to do is reach over. But as I run towards it, with all the energy and excitement I thought I had, I find myself sputtering, stumbling, stopping. All of a sudden, I’m exhausted. There’s an imposing letter “E” flashing on my internal dashboard. I hadn’t noticed that before, I must have been running on low for a while now. It’s a wonder that I can actually type these words on my beaten-up computer and its struggling word processor. But here I am, spewing the last few gasps of coherent thought to who ever might read this. I’m only a few weeks short of finishing this all out. I’m finally leaving college and going for the next step and suddenly and quite inexplicably, I’m stuck.

Its possible that I’ve completely worn myself out. Its been known to happen to people, especially in my generation. Looking back, it hasn’t exactly been an easy four years. I’ve been sleep deprived for about the same amount of time I’ve been in college, averaging a solid four to five hours of sleep per weekday. Some days I get less. You’re not a college student if you’ve never pulled an all-nighter, I’ve had a few of those. I’ve read thousands upon thousands of pages, whether it be historical texts, literature, or the occasional writing manuals that tell me how to write, cite, and record certain things. I’ve written countless pages of material for courses. The quality of work varies from totally made-up from the thinking throne (ie the toilet) to exceptional academic endevours. Within all of this, other things have occurred. I’ve moved several times (moved from a country once, moved from houses twice), lugging my belongings through long trips. I’ve lost a few friends and gained a few others (this too is tiring, let me tell you). I’ve even fallen in love and had my heart broken (and oddly, the latter happened twice). It’s been a crazy four years. But I don’t think that’s it. At least that’s not all of it.

It’s not merely exhaustion that’s led me into this emptiness. I’ve worked through so much more with great fatigue and I don’t believe that I’m in this rut because of it. I’m only 21 crying out loud! I shouldn’t even be in this situation. The only possible explanation is this: It has to be something else. Perhaps it’s the one thing that I haven’t considered yet so far. No, its not a quarter-life crisis. I think John Mayer is just making that up. Maybe I’m just afraid. When I’m done, I’m done. I’ve got nothing familiar to go back to next semester. Everything that I can possibly do in this chapter of my life has been done and I have to move on. Perhaps what scares me most is the fact that I can’t go back. I’m leaving college. I’m leaving the only thing that I’ve been able to touch, control, and navigate for the last four years of my adult life. Frankly, I think that I’m exceedingly afraid of all the things that lie in store for me. I’m afraid of the possibility that I can’t, even with my education, fulfill what my family, friends, and the world, expects of me. Sounds a little melodramatic, right? Well, isn’t it all very likely that I’m just quite horrified by the fact that I have to live a real life? I don’t think that’s melodramatic. I think that I’m a coward.