A friend of mine online (I met him through Tumblr a while back) asked me a particular question that got me thinking. The question wasn’t anything new, but every time I hear or read it, it strikes me. Hard.
A few days ago, I posted a status on Facebook, something along the lines of how sad it is to see people disregard their dreams and wishes in favor of reality.
That was exactly the reason why I am in the program I am now. Don’t get me wrong, I love Psychology. Sure, I don’t get the best grades, I don’t always listen in class and my conceptualization on theories isn’t exactly deserving of a letter grade of A. However, I do have a passion for Psychology. I stay up well into the morning reading studies and articles from mental disorders to offshoot branches to incoming fields like cognitive archaeology (which is extremely interesting, by the way. It studies the components of societal facets such as religion and politics of extinct civilizations). Psychosis, mood disorders, somatoform disorders, they all interest me. I can honestly say that I love Psychology. I know I’m not the only one with an insane passion for it that I would willingly forego sleep to learn, but I’m not going to say that Psychology is “just another thing” for me. God, I cry for this stuff.
I can also say that I have an equally fierce love for art as well. Please, don’t misunderstand, I’m no Picasso, I’m no Da Vinci and I am certainly no Raphael. My art is mediocre, both digital and traditional. I can’t paint something like The Raft of the Medusa or sculpt something as gloriously picturesque as Pieta. I wish I could! I can draw well enough, maybe even paint good enough to be able to join a few contests and challenges here and there. Perhaps in time, with enough practice, I can reach up to the likes of Bernini. A feeble wish, but a wish nonetheless.
I am digressing; moving on, now. Art has always fascinated me, even when I was young. Around the age of four or five, while other children went out and about to play games in the middle of the street or sit in front of a TV, I was somewhere else. I would be in my corner, surrounded by books, crayons, and papers — hands were dabbed with color and dirt and ink but I was happy, ecstatic even. Everything about art has always been mesmerizing and interesting to me, doesn’t matter from what era it is. Romanticism, Expressionism, Realism, Contemporary — hell, even the carvings in caves that signified Man’s first interest in the Humanities were wholly beautiful to me (Some of my friends found Humanities, known at my Uni as English 41, really boring. I loved every second of it).
Here, we then proceed to the gist of this entire post: why did I take up Psychology and not a degree with art, such as Art History (another stab in the heart because the thought of the course program itself hurts me so)?
The answer? It’s easy to guess: reality, practicality, “Kenneth, knowing how to paint won’t land you a stable income. Med school, law school? Those are the paths to success.“, “You’re never gonna get anywhere with an art degree, unless you want to end up like a hobo on the streets, screaming at the “starving artist” label pinned on you“.
I was a really mature kid back then (I still am, mind you, I just let myself have fun every once in a while). Even at the young age of seven, I knew life wasn’t fair, that the world isn’t fair. Not everyone’s going to be kind to you, not all your dreams come true and you don’t always get what you want. I knew that early on because my parents raised me to be responsible, to be behaved, but most especially of all, to be real.
No, they didn’t tell me that art was a useless thing. Contrarily, they were proud of my interest in the finer creations of humanity. However, as much as they told me that they want me to be happy, they also reminded me that the world will not always be like them: accepting, supportive and kind.
“Gubaon ka sa kalibutan (The world will destroy you),” Mom would always say, and I listened, because although I come from a comfortable, well-off lifestyle, my parents were not as fortunate. They had to work, bleed and sweat in order to graduate, to find good jobs and stable lives.
So, as I grew up, the world lost its enchantment. When we are young, the world is magical, fantastic: faeries come at night to collect teeth and leave gold coins under our pillows; a bearded, fat old man rides a flying sleigh pulled by twelve magical reindeers and comes down chimneys to leave gifts under Christmas trees and eat the cookies on the table; monsters, dragons, princes and princesses in towers are real and, most of all, time never seemed to end. Yet, when we grow, that magical fog fades a little bit every now and then. Faeries stop coming to collect teeth, Santa no longer leaves presents under the Christmas tree and cookies remain uneaten. Dragons and the Boogeyman die and are replaced by bullies, terrorists, Death.
When I grew older, I began to realize that my dreams were never going to land me anything. People call me artistic (I raise a protest at that), but most of the time they fail to realize that I’m more of a realist than an artist. My feet are glued to the ground, even when my mind escapes my body and flies up to daydreams and imagination. Pursuit of a degree in art will have to be stowed away, forgotten, no matter how much it hurts (I was really desperate, I even bothered to look up schools outside the country like St. Andrews. Some of my relatives were extremely supportive, they would fund me even).
You know by now how much I love Psychology. Hell, if we’re friends on Facebook or if we follow each other on Twitter, you would be annoyed at how much I post about it. Psychology was going to be my ticket to medical school. Why not Biology, you ask? Why not Biology, when it is an even better ticket to medical school? Simple, I’m a realist. If I fail to enter medical school or if I’m never going to finish medical school, with a Psychology degree, I can enter a myriad of fields: corporations, academes, I can even get a Masters or a PhD and be a freaking psychologist. With a Biology degree, at most I will be a professor (it is an honourable job, I assure you. I love the commitment teachers show but it’s not just for me, I’m sorry).
See? Here I am, being a realist. With a Psychology degree, I can enter medical school, graduate, specialize in Psychiatry and strive to work at a top hospital (I’m not ashamed to say that John Hopkins and Massachusetts General are on my list). If I can’t, go get a Masters degree, focus on Industrial/Organizational Psychology and enter the corporate world.
As of now, I really cannot say with much confidence if I am still going to pursue medical school. I admit, I’ve become jaded now. All those plans I’ve made so long ago seem useless now. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do with my life after this. Still, I have never forgotten those application forms from St. Andrews that I’ve downloaded, I have never forgotten the Humanities booklet from the University of Asia and the Pacific that I kept all these years (which Sendong kindly destroyed). Who really knows what will happen in the future? I might still chase after them, I might not.
All I just want is that I will not regret the decisions I’ve made (and will make) my entire life.
The Dinosaur Shikshin 