The tale of the scaly girl

It's insomnia o'clock again, and the overthinking is getting heavier since I started therapy again. Therapy: the place where you can be vulnerable as an adult, because even friends do not tolerate too much of the frustrations and sadness from their close-ones. Feels like the only place where you can be truly yourself. It doesn't mean that sensitive persons are flawless - but it has to do a lot that most of the though parts of a sensitive person character - isolation, blaming, sharp observation, high moralistic statements- come from a defensive mechanism against the neighbor abuse (conscious or unconscious). The statement that this world is far from the ideal cooperative communities where everyone desires harmony. 

This is a hypocritical, unfair, egotistic, objectifying world, and there is no point on sugarcoating anymore after all the history books written and the social media exposure of human stupidity. But Theresa happened to be born with a different perspective. In a world where showing your vulnerability equals weakness and makes you easy food for sharks and opportunists -even those that do not think of themselves as such - she came to be transparent and kind; like a clear turbulent river or a good hostess that keeps your plate always full. A castaway, out of time woman that has to relearn to dance waltz in public. That's why she paints and writes as a hobby for strangers instead of making money out of it, but hey - it is a kind of therapy. Probably it is a good mental sign to be an alien to this system.

It began when she was young and some kids did not want to play with her after classes. No standardized "play house games" in her books, more of Jane in the Jungle finding a new way to communicate with Tarzan. Theresa knew that true friends are people that knows us in all awkwardness and choses us for that, for being unique. She was soft, her eyes watery, her thoughts strange. When in groups she still was the same but... Theresa always felt groups as a big shoal of fools where blending felt like survival instead of bonding, and she was not totally wrong. Whenever different interests come into play, the true colors of humankind arise. She hated reality shows for the same reason, because all the roles are so predictive. There are the ones that believe their wishes are entitlements, there are the ones that believe their wishes are utopia. There are the beauties and the fouls. And there was Theresa: observing them play. But she didn't notice one thing: she was also a fish. She was also swimming there.

 Theresa could not understand the shoal movement and how to adapt to it, it was a mental burden -swimming against or with the current? Swiping, left - right. Backwards. How, you might think, she did not see herself part of it? Well, a small trout in the middle of the Atlantic ocean is quite unexpected and mislocated. Theresa was always debating how to not be overwhelmed by the sharp currents of the world's nightmare for the swimming creatures - not to get eaten, she repeated to herself. Not to get bitten again. Despite her efforts of hiding in places, nothing seemed to work, and worst of it all, she was missing the freshness of the water outside. So one day, she took courage and decided to swim. She knew her back flippers were not as big and strong, but her desire for enjoyment was bigger. So as a smart women - fish she knew what to do, or at least, her intuition did: she was going to defend from inside out. And then, the large scales appeared, one by one. They grew, perhaps not with the confident of the group's societal parameters, but with inner confidence that she was there for a reason and her existence was just as important. And her experiences not so dramatic, and the group's intention not so scary. Slowly, step by step, growing outside and killing inside a part of her that only wanted to cry an ocean, or at least, bury feelings so deep that no one could see her like that again. Because, you know, shark smell tears and blood and then clownfish think it's play time.

That was not a bad outcome. Iridescent scales glowing in her skin while dancing with the sharks that once bit her. Still caring for others, still shining, but tougher. Scales that could go away in the right moment with the right company and with just anyone that grazed her skin. That was the secret, a thicker skin to confront the foolish way people behave, making mistakes, thinking inwards, looking at their belly button and not contemplating others. And then, she let herself make mistakes as well, she let herself recognize as part of this mess that life is. Live again, desire again, silly play again... Theresa started to finally understand it was not her fault and neither her role to correct what had gone wrong. Because that is the quest of all human-fish in this world: if you want to make it work, accept that you're also swimming to nowhere, and you have to live in this chaotic, unfair, superficial and cruel ocean that also has immense beauty. Let the beauty be visible only for those who don't see the scales, but the light reflecting on them. The ones that see you.

Swim, dance.

Vacío

Esta es la historia de dos extraños extranjeros que una tarde de Sábado se encontraron en una cita a ciegas en un parque en Chicago.

Como no podía ser de otra manera, fue una tarde calurosa que empezó temprano y no terminó por dos días, o eso me pareció. Probablemente como buena local y anfitriona te llevé por todos los lugares que quería explorar del downtown jazzero, y me correspondiste con un beso y un desayuno improvisado. Y una noche de hotel, un paseo en bote, y tantas cosas más surreales que me cuesta creerlas.

Cuando miro para atrás, siento que fui yo la que empezó el cuento. Hi, this is Jofi.

Pero a los días recibía tus textos de palabras e intenciones contundentes. Con primer rechazo al amor, te sentí tan entusiasmado. Admito que me lancé a la aventura de a dos como un chico en un parque de diversiones que se sube a la montaña rusa después de haber tenido miedo por años pero agarrando coraje (es verdad... hice mucha terapia para subirme a este viaje).

No quiero escribir como lo hice con otros cuentos. No, no así. Me cambiaste la tinta del tintero, y no puedo evitar verme impregnada de tu esencia por donde voy. Desde ATL United y Fenerbahce en vivo o en el tele, el pekmez con pan, los huevos revueltos con técnica de hotelería, la ensalada con sumac y los pimientos rellenos, hasta las botellitas de agua desparramadas por todos lados. Me pintaste la vida con tu hermosa actitud hacia adelante, a pesar de que a veces desconfias de vos mismo. Era como bañarse todos los días con agua cálida, que arropa, que relaja. Cada abrazo, cada beso, cada risa. Era eso el amor? Y si lo era, por qué a la primera de cambios se va? Y si lo era, por qué fue cruel?

Qué nos pasa a los humanos que cuando encontramos algo que vale la pena nos echamos a dormir en los laureles, dejamos de esforzarnos, empezamos a dudar y todo termina desparramado? Cuando la cabeza empieza a llenar los espacios en blanco de respuestas que no nos llegan. Cuando las amenazas de ser derrotados por fuerzas externas hacen que nos boicoteemos. Qué nos ocurre en la mente que en vez de querer entender al otro nos centramos en los propios deseos y no vemos que herimos? La vida es eso, un viento que tiende al caos, nos junta y nos separa. Aparece lo complejo de la trama, el nudo, como me enseño la profe de lengua. Una posible enfermedad se avecinaba. Una guerra. Tal vez nuevos personajes. El país donde se encontraron dos extranjeros en una tarde de calor de Septiembre puede volverse un terreno incierto para planear el futuro. El idioma una barrera, la distancia un abismo, y los corazones de humanos siguen siendo imperfectos e inseguros de sí mismos. 

Capaz que esto era más simple. Más terrenal que una crisis existencial, los lenguajes de amor  y los estilos de apego. Tal vez, simplemente, fue lo que tenia que ser.

Pero quién le explica al corazón latino de este desenlace? Si aún está bailando con vos en la cocina, dandote un beso después del laburo, no entendiendo por qué lo dejaste solo en el momento que más te necesitaba. Con el velo de mi amor descascarándose de a poco entendí que lo que yo sentía era mío y nada más. Hasta pude, con las pocas fuerzas que me quedaban, irme de donde ya no había más páginas en blanco. Me ganó el dolor y el despecho y no quise ver más las cosas que antes amaba... 

Y ahora, después del amor, el silencio. La falta de amigos. Lo que todos describen como girar en un mismo lugar sin sentido, repitiendo tareas automáticamente, tal vez llorando, a veces riendo. Haciendo cosas para sentirse que se está aprovechando el tiempo. Esta vez no, no quise repetir otros finales. Esta vez miré para adentro y me dispuse a ordenar las cajas, a confiar en mi instinto, a romperme por dentro para dejar de sentir que una historia de amor tiene finales horribles. Tal vez, algún día no haya más finales que la muerte que golpea de pronto y no va avisando con mensajes de texto que ya no queda más nafta para seguir viajando. Porque la vida, como el amor, tampoco tiene un para siempre.

Pronto se cumplirán 3 años de ese primer encuentro luego de mi cumpleaños, que ahora tengo que reescribir con otra historia, pues la nuestra se ha acabado.