A dive into the comfort of dissolving -Part 1, incomplete.

 

There was an earthquake in my soul as I sat, soaking wet and still dripping, on the blanket. I shivered in a cold I haven't felt for years, it looked like giant green eyes reflecting the flame of our heater, hands between thighs on the third step of our staircase.

It's suddenly winter and I have called you three times, you said thirty minutes, but it's been three hours since, now there's no answer and I wonder if you died in a car crash. The pain is so big, both your deaths and your broken promises that I fantasize about dying myself, the imagery becomes real in my soul and I am doomed to wander this three-floored, cold and empty house for eternity.

I am still laughing with this beautiful human by my side, in this beautiful spot, in yet another beautiful day, but my fingertips know. The hairs on my legs, my heels, the space between my ribs and the depths of my spine, they all know that there is a lead orb keeping me from truly holding this hand, a very real, loving hand; so I let myself be pulled for a couple of minutes. It's so heavy, fighting wouldn't take me anywhere but into my head, so I roam through words into a darkness I've not quite missed but feels just like home. 

I float through the pain, as I hear my mother's voice, she's crying because she says I don't love her. I see her hands, she has freckles on them and she hates them, she hates her body, she hates herself too, but man she's good at pretending. The phone rings and in that second she cleans her tears and answers in laughter; you'd never known I, again, made her cry. 

Suddenly I'm on the other side of the line and she's sitting in a strangers living room, she's lying to me, she's trying to hang up, to get rid of me: "I'll be home in thirty minutes", it's the third time she's said the same, "but the more you call me the later I'll be". Talking about choosing your battles, or which promises to keep. I'm sitting on the staircase, alone, the house triples its size and as the sun sets, the darkness around me grows, and all the horrors come to these green, wet, eyes. My cheeks feel cold, my nose is red and I suddenly fell off the window of my mother's room when I was trying to see if it was hers the car that just opened the front gate of the community of houses; it wasn't. But I see her and my dad crying over my corpse because their daughter was found outside the front door with her skull crushed against the red ceramic tiles of the entrance and bled to death, alone. The doctors confirm that it was not an instant death, she suffered for hours. 

In the meantime, I am forever here, alone, in an eternal sunset that feels as cold as the early mornings going to school. I feel desperate and trapped but can't open any door, nor window. The only view is the empty space where my mother's car should have been. Claustrophobia comes and I can't breathe anxiety filled my lungs, it overflows out of my nose and mouth, and ears and eyes. I sweat darkness out of every pore and all is enclosed. The green eyes are still looking at the flame of the heater, now the teacup is empty, a full bladder and the fear of all the ghosts in the house. I can't move, frozen, loneliness and pain, left alone to roam the dangers of imagination in a broken house.

"Why would you bring me to this world?"

---

I'm floating away from this memory, the pain is real but the logic is indestructible, words burn like suns:

Narcissistic, selfish, generational trauma, grandma, El Quisco, Catalunya. Ego, ego, ego, ego, ego, ego, ego, ego, ego...

The green eyes meet my fathers', now between the 9th and 10th step of the staircase, my middle finger is pointing at him, I gasp and run upstairs, get into bed and cover myself with the pink duvet of the Rocket Powers, as he lifts his hand and runs behind me mumbling some words I didn't quite understand, he reaches my room at lightspeed and sits next to me: "why did you do that?". The wet greens close as the darkest black comes and I'm away again.

"I'm sorry dad, I can't remember what happened then, but I'm sorry. You were also just a kid and I was a too-sensitive-one, just like you. Thanks for not hitting me that day, but you could've kept your word of doing it; at least I'd have a reason now, but instead..."

In the green Opel, he's picking me up from school, he'd been staring at high school girls from the gate and I feel his lust as I walk toward him. We sit in the car and I don't understand why each time he touches my knee from the pilot seat I feel a goosebump of repulsion and I freeze trying to detach my leg from this body I inhabit. He has to change gears so he lets go and I move my leg away; it's the only chance, but I can't be too obvious, how could I explain? I am trapped in his car. His, Him. My first model of a relationship with a man, with him, who has betrayed me. He who promised to protect me, to keep me safe from the horrors of this system, from the horrors of this world, both palpable or not; He, himself made me unsafe, doubtful and left me to roam these pains, these doubts, alone in fear, in uncertainty and helplessness. Another one who's gone, unavailable, incapable of love. Man, that hurts. 

My greens are wet now, my cheeks are as well, my soul: depleted, I feel empty when these memories come to haunt this broken child I carry inside my guts and I wonder if it will ever get better, or is this it, my doom? Cursed to carry the pains of those who didn't care for them at the right time and passed it on to us three children, and a fourth now.

--

A love.

"Where do you think it comes from? What does it feel like?" -


You are a light of sunlight on my skin,
Warm and bright,
hope-like.

How could I not love you
in the grounding, simple love,
you show me every day?

This unwrapping of ourselves,
slowly to our guts,
feels like the moon at any phase,
like you at any day.

I didn't know how easy this can be.

You showed me that love
is not a drowning wave of darkness,
but a gentle salty lake to float on,
in peace.

In this void that holds it all,
where I don't need more
than what you wish
to give.
Instead of an endless pit,
to be filled.

Your love feels like the possibility of everything,
in the infinite nothingness within.

The source.

Like how there's no sound
without silence,
your love brings the calm,
my love brings the storm.

And so we flow gently
like waves
in the Pacific
of our souls.

Fantasmas

Hoy la vi sin querer,

queriendo. 

Mirando fotos viejas la encontré,

su nombre destacado.

Pensé que no sería bueno, 

que debía dejarlo ir, 

pero no.

Abrí su carpeta y me gustó, 

es linda.

Me duele.

"no quería, no quería"

Ya no puedo mantener los pensamientos, 

me inundo de sensaciones,

contradicciones.

"yo no quería, no quería"

Pero no dijiste nada.

Sigo sin decir nada.

Sigo en una lucha interna, 

una guerra fría entre el miedo y el amor,

para mi.

por mi.

"yo no quería, no quiero"

pero verla me descompuso, 

como los coágulos grises,

sangre viva.

Belén.

Es primera vez que escribo tu nombre desde que pasó, 

hace un mes conté la historia por primera vez,

tantas primeras veces, 

tanto que no recuerdo. 

A veces pienso en confrontarte, 

pero, valdrá la pena?

Fuiste tu la perpetuadora?

Es extraño entenderlo todo, 

ver el allá y el acá, 

el eso y el otro.

Éramos microscópicas, 

lo tuyo debe haber sido difícil.

Vi en tus ojos, presentes, 

algo reprimido.

Una pena talvez, un dolor.

Y sé que culparte no cambia nada, 

pero fue tu culpa.

Pero no tienes ni idea de lo que me hiciste,

o sí?

"No quería, yo no quería, no quiero".

 Estoy repleta de pena.

Él me miró, por un rato, fijo a los ojos y yo, enrrojecida, miré hacia abajo y reí nerviosa, después de casi dos años sigues dándome mariposas. Un desayuno liviano, saludable. La pared durazno destrás de sus ojos amables.

En el mismo lugar, él me miraba de reojo, el silencio era intenso, la expresión de pesadez me mantenía mirando la comida. El dolor crecía, la pena. Un desayuno abundante y delicioso, La pared durazno se fundía con su cabello que todavía no corto, sus ojos que no me atreví a cruzar.

Misma escena, un día de distancia, dos corazones. Uno que se alegra y entusiasma cuando hablo de mis sueños, otro que al escucharlos, se aterra del final, de los cambios, y explota en emociones hasta ese silencio abrumador.

Estoy repleta de pena.

Ayer hablé con mi madre por 5 horas. La extraño. Las extraño a todas. No paro de llorar.

Estoy repleta de pena.

Sueño con el fin del mundo y sufro porque no puedo tenerles a todas juntas.

Estoy repleta de pena.

Tanta, que no tengo energía para nada más que estar en cama, escribir tres oraciones y mirar el teléfono como si ya hubiera muerto.

Untitled memories

Faint light crawling through the curtains in the morning, close to the darkest time of the year, again. There was no wish to get out of bed, again. But this restless mind wouldn't stop chasing something, anything really. 

She stretched her arm into the cold air in the room and picked up the phone. A light too strong showed the time; 7:53. A strong annoyance shook her guts: "Finally I can sleep longer, but this curse of a brain won't let me" - Is that bad self-talk? The arm went back under the warm & cosy blanket, a self-hug with more intrusive thoughts, more to-dos, more random images, questions and problems. 

"Cállate, cállate, cállate", she repeated to herself for a while until she held the phone once more and played a good old guided meditation. 45 minutes of a man telling her what to do, as if we didn't have enough of that already, what an awful thing to do. Lucky for her, she did the exact opposite of what he said: She fell asleep. 

In this strange dreamy state of half-wakefulness, a vivid memory arose:
Winter back in that three-story home, the cold wind blowing through the windows and the smell of paraffin on the stove. A feeling of melancholy mixed with loneliness, all the lights were off as she waited for her mother on the first floor like there was no life until she arrived. The same faint light was coming through, only at 6pm, a normal winter time for darkness.

A second memory came, for that feeling of void got in too deep, she had to bring warmth into her soul again, it's no good having such feelings so early in the morning, especially on mornings when you wish you didn't exist:

The smell of toast, lights on and hot chocolate for dinner, her mother's warmth was there, the mustard and red coloured furniture, all matching with curtains closed and the burgundy tiles of the kitchen floor.