Dandelions

By Brian M. de la Cerna

There are days when I just want to dance in a garden filled with roses. There are nights when I want to howl at the moonlit sky. Some days, my life flashes before my eyes—the joy, the pain, the despair. I recall my mother cooking my favorite Filipino breakfast: garlic fried rice, sunny-side-up eggs, and longganisa; my father telling me to take care as I slipped into the chaos of school; and the deafening sound of my siblings quarreling over a piece of candy. These are memories worth remembering, but deep down, I don’t care anymore.

There are nights when I want to visit a cemetery and ask the dead how it feels to rest in peace. The thought rises to my throat, but instead of gasping for air, I find myself smiling. The thought tickles me—it doesn’t scare me. Sometimes, my heart aches for no reason, and my hands shake with the urge to punch someone until I feel satisfied. There are days and nights when I just want to disappear, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling from 8 a.m. until the sun sets on another day.

Depression. Bipolar disorder. Anxiety. Mood swings: apprehension, confusion, edginess, a sense of helplessness, repeated negative thoughts, muscle tension, palpitations, and difficulty breathing. You’ve probably heard these terms, but how much do you know about them? Sadly, I live with them. I can be your friend one moment, then your biggest adversary the next, depending on where my mind takes me. Each day, I wake up under the heavy weight of trying to live like a normal person—laughing without worries, crying if necessary.

A question haunts me: How far can I go if my mind keeps pulling me back, if it overshadows my understanding that we only live once?

For me, every day is a battle. I wake up every morning without dragging my body, forcing myself to face the mirror, convincing myself that I’m valued, wanted, and that people care for me. Going to work feels the same—I can’t fully function as expected. I feel forced. I feel out of place. I keep searching for something that will make me memorable, valuable, and needed, even though people already give me attention. I’m still trying to find my way out—always into the unknown.

I sought medical help to understand if my behavior was normal, if my perception of things was okay. Guess what? It was. My personality only fits with a few people, not many. Professional advice confirmed what I already believed, which was different from others’ standards. Still, I was diagnosed with mood swings. Here I am, writing—opening myself up to people who stumble into my space and those who want to know me. Not for sympathy or pity, but for fair judgment.

At first, I felt ashamed of being in treatment for months. The stigma clung to me like a snake, sinking its fangs in until I could hardly breathe. Its venom ran through my veins, pushing me out of control. Every day was a struggle to appear normal to people, whether they knew me or not.

My greatest takeaway? My family stood by me as I fought through the rough terrain of life.

Over the years, I built a profile that people feared to challenge. I constructed walls even my family couldn’t break down. I engineered bridges and roads only I could traverse—with my uninvited, dark thoughts.

My bipolar tendencies resurfaced, once again testing my mental strength as a “normal” person, something I longed to be. During a manic episode, my thoughts raced, and I felt an overwhelming surge of energy. But in a depressive episode, my thinking slowed. I struggled to focus, recall facts, and make decisions.

I created my own dimension, one only I could understand—or so I convinced myself.

Then I met someone who brought flowers to one of my darkest moments.

He is smart. He is understanding. He is patient. He brings me joy when I’m anxious. He holds my hand even when I push him away. He is my light during my darkest nights. He is joy, even when the weather disagrees.

I feel comforted and at ease when we share a cup of coffee and a slice of cheesecake. When I look at others, I see dark skies and shallow waters. But with him, I see stars dancing, forming constellations. He sees the real me—I feel at home, at peace. He sees beyond the walls I’ve built.

I remember that day—September, specifically—when he was the only one I could hold onto. I cried so much my eyes hurt, and my mouth barely moved. I was shaking, but he was there, watching me in silence. His silence wasn’t deafening—it was music to my ears, comforting. Slowly, I am rebuilding myself, letting others see me as he does. I am trying.

Living with extreme mood swings is hard. It’s a constant fight between my guardian angel and the monsters creeping inside me. Believe me, it’s an all-out war to stay positive. Or even just to stay alive.

As days pass, I realize I must start controlling my emotions and my thoughts. My loved ones won’t always be around to remind me that my hopes and dreams are bigger than my anxiety, that people are willing to understand me beyond my sadness and fears.

I returned to the doctor for more consultations and treatment. I no longer fear being judged for seeing a psychiatrist.

Now, I view my prescribed pills as hope for a new beginning. My family understands—they do their best, as always, to make me feel at home, even if we don’t discuss it much. After all, actions speak louder than words.

If you’re reading this, know that you are not alone. You are loved. You are wanted. You are joy. It may take time for you to realize this, as it did for me. If you’re going through tough times, pause, breathe, and relax. And if it hurts to your core, there’s no shame in seeking professional help. Visit a doctor and get treated. As the old saying goes, “It’s okay not to be okay.”

For now, I still experience dark thoughts and unwanted moments. But with proper treatment and good people around me—I will heal. You will, too.

In time, I hope I will see all the colors in their full brightness. For now, I’ll continue gazing at the garden of dandelions in the storm. I’ll keep planting more, waiting for the sun to shine on them, bringing warmth and light, guiding me through life and helping me move forward.

I know my story. I was there. And now, I’m still here—with you. Together, tomorrow needs us.