Life experiment: Results inconclusive

I have never been certain about much in life.

The diagnosis came when I was 17, though by then it felt less like a revelation and more like a formality. Therapy had started five years earlier. Psychiatrists had spent half a decade rearranging medication. Try this one. Maybe add another. Maybe your brain chemistry simply enjoys keeping everyone humble. Dosages rose and fell. Side effects came and went like temporary tenants. But the depression renewed its lease annually.

At 15, I experienced a psychotic break that convinced me I was Professor X. If every thought arrives at maximum volume and none of them make sense, believing you possess mutant telepathic abilities starts feeling less like delusion and more like a reasonable working theory. I have since abandoned plans to establish the Xavier Institute. Though I still think my brother and I could build Cerebro if given sufficient funding and access to a hardware store.

The first thing depression teaches you is: certainty is fragile.

People seem remarkably certain about things. Religion. Politics. The future. Themselves. Meanwhile, I spent my adolescence arguing with a brain that occasionally generated realities of its own. After that, certainty begins to look less like wisdom and more like a magic trick.

I was born in 1999. An interesting year to be born if your hobby is witnessing humanity repeatedly announce its own extinction.

The world has been ending for as long as I can remember. Y2K. Terrorism. A financial crisis. Climate change. A pandemic. Artificial intelligence. Every few years, humanity gathers around a new disaster and collectively points at the horizon saying, “This is it. We’re finished. Civilization is over.” Then everyone wakes up the next morning and still has unread emails.

The world has probably been in a cosmic season finale that has stretched across decades.

I was never truly Catholic. At least not in the way my father is.

One afternoon, I asked him if he genuinely believed the Pope was chosen by God. Did the cardinals receive divine guidance during the conclave? A vision? A whisper? A heavenly group chat? And was there absolutely no politics involved whatsoever?

“Yes, baby.” Then after a moment, without the slightest hint of doubt, “I wouldn’t be Catholic if I thought otherwise.”

I’ve always had questions. Questions breeding questions breeding questions. Questions reproducing so rapidly they should have been classified as an invasive species.

When I was 8 years old, I developed a recurring prayer. I asked God to give me all the sorrow in the world. And if I died carrying it, then at least nobody else would have to feel the way I felt. I stopped believing that suffering could be redistributed like luggage. But I think I carried its logic with me.

Recently, I told my mother I couldn’t stop thinking about the state of the world. The slow, exhausting sensation that humanity is trying to speed-run every mistake we’ve ever made. I told her that part of me hopes somebody in the future picks up one of my books and says: “Hey, she was actually onto something.”

Then she delivered a sentence so devastatingly sensible that I have still not recovered: “That’s not a burden you should put in your writing. It stops becoming art with all that pressure.”

And then she closed the bathroom door. I remained outside, experiencing what academics might describe as a complete restructuring of the theoretical framework.

My mother possesses no graduate degree. This is notable because everyone else in my family seems determined to collect diplomas the way medieval monarchs collected territories. Yet somehow, she delivered the single smartest artistic observation I’ve ever received.

At 23, I established a deadline: 25. I had originally planned on becoming a scientist, and like any self-respecting former STEM student, I trusted data. It seemed like a reasonable sample size to determine whether life was worth continuing.

At 25, I would review the results. Assess the findings. Draw conclusions. Publish internally. Very scientific. Completely normal behavior. Certainly not the kind of thing that would concern my therapist.

Then 25 arrived.

Now I am 27. Results remain inconclusive. The same conclusion currently applies to my long-standing theory that I am the reincarnation of Vincent van Gogh. Evidence includes an Instagram handle, @justvangoghing, a suspicious fondness for dead artists, and what can only be described as chronic cosmic déjà vu.

I am two years beyond my deadline. The experiment continues. The future remains unresolved. But for the first time in a long time, I am comfortable leaving certain questions unanswered.

I am still here. Still writing.

For now, that feels like enough.

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Justine Renee Garcia, 27, is a Filipino writer, filmmaker, and self-described keeper of stories. A graduate of De La Salle–College of Saint Benilde and MetFilm School London, she is currently completing her MFA in Creative Writing at De La Salle University Manila.