Replay

I was drowning and The Beatles saved me.

I click the “pause” button.

The “replay” icon remains illuminated, an incandescent blue only an Apple product could boast in the late 2000’s.

My eyes crawl to the bottom corner of my laptop screen. They barely work, but they make it.

It can’t be. I don’t want it to be.

But there it is.

The clock. The time. It has indeed marched on, and without me. It’s just a little past 5:00AM.

Again.

I carefully look out the window and greet the early peachy light of dawn. Yes, it’s definitely morning. Unfortunately.

Oh no, not again.

It appears I have stayed up late. Err, early?

Again? No. No, not again.

I have a general biology class in 3 hours. I want to slap some sense into my skull. My arms look up at me sheepishly, doubtful of their capabilities. I take a big breath, exhale silently so as not to wake up my roommate sleeping less than 10 feet from me.

She looks peaceful. I want to cry.

What is wrong with me? Why did I do that? Why am I awake at 5:00AM again?

Bio is a really big class. I won’t be missed.

But I deliberate. I stare into the center of my screen, the neutral palette of my iTunes library looking back at me. Then my thoughts return to the march. Tick tock. Another tick preciously tocking.

Ugh, I really need to stop doing this. Why do I do this to myself?

Responsibility starts to weigh down on my chest cavity. The center of my forehead pangs. I really can’t skip class anymore. I just can’t. It’s throwing money down the drain… I can feel my anxiety rise with every passing thought of wasting my parent’s hard-earned money.

My hands limp upwards and manage to catch my chin. My elbows are grateful for what little desk surface I have. If I am truly honest with myself, I know that deep down inside all I really want to do is click on the big beautiful gray “play” button. To watch that blue “replay” symbol illuminate into eternity, what bliss that would be.

What am I doing? Why can’t I stop? Why can’t I just be normal?

Knowingly, but no less begrudgingly, I drag my eyes away from the screen. I bid the “replay” of yet another Beatles album goodnight. I gingerly place my headphones down on my desk and climb into my XL twin-sized bed. It won’t be long until I return back here, back to this troubled scene. Probably tonight.

When will this year be over? Why won’t it end?

Please, please just end.

Final exams are weeks away. The review sessions are scheduled. The assignments are stacking up. I find myself seated in every class for every course, for once.

A whisper from the back row of the auditorium of my mind reminds me of the beautiful gray “play” button.

No. You can do this. You have another chance. It’s your last chance, but it’s still another chance.

“Only 1 more quiz left before the final,” says my biology professor.

“Your final papers are due at 10:00AM on the first day of finals,” chimes my literature professor.

“The final exam at the end of this semester is an oral exam. Be prepared to discuss any one of the texts we read over the entire course,” my “Filipino-American Experience” professor reminds us.

And on and on.

Make it count.

Just focus.

Don’t do anything else but study.

You are not going to do anything but make outlines and flashcards.

The “play” button? You can only click on it as a reward.

Only as a reward.

Okay. No problem. I got this.

Back in my sad little dorm room, I motion to gather study supplies and lay out all the books from the semester in front of me. The cement blocks that serve as walls reflect the chilly afternoon sun.

Ugh, why me. Gosh, this biology textbook is huge. What chapter are we on in calculus? Where are all of those books I read for that literature class?

My eyes glance over to my laptop, it’s powered off for my own good.

Slowly, I finally collect everything I need on my bed since my desk is pathetically puny. It makes it easier to avoid touching my laptop anway.

I flip open my calendar, mark it up with various colorful highlighters and pens, a different color for each course.

One step at a time. Little by little, c’mon.

I have to remind myself to keep breathing.

Don’t stop. Keep moving.

Done.

There, that wasn’t so difficult was it? Right, okay.

I take it all in, the whole of the next month. A yawn escapes me.

Well, the calendar isn’t going to change one way or the other… I might as well catch up on sleep.

Gently pushing everything aside, I carve out a small spot on the bed and carefully inch myself under the covers.

I hear your brain is pretty useless unless it’s well rested. Yeah, rest.

That’s what I need.

What I never really seemed to understand that first year of college was that an infinite supply of stationery and an organizer made to look like kooky modern art are pretty useless without any real effort behind it. I never fully processed and integrated the idea that a willingness to change ineffective habits and an openness to receive help from others was what I, in fact, needed.

And I never did change my ways, not until the next fall semester. But until then, hollow decisions backed by arrogance and ignorance fated my destiny.

Motion after motion only dug me deeper into a pit of overwhelm, isolation, and denial.

And the trusty shovel to facilitate this work was undoubtedly my proclivity for escapism. No, I didn’t engage in recreational drug use. Nor did I find myself with a new bedmate every week. I didn’t break any laws. Or get a tattoo. No seemingly post-adolescent behavior was ever my means to this end. Despite this, I discovered that year how good I was at shirking my to-do list calling upon the most mundane of tasks to help me do so.

I was so good at procrastination, still am probably, that I was able to convince myself into completing any task other than schoolwork.

I need to nap first.

But now, it’s dinner time, see? So I should go to the dining hall before the lines get really long. And then I’ll start x, y, or z.

Taking breaks is good for you. Everyone says so.

Oh darn, I ran out of mugs. I should go clean these dirty ones.

I’m cold, I need a blanket.

Goodness, when was the last time I showered. I should go do that.

Laundry is piling up. I should really get some of that done.

Oh no, only 10 minutes until Late Night is over. I need to go now, this is my last chance to get food until breakfast.

My most relied upon escapist tactic of choice? Well, it eventually became music. Listening, on ardent replay, to the music taking up residence in my iTunes library. My roommate was generous and worldly, she ended up giving me a treasure chest full of good music. But that semester was to become the semester of The Beatles. She added several albums to my listening rotation.

During this final push of the academic school year, they became the only music I wanted to listened to — I was obsessed.

And so it went that I returned to The Beatles every night. They became my steadfast friends in the tempest I was creating for myself.

Procrastinate. Procrastinate. Procrastinate.

Avoid. Avoid. Avoid.

Run. Run. Run.

Run hard, and fast, and for as long as I could muster.

— But soon, even this stopped altogether. I ran out of steam. Because of course I ran out of steam.

Stumbling into gravity, I eventually found myself crashing.

My body furled unto itself to minimize impact. My mind a live wire, sparked and spat, hypervigilant yet exhausted. My spirit was effectively pummeled under the weight of it all.

I was spiraling and didn’t know how to stop.

Numbly, I gave in and let the world swallow me up. Without any tools or prior experience to rely on, I froze.

The only way I could feel anything? The only way to feel truly alive? The only sure-fired way to comfort myself at 5:00AM? Was to listen to the those four wonderful boys, The Beatles.

They saved me.

Class, because.

Eat, lots.

Hygiene, to varying degrees of unsatisfactory.

Sleep, some.

Listen to The Beatles’ 13 studio albums released in the US. On replay. Until dawn or however long it took to feel less empty, which usually meant dawn.

How reliable they were. How unchangeable.

Hypnotic in their charming melodies. Soothing in their organically captured voices. Uncomplicated in their lyricism.

I wore their music like a second skin. Soon, I was able to recognize lead vocals. Parse out the backing vocals or harmonies. I memorized the order of the title tracks on any given album, the year of release, the chronological release of their core catalogue, etc. I could remember who wrote which songs. I could recall all the cover songs they ever sang. I remembered who was the oldest Beatle, the youngest. The year of their births. The names of their spouses, first and second marriages. I took to watching every television appearance of theirs I could find on the internet. I binged The Beatles Anthology. I watched every single “music video” I could find. With ease, I swept through Help! (1965), Magical Mystery Tour (1967), and Let It Be (1970). Two of which I own because I couldn’t bare not to.

If it was about or starred The Beatles, I watched it. I couldn’t get enough.

I wanted to dress like them.

I wanted to form a band (even though I didn’t play an instrument).

I secretly wished I had been alive in 1964 to experience Beatlemania firsthand.

I wished George Harrison was still alive and wept for his passing.

It was all consuming. I was a strange child looking to the past for solace and acceptance. And because my peers around me at that time had absolutely no interest in The Beatles, I was alone in my worship.

All the more sacred they became to me.

Being a freshman was particularly grueling for me. By the second half of the academic school year, I was probably depressed. I had gained the “freshman 20,” and then some. I was basically sedentary when not walking to and from class, or to and from the dining hall. And I had not admitted to myself, just yet, that the compulsion to avoid people at all costs was indeed anxiety. I allowed myself to believe that my studies were more important than dinners, coffee dates, and parties. More important than making new friends. Even more important than simply getting to know the classmates in my courses, the very ones I was sitting next to day in and day out for 4 months.

In my desire to hyper-protect my being, I sacrificed one of the greatest pleasures of attending higher education — connection. I declined building lasting friendships that could succor me through the decades. I shunned the mere opportunity to practice my limited social and interpersonal skills. I refused to even study in the library despite the decrease in distractions and notable increase in workspace it would have granted me. All in favor of sheltering myself.

Maybe I secretly hoped that if I cocooned now, I would magnificently emerge into a fully realized person. Or that if I just listened to The Beatles’ music long enough, the world would change and wise up to the fact that I was worthy enough to belong. Maybe, in all my arrogance, I was just really hoping everyone else around me would grow up.

I’m not sure.

As my stress, worry, anxiety, etc., had heightened to stratospheric proportions over the course of the spring semester, so too did a growing inertia. Malignantly, a ball of fear bubbled over my psyche. Little did I realize that by escaping to my laptop, I was only making my problems worse.

In retrospect, someone should have taken me by the shoulders, given me a good shake, and told me to seek help. The answers are not to be found in the solitude of your sad little dorm room. Or in the textbooks you insist on using as a shield. Not even those lovely boys in that legendary band have the answers to what you must face. And face your problems you must.

No, that didn’t happen.

I survived my freshman year of college, a little worse for wear but technically all in one piece. And while I actively choose to forget most of what happened, I will never forget all that The Beatles gave me that year.

I love them because they cheered me up when I felt misunderstood. They made me laugh when I failed another quiz or exam. They kept me company on those insomniac nights. They made me feel less alone. Less weird. Less self-conscious.

I love them, and I always will.

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Want to make this a conversation? Be sure to leave a comment. I love hearing from you!

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Further watching:

• The four boys performing a Shakespearean skit, comedy ensues.

• The oft-glossed over With the Beatles album. It’s my favorite.

• I could watch Harrison speak for days. This is a fun snippet from The Dick Cavett Show.

• The music video for “Real Love” - a song released almost 15 years after the death of John Lennon. It’s one of my favorite Beatles songs. Harrison would pass away about 6 years after this song was released. And no, I’m not crying — you’re crying!