Sobre mí

Conoces mi nombre y el día de mi cumpleaños, sabes cuántos días te llevo y la parroquia en la que nací. Me viste por primera vez con mi cabello natural y a lo largo de este tiempo, has atestiguado su cambio en una variedad de colores y estilos, algunos de los cuales te han gustado, como me has dicho. Conoces la ropa que uso, cuánto maquillaje aplico en mi rostro y el color de mis ojos. Sé que sabes muchas cosas sobre mí que quizás yo no noto, pero sé también que hay cosas que desconoces. Te las voy a contar.

Me gusta el olor a jazmín, en perfume, té, crema, jabón y ambientador de baño. Puedo tocar dos canciones en guitarra, aunque aún no logro coordinar con la voz. Me gustan las cajas de lata, de todos los tamaños y formas, por eso me alegré cuando vi la cajita de té que me regalaste. A veces me baño pasando un día, por practicidad y pereza. Me gustan los documentales y leer sobre historia, y aunque no tenga la razón siempre como tú (en gran parte por mi falta de atención a los detalles), conozco sobre varios temas de los que prefiero hablar en vez de meterme en una larga y vacía conversación sobre el día o el clima.

Le tengo tanto miedo a la muerte que a veces me quita el sueño. Gran parte de mi vida he pasado buscándola, pero en realidad no quisiera jamás encontrarla. Quisiera ser esta persona, en este cuerpo, para siempre. Sé que más de una vez te asusté con mis intentos de eliminarme, y por eso, estoy avergonzada y arrepentida. Si no tuviera ganas de vivir, no trataría de estar mejor.

He empezado a escuchar la música que tú escuchas, por nostalgia y para sentirte cerca. Por lo general, me hace llorar. Vi a The Killers en Buenos Aires y lloré, en medio de la multitud y el calor sofocante, mientras tocaban “For Reasons Unknown”, porque me recuerda a ti.

Tomo vino todos los miércoles mientras escucho un disco. En esos momentos, no me siento tan sola, pero se acaban y vuelvo a mi cabeza. En esos breves instantes, la sala de mi casa se torna de colores, hasta que empiezo a sentirme triste y debo irme a la cama, arrastrándome, mareada y ansiosa. Mi doctora me ha prohibido excederme con el alcohol, ya que he podido ratificar que pierdo el control de cada una de mis emociones cuando llego a ese estado, y podría hacerle daño a otros, o hacérmelo a mí misma. Es difícil no poder ser normal, reír, disfrutar los momentos, beber y estar contento. Es difícil tener que lidiar con las penosas consecuencias de mis ganas de ser normal, y a la vez, de dejarme ir sin tomar en cuenta lo que podría pasarme. No hay mucho más que hacer: tejer, ver películas en Netflix (aunque la mayoría de veces solo dejo la televisión prendida mientras intento dormir), ir al trabajo, hacer arroz con leche…

Pierdo más tiempo del que debería en el teléfono, producto de la soledad y la falta de pasatiempos. Instagram se roba casi toda mi atención, Facebook durante el trabajo, y Twitter una vez al mes, cuando necesito sacar algo puntual de mi cabeza. Debo siempre andar en puntillas en el campo minado que es el círculo virtual en el que ambos habitamos. Un comentario encontrado sin querer, un like siquiera, la presencia de personas que preferiría nunca encontrar; a veces no puedo con todo lo que eso implica, la avalancha de recuerdos y emociones que chocan contra mis ojos y les sacan lágrimas, la existencia tuya tan cercana y lejana.

No hablo con nadie. Mi mamá me escribe a diario y respondo meramente por un esfuerzo que hago en ser más tolerante con ella. A veces extraño a personas, pero no mucho. No entiendo mis emociones, me apego a las personas pero pocas veces las extraño. La mayoría del tiempo estoy contenta con no hablar. La doctora dice que debo conocer mejor lo que me pasa para poder manejarlo, pero no es muy fácil cuando ni siquiera te das cuenta de que todo, absolutamente todo lo que haces, está ligado a la sombra malévola de una enfermedad. A veces pienso que la gente es así, como yo, hasta que hago algo, cualquier cosa, para autosabotearme. La gente no hace eso.

Mi vida es un gran momento incómodo, al interactuar, llevar a cabo las más mínimas acciones del diario vivir, hasta dormir. Me he llegado a dar cuenta de que hasta las personas más ariscas pueden ser mejores socializando que yo.  Me sorprende cada día lo inepta que puedo llegar a ser.

Quisiera poder tener la iniciativa de salir a conocer el mundo. Moriría por dar un paseo por la playa o ir a la montaña, pero las ganas se me acaban cuando me doy cuenta de que en el fondo, no podré disfrutar nada de la maravillosa tierra en la que vivo. Quisiera haber podido ser esa persona aventurera contigo.

Es jueves, estoy escuchando el disco que me regalaste, empapado de lágrimas mi rostro. Saber que no podré hablar contigo o escuchar tus tontos chistes me hace sentir atrapada en un gran círculo negro. No tengo certezas de nada, no sé si algún día pueda ser mejor o siquiera si vaya a mantener la voluntad de vivir por mucho más tiempo, pero sé que te amo, y como te aseguré, tarde o temprano, volveré a encontrarte. Porque por más cruel que sea el mundo, lo único bueno, por lo que vale la pena sufrir esta vida es el sentir. Los vínculos fuertes jamás se rompen, así llegue la misma muerte.

Y Jónsi y Lisa. Ellos mantienen fuerte el lazo que nos une, y estoy segura, un día nos jalarán el uno hacia el otro.

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You will think of me like this one day

Today you were far away

and I didn’t ask you why

What could I say

I was far away

You just walked away

and I just watched you

What could I say

How close am I to losing you

Tonight you just close your eyes

and I just watch you

slip away

How close am I to losing you

Hey, are you awake

Yeah I’m right here

Well can I ask you about today

How close am I to losing you

How close am I to losing…

Ayer lloré

Y sé muy bien que no estarás.
No estarás en la calle,
en el murmullo que brota de noche
de los postes de alumbrado,
ni en el gesto de elegir el menú,
ni en la sonrisa que alivia
los completos de los subtes,
ni en los libros prestados
ni en el hasta mañana.
No estarás en mis sueños,
en el destino original
de mis palabras,
ni en una cifra telefónica estarás
o en el color de un par de guantes
o una blusa.
Me enojaré amor mío,
sin que sea por ti,
y compraré bombones
pero no para ti,
me pararé en la esquina
a la que no vendrás,
y diré las palabras que se dicen
y comeré las cosas que se comen
y soñaré las cosas que se sueñan
y sé muy bien que no estarás,
ni aquí adentro, la cárcel
donde aún te retengo,
ni allí fuera, este río de calles
y de puentes.
No estarás para nada,
no serás ni recuerdo,
y cuando piense en ti
pensaré un pensamiento
que oscuramente
trata de acordarse de ti.
El futuro – Julio Cortázar

There was a day we used to laugh…

I thought about you all week and it broke my heart. I wonder what you are doing while I am at home, thinking about you. My heart beats fast when the thought of you smiling with someone else pops into my head, and I have to close my eyes and call it a night.

The truth is, I am still healing from all the damage being together caused me. I am sure so are you. Sometimes the memories are so painful I need to stop thinking altogether, just go to sleep and wake up anew. I wish I could see you and smile, hold your hand and kiss your face, because that would make me happier than anything right now. But I understand that I can’t, and it… just hurts. New people, new experiences, new emotions appear all the time, but you remain intact within me. Still alive, still breaking me, still my only one.

Now, this is the only means of contact I have with you, if ever so vague and imprecise. I hope you feel me talking. I hope you realize I still love you and regardless of the distance, and the people, and the seas between us, you will always be my majesty, and I would never hesitate to hold your hand if you needed me to.

Brown Eyes

 

The boy that I love has deep, brown eyes. It was there where I found kindness, innocence and honesty. He sings – rather badly – about heartbreak and his jokes are not always nice. He likes watching TV on Saturday evenings and drinking wine by the window. He loves riding his bike in the park, feeling the cool breeze against his skin, maybe in the rain.

From time to time, he also likes looking at me. When he does, words come through and I understand them, and he doesn’t need to open his mouth. The words he speaks with his eyes, go straight to my heart. He tells me that I look pretty, and I become more and more his own. He can see the beauty of my inside and outside when I feel small and ugly, and it makes me smile. It also makes me cry.

The boy that I love has brown eyes that I adore, and I wish I could tell him every day that a life without them is a sepia postcard of a time I don’t want to relive. I wish I could tell him about the times when looking into his eyes became the reason I could push through the hardships of my life.

The boy I love is no longer a boy. He is a man and he is not here anymore. I rely on my memory, on the million snapshots stored in my head, to find the strength I could only find in him. I look for that boy in the corners of my mind so I can smile a little and cry a little more, but the images are fading, and every day I see him less clearly. Every day, I hurt a little more.

The boy I love will never be around again, and more than anything, I will miss the small things he gave me without knowing that made me happy. So tonight, I will give him a star, one I can look at from down here when I feel lonely, to remember him. One he can look at when he feels lonely and be with me. It will shine as bright as the light he brought to my life. Maybe one day, it will make him smile – one day, perhaps much later, when he no longer remembers how I looked when he told me I looked pretty. Or maybe, if he remembers me, it might make him sad, only for a minute, before he remembers he can always find me in that star, and when he looks at it with his eyes, he would be staring directly into my own.

Then, maybe, that star would keep me alive.

And maybe, one day, when I am long gone and his eyes belong to someone else, then I will be looking down, wishing that all the love I ever felt reaches him, if not from me, from that fortunate one who gets to see his brown eyes looking directly into hers, telling her how pretty she looks. The brown eyes of that boy who sings about heartbreak, drinks wine by the window, and loves riding his bike in the rain.

 

You, my boy, are all I ever wanted and the most beautiful thing the world ever gave me. I will always be yours, and until the end of me, I will follow you if so was your will. I will always be right here.

 

Glass

Some days ago you got the truth out of me.

It was one of those small secrets one keeps out of pride, to avoid being hurt. You made me tell you every single, pathetic detail. I felt mortified, but liberated. You knew. Deep down, I was glad you finally knew. Because it was important that you know. Deep within my heart, I wanted you to know, I wanted you to have a small piece of my love, a token of my enduring, tireless feelings for you. The truth. You knew.

It was never relevant. It was not important. It was received with aversion. You resented my gift to you, undermined my great feat in the name of your fear and your underdeveloped emotions. You crushed my spirit once again, as you had many times before when I opened up my heart to you. I was pummeled, writhing on the ground before your stoic, adamant face. Tears spilled, puddled at your feet, wetting the thin fabric of your reality, but you never looked at me.

I am made of see-through glass when I open up to you. You act like a mirror, for the sole purpose of deflecting my own energy, my emotions, my soul, back to me whenever I need you. You’re made of glass as much as I am, but yours is a barrier and mine is a window through which you can peer and stare deep into my torn existence. I am shattered. Blow after blow, I have endured. I have smiled while my heart cried out in pain. I have comforted you, I have held your hand. I have learned to love the smell of your skin after it has been touched by others. I have stood before you with my insides buried deep within myself, and you have not seen them. Yes, I have lied. Lying as a means of protection, lying to keep my tattered, battered, shredded heart from complete destruction. But to you, a lie is a lie, and I am a liar in every sense, every nuance and every disgraceful context of the word.

I am an awful, weak human being. I have wronged you, I have hurt you and I am undeserving of your affection. I am damaged, I am sick and I do need you. And I belong to you, completely. You are perfectly aware. I have paid for my mistakes with scorching tears and unrelenting darkness, I am still haunted by the pain I caused you. I am always at fault, you will never let me forget that I wronged you. This, I take in stride, every day and every night. I hold out my pained hands to you, I put everything that I am in them, wrap it nicely and offer it to you, but the gift is so poor, so meager, you take it, put it away and never look at it again. You know it is there, you know it will always be there, but you never see it. You know I am there.

You see, when I told you the truth, I expected to move something in you. I expected you to see my actions for what they were, an act of love someone gave you because they thought you deserved it. They were pure, they came from an innocent place in my heart, free from corruption and the deceitful hands of men. They were the stupid illusions of a person who refuses to grow up, and chooses to believe that love doesn’t move mountains, but people. Instead, you took them for the treacherous actions of someone who never deserved your attention. You humiliated me by taking my offer of love and throwing it away, deeming it offensive. You, the flawed, tortured individual who keeps my heart buried in your pocket. You dared satanize the most important decision I ever made, because you are too immature to understand what feelings can do. You hurt me, yet again, and dehumanized me, turned me into a sick, delusional entity with no capacity for coherent, rational thought. I had never felt so low.

Now, you dismiss me over tantrums, fits of rage sparked by my need for your attention. You stab my heart with small needles, each tearing open a small wound that bleeds directly inside my soul. You carelessly push me away, knowing I am trapped inside your pocket and cannot get out. You throw words at me like rocks hitting my skull, cracking it open. You never turn back to look at me bleeding. You are selfish and I should hate you, but I am insane and I can only love you, which baffles you even more and escapes your comprehension. Because a person who loves cannot inhabit your cold, barren wasteland. A person so stupid cannot enter your brilliant universe.

Every time I open up to you, it is like my heart is begging you to take it and care for it. I am so, very damaged, and I need you. I am sorry my existence has cause you pain. I never meant for it. You are the reason my face can produce a smile and you are the cause for my tears. You control me. And even though my feelings for you cannot be explained with human words, I know I am alone. One day, I will be free. I will escape your prison and you will reach out to grab me but I will not be there. Then, you will understand that the truth I revealed was never an act of insanity but an act of love. And sadly, it will be late, for I will be away. My heart will be healed. The pricks, pins and needles hanging from my skin will start to fall off.

You have never loved. You cannot understand how the small sacrifice of a broken soul could fit in your rationality. You would never understand how someone so weak could endure so much hurt. You will never understand me. You don’t hear me screaming. You don’t see me squirming on the floor. You don’t see me. I am see-through. I am glass.