I exist to be torn—to be wanted, used, and pulled apart at the seams. Like the stickers I left in my childhood home, I have been bruised over the years, stuck on bare walls, and surrounded by fading footsteps.
At the age of four, I became obsessed with collecting stickers and pasting them on walls, cabinets, bed frames, any surface they could stick onto. These stickers ranged from Hello Kitty and Disney princesses to Batman since I also took some from my brother. This was one of the few childish things I allowed myself. I did not listen to anyone who reprimanded me and stopped me from putting stickers everywhere—I wanted it and had to do it even if I did not know why.
Thoughts such as these endlessly kept me awake since I was in kindergarten—from why I should follow what older people say to more existential ones such as dying alone, never knowing myself, and being betrayed by those I love most. Even while picking apart fried tilapia, I would beat myself up with unanswerable questions. At six, I was drowning in my mind but no words in Filipino and English could ever describe how it made me feel—so, I cried over and over again.
At seven, I taught myself to glom onto people. I believed that I have to be embedded in something, anything to have meaning. To feel whole, I had to find a group of friends even if it meant changing my personality, buying new clothes to match theirs, liking the same music, following the same celebrities, and speaking and thinking the way they did. I had to say that I liked Nadine Lustre even if I preferred Kathryn Bernardo and watched all her movies religiously—able to recite multiple lines from “She’s Dating the Gangster.” I had to speak in a squeaky voice and act more girlie.
Whatever hue, form, or outline I presented was determined by the people I surrounded myself with. I had to lead and get high grades. I had to be quick in thinking of jokes. I had to be good at many things at once. I had to be flexible to be loved and understood by others. I had to perform even in my dreams. I had to be there for everyone other than myself.
I made different versions of myself—one I showed to my family, one I showed to my friends, and one I only saw. My family saw all the rage I had, they watched me shift from red to black. I knew that nothing would push them away. My friends saw an actress, I had to accept and do anything for them. Being pushed into a pile of mud, stabbed in the back, or punched in the face—none of that mattered as long as they had me. I wanted to be needed. And the last one was the drowning girl who was being pulled down by the weight of her mind and soul. The girl who could not make sense of the two other versions of herself.
In my mind, I was too old to mess up. I should not be questioning myself at this point. I should have been sure of who I was and my place in the world.
Other than this fear, I was scared of being defined by others before I could do so for myself. I was afraid that whatever mistake I made would forever be linked to me. Even the words I leave here will forever be tied to me. Akin to the stickers in my childhood home, I was old, inflexible, and stuck. Its walls have seen me torn and bruised—these walls will never forget me. They know everything and nothing about me.
I then told my mom that I knew nothing about myself and she replied: “Anak, ang bata mo pa. ‘Wag ka masyadong magpaka-stress d’yan.” But, I have been like this since I was six. Even at 17, I was young. But how should I tell my mom that I only felt like a kid whenever I cried?
As they say, to be a grown-up, I had to pull the band-aid and let myself bleed. I threw everything away. I pushed everyone away. I had to be selfish. I learned to leave relationships and situations that no longer felt right—detaching from years of friendships and cutting off relatives. In doing so, with the hopes of finding clarity, I unknowingly cut parts of myself off. No matter who I kept and who I left, I still could not get a sense of who I was.
At 18, between all the questions and tears, I entered college and felt like a kid without having to cry. I was scared to death but for the first time, I felt like I was not doomed to fail. I had a room all to myself, I put all the pictures, art, and stickers I bought and made through the years. I created safe, healthy, and stable relationships with friends and family. I studied without feeling overwhelmed. I had a sense of who I was in my newfound independence. I learned that I can be kind, hot-tempered, and vulnerable all at once. I learned parts of myself through people I kept close to my heart.
But then again, I am 19 and I still do not fully know who I am. I am too young to lose anything—too young to lose myself and not get it back. Like the stickers in my childhood home, I can peel it and put it anywhere I want, even if it leaves a permanent mark. I am young and I have time. I have time to mess up, to cry, to run away from everyone I know. I have time to get back on my feet, to pursue what I need and want, to know who I am.
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Arwen Alexis P. Gestoso, 19, is a freshman at the University of the Philippines Los Baños. She still collects stickers and pastes them wherever she wants.