almost 24 is still 14

and i'll tell you exactly  how it happens: one day you will think you are fine, completely recovered. but that's a lie and we both know it. because just like that your world is turned upside down and you're back on your knees doing what you promised you would never do again. worthless promises you've been making to those who love you for far too long. ten years, has it been? the first time, maybe more. it was always there, because you've always been scared of failure, yet you never seem to finish anything. the end of a cycle, year of the rooster, and you're still here bringing shame upon your sorry self. move on, loser.

stop feeling sorry for yourself

madre hay 1 sola

I guess I started having to deal with self-hate very early on. There is a very vivid memory of my mother telling me about this movie she had watched the previous night, about a father who had beaten his son's hand so much he had sent him to the hospital and in the end, they had to be amputated. I remember her so clearly in my head, that empathetic sadness in her expression, as she repeated the words the child had said to his dad in the recovery room: "papá, devuélveme mis manitos" (dad, give me back my ( little ) hands)

Even in that moment, 4 or 5 years old, I was conscious of two essential things about my mother: She condemned the judgement of the father, as she thought no child deserved to be punished in that way (with violence), and at the same time she fulfilled the role of the child's father and hit me repeatedly in a way I clearly did not deserve. That last part I know now, because the most terrible part is, as a child you also fail to realize your parents don't always make sense. And so in my idolization, I somehow thought I deserved to be beaten up because, unlike the child of the movie, I was nasty. 

Now, at 23, as I think about all the things my mother told me that didn't make any sense; all the inconsistencies - when she talked to me about children's rights one second, then slamming my head against the wall the next, yelling slurs at me before I could even learn my ABC - all of those things, they make sense now. Because she lives in denial. Because all the times when she came to me with stories about other abused children what she was really saying was: "I am not like those parents, I am a good mother" and all the times in which she came into my room crying right after beating the crap out of me for something I hadn't even done, begging for forgiveness, all she was saying is: "Please comfort me, I am not always bad." 

It's sickening. It fucks you up. Because before you even have the time to lick your wounds, you find yourself trapped again. Because forgiveness isn't a choice when you are as powerless as I was all those time. So you let your abuser hug you and cry on your shoulder and suck it up. And twenty years later you still hate yourself for it.

adipose tissue

there are little balls under my skin, and they don't work, and they don't serve any purpose in particular

but whenever i touch them it reminds me that my body is covered in yellow lard, my corners filled with greased folds and meat

i am edible, we all are

and that's pretty fucked up

seconds for tuberculosis

there's nothing that scares me more than dying and leaving behind all my things, can't they just build me a pyramid to give my capitalist body eternal rest? it's not so much that i'm attached to them, as to being disgusted by the thought of somebody looking through them. i have always been a secretive person, maybe because i had my privacy transgressed constantly for so long. i don't know if harsh circumstances forge strong people, but they certainly give them irrational fears that transcend the grave.

so maybe a pyramid would help, don't you think ?

first posts are for suicidal dreams

last night i had a nightmare, it was terrifying because at first it seemed unreal, but then at some point i could read — or my brain thought it could read — something
and once i read that the only way of knowing if you are dreaming is to try to read something, because words melt into one another and you just can't. well, turns out you maybe can't, but you can make yourself believe that you can.

it was awful and i thought i was going to die, that although improbable this was really happening and i was really dying.

we always think we want to die, but wevnever think of the circumstances, do we?
and life is a wicked genie and you have to be specific if you don't want to end up doomed, spending the rest of your days in a limbo of everyday-life boredom and where death is no longer a possible exit, but the only one you can take.