Alone. For so long I’ve been alone, not just lonely.
I remember being a kid who saw, spoke, felt, mourned, and had hope. But it was not based on the ideas that those before me and those after me would provide me with a net of safety. Now I have to rise up and be the net, and hold myself, and hold them back.
I got used to the silence in my bed. I got used to the sweats and the tears. I got used to the haunting of them all in my dreams and my nightmares. There’s always this mountain in between us, physically and emotionally.
I dream of union, and I resent it. I dreamt once of Venezuela and their mountains, like ours, luscious and green, full of life and water. But then I dreamt of serpents next to it, curves, the highway and the road that should never be driven. El actual culo del diablo.
Pero I wasn’t scared, I was tanning. I was sipping on a drink with my mom reimagining our lives and the ones who we wished were there with us. My brother came to mind when I sipped that drink.
“I wish the babies were here, I wish we could be in their lives more. I miss them”.
It’s been more than 500 days since I last saw them and I would, quite literally, give up anything to have them near me. To give them a hug and talk to them about their history, about our herstories.
“Donde estan?” say’s mama about G and A.
“Estan bañándose en el rio, disfrutando del agua.”
“aaaa ya, está bien, entonces vamos a cocinar si quieres”
“Pero se dañó el ventilador y tendríamos que sufrir de calor”
“no, tranqui ya voy a arreglarlo, como siempre, voy yo a arreglarlo”
Refunfuñando me fui. I then loop into a fight with my dad over how much we need to pay to fix the broken parts of the fan. He, like always is trying to cheat, and me, like always, trying to tell the truth. I can’t escape that fight.
For him, it must be his life’s worth that money is worth everything in life, yet, for me the fight is how it will never replace honesty and human decency. Respect. Honor.
Maybe I’m foolish to fight against exactly what I’m attracted to. I crave the lies and I bore with the honesty of souls that want to capsule mine but are not reactive with chaos for me to receive. I envy those who can make it work, who can ignore. Likewise, I wonder just for a day what it would’ve been like if it had never been a fight.
But my ex says, “my life would be more interesting if we fought like we used to.”
I guess that’s my selling point. I’ll fight for you, I’ll fight with you, I’ll fight alongside you, but still. That’s never enough.
Then there are the nightmares in my childhood bed, the one that has enough sabanas for all the people that slept in it like they slept through me. I always go back to running into that room and closing the door like gasping for air. Somehow even though I remember the lock didn’t work, in my dreams all my hopes lie in it. In its function and use, like a shield I know too well to disappoint me.
I run through the houses and spaces that scare me and I coddle myself into that room like it’s never seen me before. Or rather, like I never meant it to see me before.
A fight breaks out. I get burned outside my door, and all I can do is lay in a bed full of roaches and menace that keeps chasing me alive into a deeper hole than the one I’m crying to be left out of.
“Abre la puerta Bárbara, abre la puerta te digo. No me voy a repetir. Abre la puerta.”
All my life I’ve been told to open doors I cry to shut. I think this is why swinging them open to threats that make me just as scared to run as they do to fall makes me romantic.
It makes me want to be wanted. So much that many times I end up here, forgetting what I was chasing in the first place, because feeling this empty in theory feels the same as it did in the chase.