Three years from now? Who knows!

    Algo que tengo muy presente de la última vez que fui a terapia es que el proceso off-session es tan importante como lo que se habla en el sofá, de modo que abrazo los deberes con la dedicación de una buena estudiante. Me gusta leer y aplicar conceptos, digamos que es un paradigma conocido y familiar que me resulta reconfortante.

Eso no lo hace fácil, por supuesto. Pero mi determinación es firme.

Una de las cosas que se me ha quedado de aquellas aburridas y largas mañanas de hace 10 años eres precisamente tú, blog; o la costumbre de reflexionar y racionalizar emociones a través del proceso creativo, y sin embargo..., estoy en proceso de bloqueo creativo.

La tarea es sencilla: sitúate dentro de 3 años, entre los 26 y los 27, y escríbele a tu yo de ahora. Dile qué estás haciendo y qué claves te han ayudado a llegar a donde estás. Pero, ¿cómo me posiciono en un futuro incierto que no me llama ni me motiva nada? en parte siento que estoy haciendo precisamente lo que mis hermanos criticaban de mí hace ahora un año: me refugio en la cómoda idea del panorama doméstico, en el matrimonio y la maternidad, para obviar las incertidumbres de un porvenir que no sé cómo afrontar. ¿Son mis sueños, o son sueños aprehendidos, hendidos a fuego en el cerebro por la tradición familiar?

Así que he pensado que podría empezar por sentar las bases y hacerlo un poco más real: ¿Qué tendría yo que decirle, a día de hoy, a la persona que era hace tres años?

The origins

 What am I gonna talk about? where does it all start? hard to define its origins, since I can't really shake the feeling that it was always inside of me - that makes me defectuous, for instance.

Where to place it? was it the fact that I was completely terrifyed of food for like 13 years?

Was it my mom's own relationship with food? was it seeing her forcing herself to throw up what shaked this feeling inside of me?

Was it growing up chubby, ashamed of my appearance, mocked by other kids?

Was it all the negative sexual attention towards my body? 

Was it my weight loss journey?

Is it all the pressure I get from my family, in very diverse directions?

Where did I ever go wrong? or... where didn't I

Five years ago, today.

    Time goes by quickly, they say, but anyone sane would disagree on this. Time goes by at its normal speed, you're just either too happy or too busy - and I dare say it's probably the second - to reflect upon it. Once in a blue moon, when there's actually some time to look around and start notizing the world around you, you realize everything's changed.

In my case, I'm normally just too aware of the future. I feel the constant pressure to do things faster and better than anybody else, like in a competition. It's frustrating, trying to adapt to a timeline that's not always crear, precise or organized - and it's entirely my fault.

In any case, there's a blue moon tonight, sort to speak. Looking at the calendar, I was stunned to realize what month it is. Five years ago, today, I was celebrating a very good freshment year at uni, not worried at all about the upcoming exams. I was doing extremelly good and could already predict a brilliant outcome, already savouring my scholarship to study abroad, in Japan. Dreams coming true, life was sweet.

I was going to have a date soon and I was already preparing for it. I was rather excited about it, specially compared to my usual dates, even up to ignoring my permanently buzzing phone with potential hook ups. The air was getting warm and I was getting down to business with that cute blonde guy from my class.

I remember that very day being disasterous, tho. I brother got sick and the blouse I had picked up for the occasion had an almost unnotizeable hole on it, although big enough to bug me. My hair wasn't behaving and I just couldn't get my eyeline to look symmetrical; he wasn't spot on either, making me feel confused about his intentions, but looked nervous enough to partially kill my anxieties.

How clumsy, this guy. Clumsy with both hands and words. Little did I now back then about how we'd both fall in love for the first time in our lives. Abour dreaming of a forever. About how he'd break my heart; and I, his.

Time to heal.

Qué cercana, intensa e intangible es esta sensación. Es tan difícil arrancarme las palabras como separar las garras de mi gatita de una camiseta de algodón. Es difícil concentrarme en pensar, sentir, elaborar, fingir y seguir funcionando cuando el hastío y el pánico libran una pugna que se antoja milenaria dentro de mí.

Aunque, claro, nunca se hizo rápido o llevadero el sufrimiento.

Podría frivolizar, pero no. Lo he intentado durante unos cinco minutos, y en cuanto las cosas se han puesto difíciles, me he rendido. Ahora siento que he fracasado, más leña al fuego que alimenta lo asquerosa e inútil que me siento.

Soy un fraude. Y débil. Y ante la urgencia de hacerme una bolita y llorar y dormir hasta que acabe el año..., o abrir surcos de sangre en la piel para castigarme, tengo que admitir que tengo miedo y que necesito ayuda. Ahora que tengo un motivo para intentarlo de verdad, estoy dispuesta a tragármelo todo, arrancarme la piel y permitir que me den un baño de vinagre.

Han pasado 11 años, y mal que me pese, creo que es hora de volver a terapia.

Me merezco aprender a ser feliz.

Things were said.

Imagina dedicar tu vida a sufrir y velar por alguien. Amarla con todo tu corazón.

Imagina organizar tus días en torno a ella. Acariciarla al pasar, compartir colchón, decirle cada día que la quieres, que es preciosa...

Y que no le importe. Que dice que nunca lo sintió.

Twenty days away.

    Merely twenty days away from what would have been my five year anniversary, I feel numb. So numb I can hardly speak or write about what happened and what didn't.

I can sort of joke about it with a certain degree of spontaneity, like I do when I refer to my pothos, but I can not get serious. Humor is just a mask for pain. I find myself unable to open my mouth and untangle my tonge from my teeth; or even to put pen to paper and dekernell my sadness over that big loss. I don't seem to be able to get over the fact that I failed despite how hard I tried, I can't forgive myself for how I handled things and most importantly, I don't aknowledge not forgive this longing.

And because I can't really admit how I feel..., I pretend to be over it all. I pretend my feelings on the matter are missing in action, wiped out, erased, deleted and faded away.

Not that I regret ANY of it. I knew we weren't working out anymore and I acted consequently to what I was feeling; I'm happier now than I've been in a really long, long time. I just wish I had done things differently so I'd avoid guilt. I wish I could be natural around him and ask if he's forgiven me, if he's doing alright. The simple truth is that my heart still aches with memories of that one last day and the many goodbyes we said to each other.

Trust.

    There's something about the way he holds me that makes me feel safe. Like the world could just crumble all around me and I'd still be fine.

There's something about the way he carries things, and himself, that makes me wonder what would have happend if I had this earlier in my life. If there were someone to turn to when things got ugly. Someone to have my back or simply hug my when life got heavy.

There was a time where cold sheets and an empty house were my only companion.

There was a time when I had no one to share my doubts with.

And now, somehow, not having my tears wipped off my face, or my back rubbed when being hugged, feels odd. I guess this is what trust feels like?

Yea..., I guess so. I'd trust him with my life.