ETHER DIARIES

controlled breaths | uncontrolled thoughts

Quarter Past Tito

Published by

Mark Andrew Cruz

on

    It’s just 9:15 p.m., but my mouth keeps betraying me with yawns so wide they could swallow my coffee mug. I drained the last drops from the coffeemaker, hoping caffeine might sharpen my brain enough to absorb CNN’s latest update on the North Korean-American conflict. No luck.
    These days, staying up past 11 feels like a feat. I used to greet sunrise with wide eyes—whether cramming for exams, binge-watching dramas, or laughing with friends over greasy food and bad decisions. Now, with unfinished office work glaring at me, I simply shrugged and called it a night. Anyway, I’m up at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow. Saturday, for what it’s worth.
    Lying in bed, I mentally ticked off tomorrow’s to-do list. First order of business: my outfit. I sprang up and pulled out a crisp white long-sleeved shirt, khaki chinos, and leather loafers. Classic. I spotted my old tight shirt and skinny jeans too, but the memory of crotch discomfort was enough to veto that idea.

Wardrobe settled, I returned to bed and resumed planning. Drop by the laundromat. Get the car washed. Pay bills—in order: association dues, electric, credit card. I tried to mentally audit my credit card charges: the fridge… the car vacuum… the coffee table and carpet… groceries.

Groceries. That last trip to Landers was oddly satisfying. After work, my friends and I raced to the store like it was a party. I scored a bathroom mat on sale, grapes, nuts, and a dozen cans of zero-calorie soda (because yes, calories matter now).

Then I remembered the upcoming movie night I’m hosting. It’s going to be chill—cheese, cold cuts, crackers, and a solid film. I grabbed my phone and texted my friend to remind her about the Martini she promised to bring.

Another yawn. It’s just 10:00 p.m. I used to consider this the start of my night. That recent club visit? Not worth retelling. The strobe lights and relentless “tugs tugs” beat triggered a migraine so bad I threw up, not from alcohol, but from sensory overload. I’m officially allergic to nightlife.

I closed my eyes one last time, thoughts unraveling into a tangle of plans and stray memories. Sleep hovered near. Then, one final thought surfaced—sharp, undeniable, and weirdly comforting:

“Shit. I’m a tito.”

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Hello,

I’m Macoy Cruz

Macoy is, ironically, my professional name. Before residency, there were probably only two people who actually called me that. Then I had to get my name embroidered on my residency white coat. It cost ₱9 per letter, and I realized it would be cheaper if I used a nickname I barely used.

So I did.

People who knew me before residency would occasionally hear someone call me that and look confused, like, Who is he? People who met me after residency, meanwhile, would be like, Who is Mark?

I was diagnosed with depression in 2018. It has relapsed a few times since then.

Most of the time, you probably wouldn’t know. I still go to work. I teach. I see patients. I answer messages. I buy groceries. Life continues looking remarkably ordinary even when, internally, it doesn’t feel ordinary at all.

Writing became one of the ways I deal with that. It forces me to take whatever has been circling inside my head and put it somewhere else for a while.

Sometimes I understand it better afterward.

Sometimes I just make it funny.

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