Tag: Depression

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Nostalgia: I met her in a movie theater somewhere in coral gables under the half-moon sky and with tears pouring down my eyes.

I saw her again in the lies of a lover, the deceit in our love; its eternal manifestation.

I let her stream through my ears via the words of great artists that I can’t call or text, even e-mail if it was still a transactionless mode of conversation.

I had coffee with her in a make-a-wish version of a Parisian cafe as we bonded over existentialism and emotional ruptures birthed generations before mine.

When I came face to face with her, all I could ask myself was why she was withholding tears from her eyes when the truth we came to know deep within poured out into realness.

When I’d seen her before, all I wanted to do was get lost in her, ask her the questions I couldn’t answer about my past, present, and future, and let myself seep in the emptiness of answers.

But this time, this time I felt her far away from my feelings and tribulations.

Have I forgotten? Am I this numb to it all? Did I really give up my consent to move on when she knocked on my doors and closed my windows?

When she questioned herself in front of me in regard to her morality and looked for a bite I could not produce, all I could do is question mine for thinking about the fact that I have not thought or felt this much distance between my thoughts and her aforementioned facts before this reunion.

How could I forget to remember, to feel the same pains that grew inside me even if just for a few hours, months, a year? A mirage of what life could’ve been with the liar, the ghost, the fool, and the null.

I love them all the same, but differently now. Even when I’m sitting here, having coffee with the same nostalgia that will haunt them for the rest of their lives.

I wish I could just see it, hear it, feel how much they flinch when they hear my name, remember my soul, pay homage to my body.

All the possessions I always owned but was willing to grow in tandem with theirs.

Yet here I am, still alone, forgiving her for leaving me again.

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Do you ever just get so tired of waking up early to be the first one at your job because you want to emotionally prepare to bare everyone’s weight as the day goes by?

Do you ever get tired of pretending to use the restroom in public spaces to breathe and cry?

Do you ever get tired of processing the trauma and abuse that makes up your existence, your memories, physical spaces, walls, your thoughts, mechanisms, insecurities, fears?

Do you ever? Do you ever just get tired of carrying the weight of your household? Of being the sole capable provider of food, electricity, and household necessities?

Do you ever get tired of struggling to juggle finishing a degree that will shape your future as a capitalistically productive being yet totally exclude you and oppress you just as much as the forces of your circumstances do because of your categorization under an oppressive state?

Do you? DO YOU?

Do you ever get tired of being manipulated into believing that you are the cause of all of the abuse and violence you faced under an abusive relationship? Do you ever get tired of internalizing abuse and becoming your own source of scrutiny and hatred?

Do you ever get so tired that you can’t remember most of your life because through all of the discourse and pain your consciousness has chosen to cope by choosing to suppress? To lie? To hide itself from you?

Do you ever get so tired of feeling so powerless that your purpose in this life seems to be nonexistent although through it all you still have the privilege of living and breathing and struggling?

Yeah, I’m tired. I’ve been tired.

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How long has it been? a month? two? another birthday?

It’s odd to come back here to the cloud of thoughts that linger in written works about identity and self. I think the strongest reason why I haven’t been able to write a single word down in the past 2 months has been the inaudibility of my thoughts as I tried to learn what my next step of growth is. From the beginning, the whole point of getting away from the noise was to come back to a place of complete and utter solitude that didn’t frighten me like it did in Miami. Being alone had become the cancer to my being as it sparked constant pain, confusion, panic attacks, and a black hole of sadness.

But why? Why did I always feel like being alone was the end? Why did not spending a day doing something with someone feel like being asphyxiated by time and being diluted into a morphine dose? Why did I feel as drugged when I was alone as I did when I was drugged when dying? These are all the questions that continue to haunt me every day. Even when some answers become clear.

As I arrived in Ecuador I chose to travel with my family to my home town of Guayaquil and spend a weekend there to see my grand aunt (more like gma) and other family that I had lost touch with. But even saying that is bleak to the reality I was walking into. A couple years back, when my Dad left my house after assaulting my mother, there was a fall out with my dad’s side of the family. Ever since my father sat me down and blamed his mental illness and struggles on me, the words that were repeated by family blood have been reproduced and internalized as I deal with my depression. I received several calls from family members (I wish I had the energy to be petty and call them out one by one but honestly I have accepted they’re not worth it) calling me to tell me what a huge mistake I had made by speaking out about the violence and abuse that I experienced at home and throughout my life. I was called names, insulted, threatened, and once again blamed for having destroyed my father’s life and reminded how hurt he was by my actions. This cycle lasted for about 3 months until me and my mom decided to leave behind our phone numbers and take security measures against anyone who actively harassed us. However, through the years I’ve analyzed my relationships with “family” and thought a lot about the people I grew up with and who meant something to me; those who were more than just forced interactions.

There were a few people that I had loved and rooted for my whole life which I had contacted some months or years after my father left my house and my life because I was lost and lonely. These people turned their backs on me and ignored me, as if we hadn’t lived the moments we did, as if we hadn’t shared our lives and sorrows together, as if the apple didn’t fall far from the tree and it was okay to still ignore the fact that domestic violence is rampant in our family. I was hurt and felt alone after trying to reach out to the people I loved and had been rejected for whatever narrative my family or my father fed to them, rather than the truth.

Being on a 10-12 hour bus to Guayaquil, sitting there next to the window on the right side in the 10th row, I went back to remembering my childhood, whatever memories I hadn’t suppressed, remembering the people that brought happiness in times of peril, remembering the locations that had weaved love into my soul at a young age and I, again, started to feel alone, isolated, unwanted, crazy, y como dicen por ahi.. “la vaca negra de la familia.”

Arriving in Guayaquil also translated into fear for me once I knew my father was staying in my family home in the center of the city; the house I’ve mentioned before, the walls that raised me. I was afraid to run into the person that destroyed me, the person that broke me, and disconnected me from society, the truth, myself, emotions, trust, love, and most of all having a father. I was afraid to see myself in him and to forget what these 4 years taught me about myself. That I was worthy of happiness, love, and that I wasn’t a waste in the world.

I spent time with my mom’s family the whole weekend feeling loved and appreciated and having the opportunity to see people I thought I’d never see again. This mended all the other doubts and demons that hid in my conscience until I could escape again to another location that didn’t remind me of people that left me behind as I passed each and every street corner I remembered walking through as a small child. And then came Quito….

Quito to me meant liberation and emancipation. It was the true first time I’d have my own apartment and space, have the liberty to travel (alone or accompanied) the country when I wanted and where I wanted, I’d be close enough to family so that I’d see them often but far enough to be alone, like I knew I needed to be. It meant growth; personal and spiritual. Yet, I adequately used this newfound freedom and space to throw myself into a tank of transformations on and off for the two months I stopped writing. I started going out often, traveling every weekend, and seeing what I could be capable of as I left behind fear after fear every week. I would say the peak time for me was traveling to Cotopaxi and Baños in September. In Cotopaxi, one of the largest volcanoes here in Ecuador, I conquered my fear of heights while conquering my health with it. The elevation in Cotopaxi is close to 5,000 feet high. Thus, making it hard to breathe and hike up the volcano as easily as other mountains would come. However, arriving in Cotopaxi that weekend my mission was to prove to myself that my health wasn’t going to determine my next steps in life and whatever they entailed. It was much more about how much I could push myself and break the worries implanted into me by doctors who think they know everything about me and my medical condition, than about simple adventure and exploration. And I’m glad to say that I proved that and more.

Being sick is something that I close to never disclose to others, let alone the greater public. I can count with my fingers the people that know about what I went through and it’s not to say that I’m proud of hiding it like a secret that must be taken to the grave and incinerated with my ashes, it’s just that I’m often ashamed and scared of the reactions that it produces from those who sit and listen.

I think that for some, asking about what happened out of curiosity fulfills their need to confirm or deny whatever assumptions they have about what happened to me by looking at my scars and fixating on the way I speak. For the longest time, whenever people would do this I would replay a memory from my days in the hospital when my mom would sit by my bedside and use my iPod to play Maroon 5’s “She will be loved” and mumble the lyrics in broken English until the song approached the chorus and she could sing

“look at the girl with the broken smile,

ask her if she wants to stay a while”.

This would initially make me angry because I was that girl, with the infinite broken smile and a lifetime of trauma to get through. But eventually, it made me happy because even though I couldn’t hide the scars (no matter how hard I tried to) I could at least choose to keep people wondering and pondering as the ones who stared didn’t deserve to know the truth.

Climbing mountains and trekking to hidden waterfalls and forests though…. that was just a new level of intimacy reached with myself and the outside world. I’ve built such a strong connection with nature that sometimes and most days I refuse to leave my bed in the mornings because I’m too entertained with dreaming about nature and being outside in it, lost somewhere in the jungle or the Andes, talking to the trees and the shrubs and the rocks that hold life together. It showed me how much I need a space where this part of my identity can grow and flourish, a space in which I can walk for miles up and down a mountain to get to the next one behind it. It’s become part of the way I’m shaping my future and where I want to live it.

Baños was yet another personal test.. but more about moving on from the past than it was superficially about heights. I used to love heights as a child and adore climbing things up and down and around. However, after getting sick and a few other life crises, I somehow grew terrified of them and any fun activity attached to higher elevations. Baños is a small town settled under huge mountains and my favorite part of Baños is the swing at the end of the world which is all the way at the top of the mountain that hugs the town. Baños has a bunch of other attractions and waterfalls that lie over grand settlements of rock or in between bodies of water. I wanted to try doing canopy, canyoning, rafting, and anything along the lines of adventurous water/air activities that would help me loose my fear, as well as to go back to the swing at the end of the world and swing away my fear of heights. And I did, I went back petrified, got on the swing with the help of an amazing helper who was swinging people who got on it, and SWUNG. I asked to go again for a second time and swung as hard and far as it went for as long as I could and it would.

As far as the canopy goes, I chickened out on doing it but went on this swinging ball of destruction that repelled off a cliff and into practically the abyss of air above a small rocky river that flowed under a bridge.  I was scared shitless and screamed like a child for the first 5 seconds until my gut and my brain turned on their fight or flight mode and adrenaline came running rampant through veins and arteries all over my body. Then came the victory screams of happiness and the nonstop laughing as we were spun around while being swung into nothingness. That is one of my proudest moments, truly.

After my friends did canopy and we went on to explore the largest and (in my opinion) most beautiful waterfall in Ecuador; El Pailon del Diablo, we decided to have lunch and then look for a service that would take us rafting. However, we fell upon a service that offered Canyoning for a fair price for an hour after we arrived at their office to sign up for some activities. We decided this would be the best idea for all of us and we paid the fee and then ran back to the hostel to get changed before the next adventure unraveled. Canyoning is kind of climbing down a waterfall through the middle of the waterfall as water falls on your face and you slip (and sometimes fall) downwards. It was hands down my favorite activity in Baños although I didn’t end up conquering any fears by it.

As we wrapped up our trip we also went back to the “Casa del Arbol” where the swing at the end of the world is located for one more swing before leaving. When we arrived, we sort of walked around like we hadn’t gotten the chance to do the first day there as it was too late, and we did other swings and activities available around the main attraction. As I was walking around I saw one of my family members from Guayaquil and hugged her like I hadn’t seen her some weeks previously. She had brought her family on vacation before her girls started school and was so happy and excited to see me again in the most spontaneous way possible. That little encounter left me as happy as I could be that day and sad to be leaving as we made our way back to our hostel and then to our bus.

All in all, these first 2 months narrated happened so fast that I could barely catch my breath between each travel and each encounter. The month of October has been the only real break since I got here in which I settled more into my home, Quito, and engaged with the culture here as I continue to connect with my heritage and it’s place within my identity. However, that also was the hardest month so far in terms of nostalgia and drama that introduced itself onto my life thanks to someone’s jealousy and another’s ploy of forgiveness. I feel I’m still processing and dwelling on these memories but most recently and importantly I’m leaving my inclusion in these problematic relationships behind. I’ve decided to isolate myself from people who don’t deserve my investment in their means of attention and to go back to that place and mission I wanted for myself which was to learn to be and cope alone and to put myself first above other people who take so much away and never give anything back.

It’s safe to say that leaving people sucks and it’s hard and tempestuous but I’ll never get tired of remembering how lucky I am to have people like my best friends at home who support and supplement my life like family does, like love does. Having people that respect and appreciate you as a whole is the clearest reminder that hardships will pass and that I, truthfully, am not alone.

 

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Leaving is always tough, bittersweet, necessary, but painful. Yet, this time around it felt like I was Frida Kahlo and I felt so disconnected with both of the emotions that were splitting me into two, I could hardly recognize myself. I saw others be surprised of this girl who is reinventing herself, yearning for a different life, a different self, an immersive and intensive transformation that surpasses anyone else’s selfish interests, and I stood in awe with them.

I felt like I was watching myself make decisions as if I was a fish in a fish tank and had a checklist of actions and completions ready to be checked and met in preparation for the journey to come.

My last days in Miami were hectic only by choice and not an imposition. I give myself to so many souls and beautiful relationships that I love to nurture, but as the time came near to give me back to myself, it was like the social anxiety I have been feeling intensify this year reversed itself into anxiety against being left alone with myself with nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, nowhere to play some game and pretend to be someone I’m not to be accepted by people I want to believe love me, care for me, but in reality care only about themselves.

At the same time, the time nearing my departure was such a transformational period in itself for myself and for my closest loves that I felt so sheltered to stand up to my own fears and let go of all this confusion and anxiety. I will never know how to transfer the gratitude I have in my heart for having friends like my close gals that push me to be the best version of myself and to continue to figure out who the fuck that is! because it’s okay to not know, it’s okay to get lost and feel like you’ll never get back to yourself, it’s okay to not know what’s next!

My loves, my gals, they’re the seeds of beauty and grace that the universe gifted my soul. Without them life is dull, dark, numb, uncolored, lacking purpose, and lonely. I love them to no end. We grow like middlemist red and jade vine and we support eachother in mutual growth and understanding.

I’ve been planning my life out since I can remember coherently learning to plan for my future. Deconstructing that imposition on my conscience and the way I make decisions has been one of my hardest battles. Accepting that right now is the best I have and that I have the ultimate power to choose how I feel about the world and my life, identity, and own mobility is something beautiful and liberating. I feel like a dove finally grown big enough and strong enough to break away from the chains imposed on me by impediments; selfish beings always on the lookout for control and manipulation over how I feel, what I want to feel, what I do or do not do, and what I AM.

This year I broke my tradition of writing down resolutions because I didn’t end last year or begin this year believing that such were attainable anymore. I had lost all sense of direction and confidence that I had built about how I wanted to live my life. I’ve tried to deconstruct the abusive environment I lived in my whole life since I left that environment, yet failed to realize that in the process of doing so, I had internally replaced the abusive source of pain and become my own aggressor and abuser. It took me half a year, heartbreak, loss of identity, deprecating self-esteem, and full loss of confidence to realize that this is the end of the cycle. I refuse to keep these Centennial long chains caging my feet for any longer.

It took me half a year, heartbreak, loss of identity, deprecating self-esteem, and full loss of confidence to realize that this is the end of the cycle. I refuse to keep these Centennial long chains caging my feet for any longer.

This year is the year of broken chains.

Flying out of Miami and out of the world that harbored my self-deprecation left me feeling free, light, and ready to begin my next transformation.

as the beautiful and brave Banks writes and sings,

Cause I fuck with myself more than anybody else
It’s all love
I used to care what you think about me
It’s all love
Cause my love so good
So I FUCK WITH MYSELF MORE THAN ANYBODY ELSE

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I have been sulking in my depression and its powerful ability to cloud over my life and let itself be inserted into whatever point my life has currently reached. 

The pain builds connections with my loneliness, my hopelessness, and my abandonment issues. How can a force be so powerfully permeable? How does it swerve annotations of responses and superficial antidotes that others point out?

“It is what you make it be”, a truly constructivist way to analyze my thoughts. But a harsh way. 

control the uncontrollable, force an escape from this wholesome cloud of sadness, deal with the issues

I’d just like for the feelings to be free.

 To roam free in the world like they roam in my thoughts. Setting them free from my head and my heart is such a painful process too, baring cells to be unmasked and unsurveilled (by me).

I just want you to know the urge to understand haunts me too. But I don’t even understand it myself. 

I think I just need time and space. 

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I was born in a big city, and pretty much spent my childhood at a central location. It was a nest; a surrounded nest. We lived in a building that has 4 stories. Like many South American families, we lived above the family business that my parents ran. So the first floor was the family business, the next floor was storage, the third floor was the house, and the last was the terrace.

Having a business took a big toll on my childhood. I understand that it wasn’t mine, technically, none of it was or is. But it mingled with everything about my family’s daily interactions, behaviors, schedules, and even relationships with the rest of my family. So it was part of me, too.

I remember being a young girl and learning how to interact with people. I learned two versions from my parents. My mom taught me how to be gentle, vigilant, postured, respectful, and even grateful. My father taught me how to manipulate people, build entitlement, lie (to myself and others), and how to be vengeful, aggressive, and passionate (even if it was about the wrong things with the wrong intentions).

When I first learned about psychological analysis and conditioning, behavior, I could catch myself replaying scenes of my childhood in my head and attributing traits and behaviors to the environment I was in and the people I was around. Growing up in such a central part of the city, you would think that I would have been obliged to burst any bubble that I built from entitlement or will. However, it did not occur as such. I grew up in a well-off financial situation and didn’t have to suffer out of need, but I was definitely reminded daily by my father, and his “breadwinner” ego, that we didn’t have money. Ever. Although there would be unlimited funds allocated to alcohol, and every other possession he dreamed of having, the budget for maintaining a family was always put as last and marked as unnecessary, wasteful, and only worth it if it involved a bargain. So I grew up thinking that I was poor, or somewhat disadvantaged, but knew I was neither and that the facade was only an image to be portrayed so my father could bargain himself to be part of not only the family around him, but also the businessman network he built through the years.

This perception of disadvantage and “lesser than” continues to be a reality for the way that my father handles himself. Lying to others as a request for pity, a great hook to future manipulation.

But for some reason, not out of particular choice or selective attention, most of my reflections of my life during that time include an image painted in front of a mirror. An empty room of thoughts, reflections, and grievances set the stage. A little girl has tears in her eyes, running down her chubby cheeks, as she clenches her teeth to mimic some control over her emotions. She stands in front of the floor mirror placed in the corner of the room opposite to the door. All she sees is her father. The strongest parts that compose her essence are reflections of him, reactions to him, regards to his role in her life. How can one person mean so much to the person he hurt the most? How does she find strength in her heart to forgive and even mourn every wrongdoing, mistake, and aggression committed?

How has she seen the light out of the darkness that consumes him?

How do I live with the parts of me that I can’t understand unless I look back at him?

I have lost control of how I look back and think back. Even my nightmares have stopped coming to me in stages and during chaos. Now they come every other night, more intensely, deeply. The memories and the thoughts take away a part of my heart each time I remember my past because I have to clench my teeth like that little girl and run away from the fantasies about my father, my life, my childhood. I have set aside the narrative that depression taught me to build. The firewall that avoids the truth.

But, the wall is there. Protecting the more intense and traumatic parts of my memories. It is alive, and operates on its own. Yet,  I haven’t lost sight of the truth. It just hurts and it always will. It hurts to remember because I want to forget.

However, writing these recollections have always helped me pull myself back from drifting into my thoughts and alienating myself from my current environment. And I refuse to let the memories defeat me.

Before I didn’t have anything to loose to my depression because I was alone and misunderstood; chewed up by others and spit back out. But now I have people I love more than anything in this world. And they know who they are. I won’t loose them to this. Not now, not ever.

I may be sad again, but this time I am not alone.