Estoy vivo / Y hago tanto ruido

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Dear Diary,

I am fucking terrified. There, I said it. Deep breaths and would you look at that, it wasn’t even that hard – and I sure feel better for it. But wait, I’m letting myself off too easily. That doesn’t fix it, and I can’t leave it any longer. Sweeping dirt under the carpet only works until you want to walk back into the room and own your space again. And I do. I so do. So here I am, one year and two months later, finally writing this shit because if I don’t write, I overflow. It’s been one year and two months since my last post on this blog that I love more than any thing (I love some people a little more than this blog, so you’ll understand.)

I’ve opened it and looked at it and closed it more times than I can count during this time, but I was never brave enough to hit the Publish button, or even the Write button more than once or twice – and WordPress knows, those were bad drafts. They were raw and all, sure, but they were also unstructured and unhelpful. I used to write to clear my head and my heart, but writing as of lately has not been cathartic but a burden in a sense. I had to write, because it’s what I do, but I do not wish to write, because… And the train of thought kind of just stopped there. Why am I not writing? But would you leave me be already.

I wasn’t writing because *inhales* when I write, I write from the purest, deepest and most honest part of me. It’s what I can’t bring to the table in real life – apart from in those very few, very precious moments when someone holds enough space for me and does it so lovingly that it kind of just pours out of me, and shocks us both. (Then they usually ghost me.) And, because I can’t bring it out to play whenever I want to, I value so much the tool that writing has been for me throughout time. If you’ve read my older posts you’ve noticed the common theme: I make many references to magic, in the sense that writing, creating, storytelling, is a form of magic-making.

And I guess even I wondered at times where it came from, apart from my love for magical realism the genre – until I stopped writing altogether and suddenly felt that life – no, that I no longer feel magical. If it sounds cheesy… well, shrug to that. But then, soon as I sit down with it, it’s as if a gate opens and something just flows out, rapidly and violently, like torrents of… me. I’m no longer overflowing, and I can breathe again, and I don’t know how magical that sounds to you, but to me it’s like, whoa, here I fucking am! But let me come back to why I wasn’t writing.

I was terrified (and I still am, but I’m choosing to move past it now, because fuck whatever I’ve been feeling for so long that it’s robbed of it.) I felt that I was wrong in so many ways that no one could, or even should care about what I have to say any longer. Who decided to spare everyone of it, you ask? Well, your favourite impostor syndrome girl, of course. But it was real, and it was real because of a reason that is so obvious to me now that I just want to laugh and brush it off – but I’m talking about it, because I sure wasn’t the first and last one to go through it.

I went through so many changes, that challenged me to change the ways I looked at the world so many times, that I felt like I couldn’t trust myself to hold a truth for too long – so how could and why should anyone else? I was growing, and it’s what growth does to you, of course. One day you’re a smartass and know how the rest of us should live, and the next you realise it was all a bit of a lie and you know nothing really and you have to reassess it all – because if you knew anything at all, how the hell did you not see that one coming?

If it sounds like something that’s crossed your mind too, high five, we’re both human beings! How cool is it that we’ve found each other? But it affected me to the point where I very strongly felt that I couldn’t trust myself, I couldn’t trust others, I couldn’t trust the universe, and I didn’t want to write anything that I would look over in a month or so and shake my head in profound disbelief all over again. I mean, that aside from not wanting to leave the house, meet people, start conversations and overall think for myself. Yeah. I know. I bet you did not see that one coming either.

Because I didn’t know when, if ever, I was right. And sure, it may all be up for the debate all the time, but I really did question myself right into analysis paralysis and, to stay on track, writer’s block. It wasn’t fun in the slightest and every area of my life suffered because of it, let alone my capacity to write a coherent phrase on here that I didn’t want to delete seconds later. Talking to people was another big one. I had to keep face, even though I was convinced everything I was saying was wrong – or was about to be, soon enough. And yet, fast forward to the happy ending, as happy as I can make them, lately I’ve been thinking…

One year from now, dear diary, you and I will both be laughing at this post – and while the thought of it already makes me cringe, it’s ok. Because life goes quickly, and I want to keep it as magical as I possibly can, while I can – and it’s getting harder and harder to do it the more I grow, really. But if I quit writing for good I can be absolutely sure it’s going to be a lot less magical than it can possibly be, and that’s not fair. I’ve cheated myself out of happiness many, many times by giving in to worry, anxiety & all the rest, and much as I’d like to say it won’t happen again, it will. But I’m not cheating myself out of writing again, because without it I have no tool at all to fight against the shitstorm life brings us all. And we all have our own tools, don’t we? Well, this playground is mine. I love this blog to bits and if anyone reading this is thinking of hacking it, just know that I’ll find you and… ok, I suppose my tool isn’t that advanced yet. But it makes a little magic, you know? And I guess that’s as good defence as any. I mean, what the hell does yours do? And can I come… ?

One more thing – you’ve guessed it, I’m done with the happy note. My few, old, unpublished drafts from this year are not what I’d like them to be, but I want to share them anyway. They’re kinda dark and twisted and all over the place, but so has my year been. But in between all that, there was so much good, I swear to you. So much good. I wish I’d recorded more of it, too. I’m going to try. I swear to you, I’m going to try. I love this messy life so hard, and if I’m ever bitter it’s only because I wish so badly that it loved me back the same, but sometimes – like now – it does and it’s worth all the chaos. Trust me.

Even I’m doing it better lately.

Sure I’m mad at them – but behind the anger, beyond the frustration, underneath the hate, there’s nothing but sadness. The rest of the layers aren’t even real, I’ve just made them up to cover it up. Boredom is rage spread thin and sadness is grief the same way. There’s just so much love and it’s got nowhere to go from here. I’ve got nothing to do with it. I spend my days watching it die, and it’s killing the part of me that is capable of love, too. Sometimes I wish I was different – no, I wish I’d acted differently. That’s more like it. I replay it all over again in my head and in the background there’s me screaming “can you still love me, despite of this” where “this” is me, followed by the need to hear “yes” at the end of it like a blessing, like permission to ease into it, but the answer remains radio silence. It sounds like no even when it doesn’t sound like anything at all, and it’s making me bitter and mean and impatient. When does this pass? When am I going to feel like myself, minus the need to apologise for it, again? Can my love at least stop dying, before I get the chance to redirect it as still love? Because it keeps on dying on me and inside me and outside me, and I don’t like what I’m seeing and what I’m feeling and what I’m being.

Where do I go when I need my heart held? Where do I go when I’m in need of a safe space? Where do I go when I need to be carried home – and really, where is home? I usually come up with my own silly little answers to distract myself from the fact that, well, better answers do not exist. But my resources are low now and I need a helping hand, but helping hands do not exist either when I start asking such questions. They’re not fun and light, so helping hands go wash themselves clean of me if I bring them up. But the truth is that I have nowhere to fill my own cup from this time, and I’m a little bit tired of being strong right now. I’d kill for the kind of gentle strength that allows me to be soft, but it’s nowhere in sight and it hasn’t been in so long that I fear it’s gone extinct since I last thought I saw it in someone. I am exhausted, really. It has got nothing to do with eating, sleeping or exercising. Life feels heavy because I feel heavy. My tanks are empty and I don’t know what I’m running on, but I’m running – through the motions, spinning all the plates, disconnected and confused. I’m not even sure I’d see a way out, or a way in for what I need, anyway. The doors and windows are shut and sealed. Nothing comes through; no more sadness, no new joy. I’m dangerously close to emotional burnout, and I haven’t got a clue how to stop it, or anyone to ask for one.

Together with my lack of interest for a part of life I am used to enjoying came a lack of interest for other parts of life I am used to enjoying. I know the signs – when I lose interest in others, I lose interest in myself. When I don’t keep up with what goes on around me, I don’t keep up with what goes on inside me either. I’ve been here before. Brief pauses, moments of uncertainty, insecurity, anxiety about the future. They’re all phases and they all pass, and soon enough I’m back in the game, catching up with everything I’ve missed out on. Only they’re driven by feelings – of inadequacy, of fear. This one isn’t driven by anything. From the outside, I’ve been here before. From the inside, I have not.

Through everything lately I’d felt so completely alone that the sadness of it somehow got me to the point of complete numbness. The good doesn’t feel good and the bad doesn’t feel bad. Nothing feels in any way, and I no longer want to have control over anything. The world can take care of itself. I don’t feel like looking after it anymore. If it wants me in it, it can open its own doors this time. And even then, I’m unsure I’d go through them. I’m unsure I’d go through anything right now. I just want to be. The human doing in me is tired, and the human being in me is resting. I can’t be bothered to hold on to what’s around me.

I read about emotional blockages and it may be a nice term to explain how I feel, or rather don’t feel. But knowledge is power up to a certain point; at this point, it’s just that. Knowledge. I can’t feel anything, and I am grateful to my mind and my body for stopping it all from feeling so heavy, but it has also stopped it from feeling light. I have never been numb before. I have been in all ways but never numb. It’s the strangest thing in the world. I don’t like it, but I don’t care that I don’t like it either. It’s a paradox that I have never lived before, and I am not sure how to navigate it now. I just am, somehow, in the middle of it, and it’s all a bit surreal.

I’m not one to say “I don’t know” often, and when I do I’m anything but comfortable with that. With every “I don’t know” I’ve ever said came a rushing feeling of doing something wrong. But this emotional rollercoaster has somehow left me emotionless now, where it’s all been a bit too much and my mind has shut down on me. Nothingness has always made me hugely uncomfortable. I fidgeted until I made things rise again, and again. But now I don’t know if the fear of the unknown has kicked in so hard that I can’t feel a thing, or I just don’t feel a thing because I’m tired of feeling afraid of the unknown.

I’ve always believed strongly in knocking at the doors I wanted to knock at. I have never been indecisive. I made my mind up quickly and tried everything to hold on to what I wanted. Wandering aimlessly on the corridor not knowing where to go, waiting to see what door open for me has never been my thing. Right know, I’m not even wandering. And if doors, any doors open, I don’t care about being invited inside. I want to knock at nothing, and I want to go nowhere, and for the first time I am comfortable with this stillness.

Sitting in uncertainty has always been my very own version of hell. I have never been one to just go with the flow. I always had to know what the flow was, where it was going, and when it was going to get to where I wanted it to. Now I am not even going with the flow, the flow is going and I am letting it go. I’ve dissociated with it completely. It can do whatever a flow needs to do, I have no desire to do anything to change its course.

I never thought someone with my type of personality could get into this kind of hypoarousal. The fire was always burning inside me, even when it was reduced to a spark; there is no spark now. And it’s strange, this feeling, or rather, lack of. How it spills into everything and manifests everywhere and eats away at me and I let it. I wonder if it’ll go away someday. It might be the only thing I do care about, after all. It might be the only thing I want, even if just a little bit, after all.

I love you. You are ok. Welcome back. Let’s be real here – you are too alive for this shit. Storm if you must, to find your calm. Don’t worry about them and their fluffiness. They don’t know this rigidity is a sign that there’s a wound underneath, and they don’t need to. Big sighs and soft smiles, you’ll get through it like always, clawing back some sense of rationality and calm. I’ll be holding your hand every step of the way and learn to meet you with tenderness more often, because love needs to stop being a question mark in your life – and just about anyone is nothing but a question mark in your life.

Change feels sticky and anxious. I know. Internal safety has nothing to do with external circumstances. I know. When you show up tense, hardened, walled up it’s only because you had to switch on the masculine energy again to make up for the lack of it. I know.  But look at you, energetic and wild, burning and craving, how the hell did you think you’d stay that way? You may stay in fight mode with all the adrenaline running through your body when life feels small forever, but you may never sleep on yourself again. Self love is reverence for life, and life is the only thing that looks more like an exclamation mark to me. You’ve got this. You do. You’ve got everything.

I only believe in fire. Life. Fire. Being myself on fire I set others on fire. Never death. Fire and life.”

2 thoughts on “Estoy vivo / Y hago tanto ruido

  1. Welcome back indeed. I began to follow you several years ago because I delighted in your writing, usually not what you were writing about. I enjoyed being amazed by how well you wrote in English, better than any other non-native blogger I’ve come across. Whatever the ups and downs, it’s a pleasure to me to see that you haven’t lost that.

    Liked by 1 person

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