The house. (draft)

The creaking floorboards are killing me, I wake up at night needing to stand up, and so loud and explosive the wooden nightmare starts. I hear them walking, dropping things, they wake me up and I hear them moan and moan, as I lay here naked yet alone.
How did it come to this?

She comes home late and walks in and out of her room, over and over again, until the noises mix in my dreams and I open my eyes. Neck pain, shoulders tight, dry throat. I can't live with myself,

Now the pipes are clogged, and how wouldn't they if avoidance and clutter are all over. Trash cans full of plastic, warm and rotting. The fridge is making noises and the dishwasher throws up water because it gets stuck. This house has too many emotions from too many sick people, I am too many sick people, I feel too much. How am I supposed to be ready when I feel empty again?

This is all about wanting what I can't have, wanting that emotional unavailability, wanting not wanters to want me, so of course, how can I ever be fulfilled when I am an addict that can't recognize the substance of addiction because it is being poured into different mixtures and glasses and bars and cities and continents. And worlds.

Each one of us is an entire universe inside, we go around, living our lives and never stop to think that the person who is standing in front of you at the red light is exactly that: an infinite universe in themselves.
We walk around with this massive, infinite space trapped within this body, doomed to only share it with clothes, movements, and... words. Ah words, the most awful, separating instrument we own, yet here I am worshipping them, hoping they will open up enough to give me the ability to fully express all that I am, though I am constantly reminded of the impossible possibility. And I am constantly reminded of the unique constellations we are, and your pain may feel like my sorrow, and your love may feel like my hunger, and your happiness may feel like my rage.

My universe is filled with rage, but that rage is made of love, a love that has been unwanted, unsatisfied, tore and stepped on. I don't use the word "love" anymore, I mean, I use it, but I have learned to change its meaning to something less watery and more "rocky".
Not like the splendid mountains, or volcanoes covered in snow, more like the dried-out lands that other universes have destroyed for the sake of the prisons they are in, that one small part of our universe, the part that lets us feel the universe we are all surrounded with, and get in touch with all the others' around.

My love, that deep, majestic, colorful feeling has become harsh, dry and hidden from the light. See the ring was never golden, the ring was wounded flesh and blood, it was betrayal from the ones who promised to love us the most. It was confusion, manipulation and that exact space between the wall, your body, and the knife. Not safe to stay, not safe to run.

Growing up comes with plenty of knowledge, as so with even more of this exact space, you begin to understand society, you want to leave it but you need it, and though it hurts you, it also brings you the most grandiose joys.
So what can we do now?

I have to tear it all down, my gut says, doubtful, as my heart screams "no!" as it's voice breaks with a sharp rip. And so my brain stretches its knots, and hugs them both, hoping to make sense of it all, it asks all the right questions:
Is this just a protection for the pain that may come when someone else would want to tear your house down?
Does it have to be completely destroyed to rebuild what we all dream of?
What will happen with all the memories, the emotions, the love and loss that we shared in it?

So we all cried, hugging, until brain steps away and says:
How do we want our new house to look like?
How can we get it?

The memories will stay in us, what we felt will never be erased. We have each other and we make a great team, we can overcome so much, and there are so many possibilities. So let's mourn the destruction of this house and build-up the very best foundations that we can get with our incredible skills.
And so we all together plan how to make the perfect house, windows on all directions, a terrace with a ceiling, wooden floors that won't creak, pipes that are easily unclogged when they do, solar panels to go with our values and make like easier. Carpets, an old fire stove, a desk right next to a window, the most comfortable chairs, a flowery yard with all the herbs that can help us heal, and a green-house to have food that nurtures our soul, no matter how bad the season goes.

Is this what every house needs? Nurture, warmth, love and fresh air? I can't know, but it is definitely what my house needs, and if I have to tear it down, which we still don't know, it will be fine because we have all the possibilities to make this, the best versions of ourselves.

Therapy 23.09.19

Today she told me I have 20 sessions left and I freaked out, I didn't expect to see the end of this so soon, though it has been over a year.
I didn't think I would be here anytime either, I still wonder how did it all change so fast? I mean, it was so extremely painful and slow, yet it flew.
Honestly, I kind of miss being depressed and having crazy things happening in my life, though there are still a lot of things going on, and I can soon enough focus on my "goals in the palpable reality".

It is interestingly weird to look back like this.
I remember crying unstoppably, naked hugging a pillow and Mx walking into the room after M would tell him to keep an eye on me when he had to go to work. I remember M calling therapists for me and my fear of doing so because of the German, even if the therapists were advertised as English speaking. I remember getting my first call back from the Spanish speaking one, the excitement and the disappointment when she said: "I think you're not sick, you just need to learn German and exercise" after having told me her story and what a strong woman she was. Running in Uruguay, coming to Germany, studying psychiatry, being always the only woman, so special, so strong, ugh. I tried so hard to convince myself Spanish would be better, yet when I told her I was also seeing another one, she tilted her head and said "ah qué linda", I was shocked.
I also remember the one who didn't even speak English and told me to either learn German or "go back to my country", I remember how I should have just left.
I still want to work on being able to do those things, just leave a shitty situation, fully be there for myself. But don't I know already? I just need to keep on practicing.

I remember meeting her in her old office in Halensee and how lucky I was to have met her before she moved to Schöneweide. I would never have found her then.
And in the whole chaos and weirdness, she listened, she was so straight-forward, yet polite and caring, honest. She never judged, but always supported, how damn lucky I am to have her. It does feel weird to stop meeting her, even if I don't know shit about her... This must be my broken self trying to hold on to something impossible, as usual.

Just like I am chasing an idealization of a person that doesn't exist. I wish it was that easy to let go. Before I know it I get all weird and it's like a test.

And as hours have passed I wonder, was this good feeling just passing by? I am really freaking out now, have I honestly done that much progress? I remember her words:
"Of course you will be scared of swimming if you had a traumatic experience in the water, but you have learned to swim, so it won't ever feel that bad again."
She is right, but I am freaking out anyway.

Realization

Having spent some time feeling appreciated and worthy, I come to the realization that what I am asking for is not unhealthy, I am not being clingy or needy or too much.

I have done enough work to stop covering my pains and fears with others' company and daring to face them as it is best for me: on my own.

What I am asking from you is not too much. I am reading a book and in it, there are pieces of a love story that keeps me feeling butterflies and pain, and as I gaze at each word, I come to understand that it is not only me, the breaking tool.

And though I wish I had been confident enough to stand up for this on my own, seeing it clearly makes me shake in my grave: I buried myself, alive, and the more soil covered my naked body, the more I believed I was cold, still, dead.

I understand now that the way I feel makes sense to the way we are. How could I not have judged that I am worthy of love when all I saw was me crawling to you, while you were just there, strong and still?

Though that was my own perception, right? I know now you are not standing still or strong, you are just standing, trying hard, and I am sorry for not having seen that before despite how much you told me.

I doubt myself, my heart, my brain, my body... All because I always pick the pie that gives me stomach pain, I eat too much, sugar addiction, love. 

So, how do I break the pattern? How can I continue without this if it hurts and scares me? I worry about you, about me and my loneliness. I see you standing still, and decay trying to hold your head against my chest to keep you afloat. 

You don't need me I know, but I won't leave you alone now because I care about you too much to just walk away like this. And then the fear comes to mind: What if I am the one causing all of this? What if this is my doing somehow and if I get out you will be just fine? Well isn't that what I want for you, even if it is without me? 

Yes.

I have gone a long way, and I have embraced my solitude and understood my joys, and though it is hard for my mind to believe that I am ready, my heart tells me I am. The reasons for this have shifted, the fears are still there, but I have stronger feet after walking barefoot on the stones for so long, naked on this cold beach, stares grilling my breasts as I despise them in the reflection of the water. I have seen the hate at the center of each step, and the broken love deeper in there.

I understand my soul better now, and I can see you more clearly too, and I am not going away, but I am chasing my happiness too.

Make me.

You keep taking away the few stable ideas I have left of our compromise, and you look at me with your sad eyes as I cry because you hurt me again. Guilt rises in me until I end up taking care of you.

I didn't eat today, and honestly, I want to make you feel bad. I am too sad and frustrated to be the patient, loving, magical creature I am most of the time.

I can endure a lot, though this is too much even for me.

Are you trying to make me leave?

Impotencia

Me siento impotente, incluso después de poner mis límites, me molesta que no me preguntes sobre ellos aunque los aceptes.
It must be me that is so fucked up, I mean, you fucking accept them each time and that makes me feel bad anyway, like, are you even interested in me at all?
And there you go asking me about my masturbation, while you masturbate but can't have sex with me. So there I go again, I should move out and break up, I can't have an open relationship with you, I can't not have sex with you. I feel this fire inside me, not like a passionate kind of fire, but the destruction kind, I call that "impotencia".
The English word doesn't work the same, though maybe it does but not in the feelings the word provokes.

I don't need your sad eyes when I am standing strong. I need you to show me that you are interested in my inner world, I need a conversation.
We are back here: Each fucking interaction leads to me feeling like shit, either I state my boundaries or not, and the only reason why things get better is because my feelings wash away over time and you avoid and force me to avoid the talk. Then I care about you and I just push my emotions into a box of things to check on later, and I forget.
I forget myself.

Why am I so clear of this, but I can't leave? Why can't I just stop? Why can't I stand stronger for myself and cut something that makes me feel so bad?
I have been keeping record of our interactions, and it's not looking good. Two bad things for one good, except when I fell completely into the trap: you completely pull back, then give me breadcrumbs and I am content. But I am not happy with breadcrumbs, I will never be happy with just breadcrumbs.
And there again: "get better, take care of your health" that is our goal, but how much more sadness and loneliness do I have to endure until then? I can see my progress, I feel it, but I don't see yours, and then again going into "I need your words", I need you to communicate your progress because I can't know it, I can't see it, and I am believing that there is only avoidance, and I can't take more avoidance.

I feel "impotencia" because I can't force you to move and you won't let me help you either, you don't take me seriously, you dismiss my knowledge and advice, I can't express myself without hurting or pushing you and I am not satisfied in too many ways.

Siento impotencia porque no veo avance en tus procesos y los míos son suficientemente pesados. Entonces qué es mejor: Estar completamente sola, o estar sola y tener ayuda en ciertas cosas?

Suena simple, pero no lo es, porque siempre hay más de lo que cualquier externe que lea esto puede llegar a saber. Y claro, quiero una solución, un consejo, pero nadie puede darme un consejo mejor que yo misma, y hace un buen rato me estoy inclinando por la primera opción.

Volver.

Quizás es tiempo de volver.
Honestamente ya no recuerdo el español, pero no soy tan perfecta en inglés, y ese miedo que siento cuando escucho parejas en Alemán debe significar algo. No nos entendemos, pero ya no me entiendo ni a mi. Me perdí tratando de encontrarme, pero en realidad es que nunca me tuve, primero fui de ella, después de él y un retorno a ella hasta que escapé, pero la jaula sigue ahí.

No puedo escapar de ella, convirtió mi subconsciente en la prisión perfecta. Puedo teñirme el pelo, hacerme tatuajes, tener sexo con todo Berlín, pero estoy atrapada en esa voz que me odia, que me desanima, que me presiona. Estoy atrapada en tu voz mamá, suéltame.

Quizás es tiempo de volver, o de partir de nuevo.
Tengo cierta libertad ahora, pero no. El sistema, la sociedad, la moral, la ética, pero no puedo bañarme en el lago si está envenenado, no hay decisión correcta.
No hay decisión correcta y no podemos escapar!

Quizás es tiempo de irme, a donde sea.
Me libero de tu pena, pero no importa cuánto arranque, la cárcel va a seguir aquí, adentro mío.

Quiero morir porque no hay libertad ni esperanza. Quiero morir porque no hay amor.

Sick

I never doubted my writing, I know it is not the best, but yesterday night, as I wrote yet another pretty brain dump, it hit me.
I have been writing my entire life, but it has gotten me nowhere, ever. And sure, there can be so many reasons, but one of them could be the fact that my writing is not great, right?

How can I have been writing for 20 years and still not be good enough?

The doubt remains: There has to be more to life than just this, right?
Misery and depression, getting a job, fight for your rights, eat dirt over and over.
And then, why am I so scared of death... Honestly, how can that be better or worse than life? Life is bullshit, that is what I feel right now.

I wish I was never called beautiful as a child, I wish people would have known and loved me for other reasons, like that I am smart, or kind, or weird... But why beautiful?
Maybe I am not as smart as him, or weird as her, or kind as that other one, but I don't want to be just beautiful, or sexy, or whatever shit like that.

I am more than a body, yet I am trapped in the stereotype: I am beautiful and that is why I had such a great time in my adolescence.

Pan, why did you like me from the beginning? I'm asking you because we had something that lasted quite some time.
-
I remember when we used to write our posts for each other, even after having broken up, all our fears we could find right there, online in a secret yet public place.

Now I don't remember writing in Spanish anymore, I don't even remember how I felt back then, All I see now around me is a veil of darkness, though that veil is reality and not just a lense. I am tired, I am depressed, how is life supposed to feel? Am I the only empty one? Me and all the broken ones?

Pan, are you happy? Where has your life led to? What is the recipe for happiness? To know yourself, to have a passion, to be really good at something?

Is it love? Is it lust? Is it being independent? Is it partying?

Why am I so empty, so depressed? As rainy as today...


Sometimes I lie, sometimes I do bad things. Sometimes I question what I did. How sick can I get?

Prison.

Between nougat bits and pretzel sticks, I feel dry.
If I don't go to you, you don't come to me,
you just don't come to me.

Lying next to a body that loves so much, yet can't be free.
I get that prison,
I am stuck there too.

I'm in the yard, and you are in the shoe,
but it's the same prison in the end.

We share the striped moon at night, the only time we both dare to dream though we can only cry.
Because you and I are both dry,
and maybe, our adventure makes us worse.

I need to calm down,
you need to feel.
we are trapped in the prison of our minds.