danoneediness

[danoneediness]

Dos mil v(ic)eintitrés.

Me duele extrañarte porque sé que por más que quiera, no estarás. Extraño una parte de ti que ya no existe, una versión que quedó muy abandonada en el pasado y que jamás volverá, por más que me cueste aceptarlo. Porque la situación es que ni tú mismo te has dado cuenta que has cambiado, no has abierto los ojos para darte cuenta que todo lo que hemos vivido, todo el daño que nos hemos hecho, cada persona que se ha cruzado en nuestra vida ha dejado una huella y nos ha ido moldeando hasta convertirnos en lo que somos ahora, y vaya que te has asegurado de que se note.

Eras luz, Vic. Eras el ser más noble que jamás haya conocido, y pensar en ti era un lugar seguro. Cada vez que llegabas a mi casa para hacer nada lo era todo para mí. Abrazarte era lo mejor de mi día. Estar a tu lado, tomar tu mano entre las mías y juguetear con tus dedos era lo que hacía que mis tardes se iluminaran, que de repente estar en mi casa no fuera una carga o una especie de tortura; ya no importaba estar lejos porque estaba contigo, y de cierta manera se sentía como nuestro pequeño espacio secreto.

Y recuerdo perfectamente la primera vez que me llevaste a transplantes. La recuerdo aún mejor que nuestra primera vez, como un momento aún más único, aún más privado, secreto... más nuestro. Recuerdo verte haciendo tus notas, y no poder separar la mirada. Veía tu rostro, tus ojos, tus brazos, tus manos y subía de nuevo a tus ojos. Esos ojos que tenían una manera tan única de mirarme, que al hacerlo sentía que realmente valía algo, que era especial, pero que lo era exclusivamente para ti y eso era aún mejor. Nunca había sentido eso hacia nadie, y no recuerdo un sólo momento de mi vida previa en donde hubiese sentido ser así de especial para alguien, y siempre fue algo que deseaba con fervor. Imagina mi sorpresa por al fin tenerlo, sentirlo. Y recuerdo tomarte una foto porque necesitaba ese recuerdo permanente. A partir de ahí no pude dejar de mirarte, y cada vez que me sorprendías haciéndolo no importaba, porque volvía ese brillo en tus pupilas adornadas por tus largas pestañas, aquellas que siempre presumes y siempre se envidian, porque adornan tus ojos que, además de tus sentimientos hacia mí, reflejaban toda tu bondad. Pero fue en ese momento, en una sencilla oficina de transplantes, haciendo mundanas notas de pacientes, que me di cuenta que sentía algo por ti que jamás había sentido por nadie. Era algo real, auténtico, intenso, precioso. Y nuevo. Y lo nuevo me asustaba.

No puedo arrepentirme de lo que pasó, terminar fue doloroso pero fue lo mejor que podía darte en ese momento, porque de otra manera te habría lastimado mucho peor. Lamento que las cosas se hayan dado de esa manera. Me quema pensar en la manera en la que llegaste a mi casa aquella tarde para regresarme mi sudadera. Recuerdo que me pediste intentarlo de nuevo, y yo me metí en mi papel de no tener corazón, de no necesitar tu cariño, de no quererte ver jamás. Recuerdo ese frío beso, seco, casto, que súbitamente quiso remplazar todos aquellos dados anteriormente, y de repente ya nada importaba, porque el "nosotros" ya no existía.

Y yo juré estar bien, y yo me aseguré de convencerme a mí misma de que no me dolía, de que no me lastimaba. ¿Sabes qué fue lo que más me dolió al salir de vacaciones? Saber que no estabas, saber que mi casa volvería a ser ese lugar frío, solo, depresivo en el que solía sentirme encerrada y alejada. Al darme cuenta de eso todo me cayó como un balde de agua fría, y me sentí desamparada, y sentí que no tenía de dónde o de quién sujetarme ahora, que estaba sola. Y entonces la historia con Alondra.

No es el hecho de lo que pasó, al final eso ya no importa, es el hecho de que lo sentí como un intento de lastimarme, y eso fue lo que me dolió, irónicamente. ¿Tanto me odiabas para querer lastimarme llegando por donde sabías que más me dolería? Quise -y aún quiero-pensar que fue inconscientemente, que en ti realmente no había maldad y sólo fue una mala broma del destino que yo llegara a ver ese estado en los escasos 4 minutos que duró.

Tenerte en neurocirugía me dolió aún más, porque sabía que la había cagado contigo, sabía que no habría manera de reparar todo lo que yo había dicho la noche anterior por malacopa. No podía verte, porque necesitaba que me cuidaras, porque deseaba que me abrazaras y me dijeras que los meses anteriores podrían desaparecer con un solo beso tuyo en mi frente, se disiparían. Y dormir envuelta en esa chamarra con tu característico perfume, con ese centenar de historias alrededor de tan simple prenda, fue lo que logró relajarme y hacerme pensar que quizás, sólo quizás, las cosas finalmente podrían arreglarse.

Debo admitir algo, no sólo a ti, sino a mí también. Cuando me enseñaste tu departamento, me arrinconaste contra la estufa y me besaste, y tú querías que fueran más que sólo besos y caricias... te había extrañado tanto, te necesitaba de tantas maneras diferentes que no me había animado a aceptar antes. Y sin embargo, al tenerte ahí, sentí una pizca de lo que sentía con el resto: me sentí usada. Pero deseché ese sentimiento al instante porque contigo era diferente, ¿no? Había sentimientos. Ya sabes, "donde hubo fuego, cenizas quedan" y contigo el fuego jamás se extinguió por completo, sólo se mantuvo oculto, quemándome por dentro, pero en completo silencio.

Me encantaba lo que tuvimos en ese momento. Éramos tú y yo, y nada más. Nuestro espacio seguro en neuro, y dentro de tanto caos sólo estábamos tú y yo, y sólo tenía tu mano, y sabía que podía contar contigo de maneras mucho mayores que antes. Y me encantaba que me buscaras para ayudarte, me gustaba que fuera mutuo, me gustaba que fuera una mezcla perfecta de todo lo bueno y lo malo, de los dos.

Pero mi perra necesidad de etiquetar todo. Fue eso. Porque todo podría haber seguido igual si no me hubiera alocado yo buscando llenar un vacío al salir todos los días, al conocer gente que no necesitaba en mi vida, al cerrarme a pasar mejor esos momentos contigo, a aceptar que eras tú lo que me convenía, al menos en ese momento. Y fue tu "no somos nada" lo que finalmente logró que me frenara de golpe como si chocara contra una pared. Porque yo necesitaba ser algo tuyo, y necesitaba que fueras mío de una manera u otra, aunque fuera sólo por un pequeño rato. Quizá no fue la mejor manera de volver, pero la verdad es que auténticamente estaba feliz de ser tuya otra vez. Pero es eso, ¿no? Delicada esa línea entre el tuyo y mío, sabiendo que así como éramos de cada uno, también éramos de otros. Y está bien, porque ese era el trato, y de haber sido de otra manera quizá todo habría terminado muchísimo antes de cuando lo hizo. Pero no puedo creer que nadie me puso un freno cuando yo misma me contradecía con todo lo que decía y todo lo que hacía referente a ti.

Trauma definitivamente me cambia, no voy a negarlo porque sé que me dejo llevar muy fácilmente, y esta vez no fue la excepción: me vi envuelta nuevamente en este rush de emoción, de saber que estaba un pasito más cerca de algo que realmente me hacía feliz, de un futuro que se asemeja a algo en lo que sí me pueda ver, y que súbitamente matarme a los 27 dejaba de ser una opción. Y la verdad es que no conozco de equilibrios, ya sabes que conmigo puro exceso, y fui una estúpida por no frenarme con tantas red flags a mi alrededor, siendo yo la principal de ellas.

Odio las mentiras y lo sabes, pero no dejaban de salir detalles tuyos que me demostraban que en las cosas más estúpidas llegabas a mentirme, y con cada mentira me alejabas cada vez más, y con cada historia inventada yo perdía el interés. De repente el cariño que tenía por ti se fue tornando en asco, en sorpresa y en duda del porqué seguía ahí, en un lugar donde no quería estar, con alguien que me estaba ocultando su verdadero ser, cuando lo único que yo necesitaba, y que pedía, era autenticidad, esa honestidad simple y sencilla, porque no podía permitirme más cosas complicadas. Y porque te quería fueras como fueres, yo sólo quería querer al auténtico tú, pero quizá fue en un momento donde ni tú mismo sabía quién era él.

Y yo estaba comenzando a cansarme, yo ya no me sentía igual contigo, me sentía abrumada, y tenía miedo. Pero sobre todo porque pensaba que trauma siempre estaría para sostenerme, ser como mi red de apoyo (pendeja yo, se sabe). Comencé a sentirme independiente, y de repente quitarme esa máscara de los ojos, darme cuenta que era más de lo que me había hecho creer a mí misma, me hizo sentir como esa niña tonta de preparatoria que no hacía más que lastimarse a sí misma como un grito desesperado de ayuda, porque necesito ayuda, porque necesito terapia, y ya no podía controlarlo más. Necesitaba huir. Y tú no me dejabas. Necesitaba hundirme. Y no me dabas la oportunidad. Quisiera decir que eso fue bueno, pero no puedo hacer más que recordar la peor crisis que tuve viviendo sola, no podía dejar de llorar, y los pensamientos que antes eran tan recurrentes en mi cabeza, pero que llevaban meses sin volver a aparecer, me bombardearon como nunca. No podía dejar de pensar en lo mucho que me odiaba, que probablemente los demás también lo hacían, no podía dejar de repetirme lo estúpida, inútil e insuficiente que era. No podía parar las voces en mi cabeza que me rogaban por callarlas de una vez por todas. Y entonces te pedí tiempo, te pedí una noche a solas para lidiar con todo, y en su lugar tú me hiciste sentir culpable, porque también habías tenido un día malo y, aparentemente, eso era más importante que cualquier otra cosa porque querías pasar tiempo conmigo. Pasar tiempo con una Dany que no se soportaba ni a sí misma, porque no era yo misma, porque la crisis no me dejaba, porque no podía salir de ahí y, siendo honesta, necesitaba estar ahí. Y a partir de ahí mis crisis de ansiedad al dormir a tu lado fueron un tanto frecuentes. Me quema admitirlo porque completamente tu culpa no es, pero me duele más porque sé que debí haberlo dicho en el momento.

Siento que a partir de ahí tuve una maraña de pensamientos y sentimientos que jamás supe poner en palabras, y jamás pude descifrar. Nublabas mi juicio (premio y castigo al mismo tiempo) y me rehusaba a soltarte, completamente adicta a ti.

Fueron detalles como estos que empezaron a quitarme la venda de los ojos de que quizá no eras tan noble, tan perfecto como la imagen con la que aún te mantenías en mi mente. Y saberlo me permitió darme cuenta de más detalles.

Cada vez que intentaba hablar contigo no podía sacar ni la mitad de cosas que tenía que decirte, y no sé exactamente por qué. Pero poco a poco ese lugar seguro que tenía entre tus brazos se sentía superficial, se sentía "por las apariencias", y eso me quemaba. Pero a fin de cuentas, no podíamos arreglar nada si tú ni siquiera sabías que había un problema, ¿cierto? Y quién era yo para intentar arreglar algo que estabas perfectamente feliz de dejar así. Quién era yo para querer cambiar algo de ti cuando no puedo ni mejorar una ligera parte de mí, y yo siendo la mayor culpable de todo lo que pasaba por mi cabeza y mi corazón.

Me dolió que fueras a la trauma peda porque, independientemente del resto, eso era entre tú y yo, eso era algo nuestro, nuestro trato, y súbitamente eso ya no importaba. Te lo había dicho antes: me preocupabas, estabas en un modo auto destructivo y podía terminar mal. Spoiler alert: no sólo te auto destruías, comenzaste a destruir todo a tu alrededor.

Ojalá, ojalá me pagaran por cada persona que me decía que habías cambiado, que no eras el mismo ya, que incluso ya no te reconocían caminando porque habías cambiado para mal. Suena cliché, pero totalmente te volviste un pirujano, y me gustaría decir que tanto las partes buenas como las malas, pero en tu caso no aplicaba: te dedicaste a ilusionar a todas las que se cruzaban por tu camino, porque llegó un punto en donde ya ligabas sin darte cuenta, y te volviste un coqueto con todos. Lo cual es válido, cada quién sabe qué hacer, pero me dolió saber que tenías tanto qué dar, un corazón tan bello que cuidar, y preferiste esconderlo y hacer a los demás sufrir de la manera en lo que habías hecho tú.

Victor, te entiendo mejor que nadie porque he sido, porque soy, pero la diferencia entre tú y yo es que yo sí soy conciente, yo me doy cuenta y busco no lastimar a otros, busco dejar todo en claro desde el día uno, pero tú no. Egoísta es poco. Pareciese que realmente quieres que todos sientan el hoyito que cargas tú. ¿Para qué? ¿Te va a ayudar? No. Pero es la misma vibra de la situación con Alondra. Entonces, ¿tanta maldad hay en ti?

Pero esta carta no es para ti, sino para el Victor del año pasado. Ese Victor carismático, noble, de corazón amable, que se preocupaba por las personas, que buscaba cuidarlas, que buscaba la claridad, el bienestar. Este Victor es egoísta y egocéntrico, excelente para un cirujano plástico, porque estoy completamente segura de que serás excelente en ello, pero cómo desearía que no te perdieras a ti mismo, que pudieras recuperarte, que pudieras conservarlo, porque es eso lo que te ha hecho llegar tan lejos como lo has hecho hasta ahora, y vivo con miedo de que sin esa chispa sólo quemes todo a tu alrededor, que lastimes a más personas cada vez. Tienes tanto por dar, Victor, eres una persona tan única, que me dolería mucho saber que esa alma se ha perdido para siempre. No quiero que la medicina te consuma, no quiero que la putería te ahogue.

Que no respetaras mis límites, que no me respetaras como persona, que usaras la violencia, las mentiras, que buscaras la manera de herirme fue acumulándose hasta hacerme romper lazos definitivamente contigo, porque estar cerca nos hace ser tóxicos, y estar en la vida del otro sólo acaba con nuestra poca estabilidad.

Lo siento por todo el daño que te hice, y lamento inmensamente ser parte de la razón por la cual te has ido perdiendo. Me encantaría ser parte del proceso de recuperación, pero siento que hago más daño cerca que lejos. Pero aquí estaré siempre para ti, porque quiero ser tu lugar seguro así como tú lo fuiste para mí en su momento. Quiero que tengas una mano amiga, un hombro en el cual llorar, unos brazos que te levanten cada vez que caigas. Espero puedas aceptarlo. Y deseo, deseo, deseo que cuando ese Victor vuelva, me deje estar en su vida nuevamente. Quizá como antes. Quizá mejor.

#Spotify

[danoneediness]

orgullo y prejuicio - extended version

Frustración.

No.

Poca tolerancia a la frustración.

Esa es la causa de mi situación actual. Porque no acepto un "no" como respuesta, porque me rehuso a que ese "no" venga de tu parte, y principalmente porque es, mejor dicho, la ausencia de un "no" textual lo que hace que me aferre a ese prácticamente invisible e inexistente hilo de esperanza que me he forzado a creer que existe, el cual me rehuso a soltar. Porque tus acciones me dicen que me vaya porque ya no estás. Porque tu silencio me dice que realmente tomaste lo que quisiste y te fuiste. Pero el hecho de no abrir mi mano para dejarte ir evita que vea que en mi palma jamás estuvo tu mano, que ni siquiera un rastro dejó, y todo lo que vivimos fue producto de una imaginación creativa y activa con exceso de tiempo libre y un deseo ferviente de tener una historia qué contar, una historia qué sentir.

El hecho realmente es que no importa; nunca existió, no tengo nada qué sentir, ¿cierto? Pero entonces, ¿qué hace esta opresión en el centro de mi pecho? ¿Y por qué no puedo deshacerme de ella a pesar de que ya lo he sentido antes?

Orgullo, definitivamente. Uno herido, sangrante, palpitante que se rehusa a ser sanado y olvidado.

Te idealicé a un punto realista. Relativamente. Te imaginé haciendo cosas que, realmente, sabía que no iban contigo, que jamás harías, que jamás dirías. Pero era la emoción, la excitación de vivir algo nuevo. Incluso era esa necesidad patológica mía de tener tu atención, de agradarte, de gustarte. ¿Por tu aprobación? ¿O por la mía?

Y ahora que me doy cuenta -aunque realmente siempre lo hice-, ¿por qué me cuesta tanto soltarte? ¿Por qué repito la historia con diferente protagonista? ¿Qué dice esto de mí, y por qué me importa tanto esta respuesta?

Admiración. Quiero justificarlo diciendo que esa es la razón. La manera en la que tus neuronas hacen sinapsis dando como resultado una compleja maraña de pensamientos, de ideas, de conocimientos que, a través de tu grave voz penetran hasta mis oídos, agitando cada célula de mi cuerpo, erizando cada vello sobre mi piel. Porque es tu cerebro, es tu conocimiento lo que me gusta de ti. De manera egoísta: me gusta de ti porque lo quiero en mí. Me llena de deseo porque quiero ser esa persona, quiero tener ese don, quiero mostrarme como lo haces tú, quiero expresarme con la facilidad con la que lo haces tú.

Uno es lo que come... ¿por eso no me canso de comerte? Excelente método, que se repita.

Como un monstruo con un hambre insaciable busco llenarme de ti, busco robarme cada diminuta pizca de conocimiento que, como si se tratara de la peste, se me pueda pegar al pasar tiempo contigo, al rozar mis falanges entre las tuyas, al unir tus labios a los míos y devortarte como si buscara de esa manera demostrarte que soy digna de tu tiempo, de un espacio en tu pecho cuando me aprietas contra ti, de tus caricias, de aquellos besos en la frente que me hacen sentir en un lugar seguro, pero sobre todo, de aquella mirada que me hace dudar hasta de mi nombre. Porque es esa lujuria, ese deseo reflejado en el brillo de tus pupilas, el que me hace no querer dejarte ir a pesar de saber que puedo, saber que debo.

Y me mantengo firme porque no dueles, porque no quemas. Aún no por lo menos. Hay un aura de misterio rodeando tu vida, cada detalle que no me permite armar una imagen completa, sino que parecieran ser piezas aleatorias tomadas de distintos rompecabezas. Mi complejo de detective busca llenar aquellos huecos que dejas a tu paso. Mi complejo de salvadora busca arreglar la razón por la que los creas. Mi complejo de personalidad, mi falta de autoestima y mi deseo por llegar a alcanzar mis sueños busca mantenerme atada a ti, esperando que algún día, si lo deseo con suficiente fuerza, pueda lograr lo que busco contigo.

Porque todos merecen más que un "pues no, pero bueno", porque mereces la seguridad que tampoco me das y mereces las respuestas a aquellas preguntas que generas en mí. Y aunque seas un ignorante de esto, aunque me veas como una niña tonta, una pendientera más que dejaste embobada, hechizada, te quiero cuidar porque es mi manera de agradecerte. Porque sin saberlo, me sacaste de ese hoyo. Sin quererlo, me impulsaste a buscar la ayuda que tantas vueltas había dado por miedo. Me diste el valor que me faltaba, y me hiciste darme cuenta del que ya tenía.

Así que no, no te dejo ir porque formaste parte de mi vida, y una vez dentro no hay manera de salir. Pero no, no mantendré tu fantasma atado a mí, impidiéndome seguir adelante, buscar algo más, conocer algo mejor. Me aferraré únicamente a la silueta que deja tu sombra en cada paso que das delante de mí, porque eso es lo que quiero llegar a ser, no tras tus pasos, sino tras tu fuerza, tu voluntad. Si te has de ir, me quedaré con lo bueno. Porque no es un abandono, no me estás dejando; me enseñaste lo que supiste, lo que pudiste, y es momento de hacerlo en otro lado.

Aunque sí. Buena hipótesis convertirme en ti al comerte... Por el bien de la ciencia, no estará mal un poco de experimentación práctica. Hay un límite hasta donde te puede llevar la teoría, ¿no?

#pancita #amor #desamor #orgullo #prejuicio #orgullo y prejuicio #desahogo #diario

[danoneediness]

where's the key to the cage tho

I have a lot of issues, and they are not easy to fix. I'd like to say this as a guess, as an hypothesis, but the sad thing is that there is no way to hide it and it's not only me who knows about it, but everyone around me. It's like if every pore of my body excrete some kind of signal that'd yell: "hey, look at me! I'm seriously ill! And I won't do anything about it any time soon! But come hang out because that's what makes me funny, that's what makes every situation with me an adventure. Just... be really careful because you shouldn't try to be close to me or I'll make you ill too".

It is an exageration, SE SABEEE, but still it gets kind of old, yk. Like, the fact that I know that everyone in my life will eventually leave me. That I won't be anything but a memory, a faded one, in their lives. It kind of bumps me out to think that I won't ever make a strong enough impact in someone's life, but at the same time it scares me to do it. Like... what if the impact that I make is a bad one? What if I hurt someone? What if I make them be the way that I am? I wouldn't wish that to anybody, it fucking sucks.

So why do I feel like this...

Lately I've been thinking about the moment that I changed for what I am today, and I remembered that in early 2019 I was just an innocent girl just trying to get out of her shell, just trying to get my shit together, knowing that there was a lot out there that I wanted to know, a lot of people that I wanted to meet, a lot of knowledge that I wanted to have. I wanted to live so damn bad that I was craving for some adventure, something new, something incredible. And I was too damn naïve, I was too damn stupid.

So, I was the kind of girl that would get a crush after a drunk kiss, a stupid one btw, and would do anything to meet with him, to get him candy, chocolate, to get even a glimpse of him so my day would get better. I thought I knew everything about life and that I had everything under control. I thought I knew what I wanted, but the thing is... the life I wanted for myself back then was the life for a girl that wasn't me, but who I wanted to be. It is okay to want to be different, to change a thing or two about yourself, but you can't just go ahead and literally change every aspect of your life, and just pretend that your past was different or that it didn't even exist at all.

"El que no conoce su pasado está condenado a repetirlo"

I want to keep some kind of record about this, so this will be long and I'm not sorry, lmao.

After that, there was this guy who liked me. Like... he really liked me, not only in a sexual way, but like... he liked me, liked me. But me, holding on to who I was trying to be, found the way to scare him off. We ended up being friends, of course, but it hasn't been the same. I don't regret it, tho, I'm happy I didn't lose my pretty little flower at him, but still... thinking about it, I think he made me feel like Fab, the guy with an adiction problem and no highschool.

I guess I'm only thinking about all this because I'm starting to realize that everyone moved on: he probably has someone else, the liked-me boy has someone else, the one after that obviously has someone else (wich makes me think that I should write something about the "why you wanted with her, but not with me - phenomenom")... but I'm literally in the same fucking spot that I was two years ago.

You know what IS different? It has gotten old.

I've been thinking a lot about this new guy (let's call him Red Foo). And I've really tried to make myself like him, to make myself fall for him, but it just feels so... fake, forced. Like, it feels like I'm trying to make myself small to fit in a box that he has created for me, but the worst thing is that he hasn't and it is just my imagination. I mean, no, he has, but I can still change the size of the box, get rid of it and show myself exactly as I am, and, the way that things had been going I'm sure he will still like me. But I feel like... he's not good enough for me. And I feel fucking awful because he is such a good guy, and he might be great for me in every fucking aspect, but still... I don't feel confortable. I feel like he was the one for my 15 year old me. But not my actual me, yk.

So I know I have to talk to him, and probably I should just tell him about my trusting issues, my fear of commitment, but I just can't. Because I know that even if I didn't have all that, if I hadn't gone through all that toxic season, if I had given a chance to really-liked-me guy... Red Foo still wouldn't be the one for me.

Is that _sparkle_, you know? That's the thing that's missing with him. I just don't feel it, and I could still play pretend but it wouldn't be fair. So I'll tell him. The thing is... in person? By message? Should I give a spoiler via text and then tell explain in person? I feel so fucking guilty both ways. I feel guilty if I speak, and I will still feel that way even if I don't.

Because not only do I not like him, but I like someone else. Probably holding on to something impossible, but at the end of the day it is something I'm not willing to let go off yet. Red Foo doesn't deserve this, nobody does.

So I stay like this. Alone. Because it is the best way to not hurt people. No one except for me. But I'm used to this. I was born alone, so I guess I can keep on being like this.

#the truth untold

[danoneediness]

I really don't know why I do the things that I do.

I really can't comprehend why I think the way that I think.

If I'm left by myself for just an hour, it is more than enough to make me hate myself, second by second it increases.

I spend all day dealing with my anxiety. And yet, I still don't want to come back to you. I know I should, everybody says so, but I just can't. You deserve more, I deserve more. You deserve someone who loves you with all its heart, that gives you every part of their soul. I can't do that. I can't because I don't want to.

I'm in a point of my life in which I want to live, I want to explore, I want to experiment. The thing is... I get carried away and I lose myself everytime I get the chance to. They just give me a little attention and everything goes to fuck.

A little attention, a few words exclusively for me, a few minutes that may be ours... that's all it takes to make me ruin my life for you. Even though I know you're gonna use me. And then I'll use the excuse: "who used who?". Fuck, Dan, you know they used you. Who got all the consequences? Who has a fucking heartache? Who managed to fuck every fucking aspect of her life? You. You. You.

But you weren't like that. You aren't, and I really hope you never will. So my sin was to let you go, but I'd be a bigger sinner to keep you locked with me, attached to someone than, beyond appreciating you, just got used to being with you, just cut her wings, tied yours in, and hoped for it to be enough to be happy. Spoiler alert: it is not.

[danoneediness]

let's get closer - closest

What motivates you to get up every morning?

Well, Karen, that is a really good question. I get up because I have to, because I can't be late, because I have to be there. I get up because I hate traffic and there is a few hours in which I can go anywhere without too much traffic. I get up because I hate being stuck at home, overthinking, doing nothing, not being able to concentrate. I get up because I hate being irresponsible, missing my appointments, failing my coworkers -even if i don't get paid at all. I get up because every day is a new opportunity to learn, to meet new people, to grow as a person, as a doctor. I get up because I've fear of missing out things. I get up because I'm affraid of what might happen if I let myself be in my bed. I'm affraid it might be easy to stay there. I'm affraid it might be hard to get up later. I'm affraid I won't ever get up again. I get up because, even though it's hard, and sometimes I hate it, and sometimes I suffer more than I enjoy it, I like living. I get up because that is the only way to do it.

[danoneediness]

Anatomy of an illness

I've never been the type of girl that likes herself.

It started because I was fat, rounder than a basketball ball, afraid someone might come to me and slap my belly saying they got confused because of the similarities.

At first I didn't even notice, and that's why I hate people telling their kids about problems they see on them. Like, yeah, if you think that might help then do it, but that little special 💫magic💫 and innocence that comes with the mind of a kid is something that, once lost, there's no way to get back to. Why pinch the bubble then?

But then there were too many comments, too many stares, too many opportunities lost.

There was no place to hide anymore, and then it came the crossed arms all the time, specially sitting down, the giant hoodies even in the summer, the long sleeves for the consequences of it, the long hair to hide my neck which only made me look worse. But I was getting used to it.

But one fine day I got diagnosed with insulin resistance and then 20 kilos left, leaving me with the hope that I might find my missing self-love inside me. I didn't. It was so hard to find the peace in myself to start being a little bit more open, to talk to people, raise my voice, even post dumb stories on Instagram. Those little things that look so stupid were just a dream, an illusion up until the day I fought with my inner monsters.

Now, I'm not gonna say that what I do now is the right thing to do, because much despite the fact that I hate to admit it, I'm kinda addicted now to that kind of attention.

Such an attention whore indeed 😙✌.

Because then I started taking those likes, those comments, those messages as a way to feel I'm society, accepted by it.

I keep saying it doesn't even have a true purpose, it is such a waste of time, but let's be honest: I depend on them, it rises my self esteem, my happiness even, it determinate if I'm gonna have a good day or a shitty one.

And that's fucking messed up.

So, besides those fucking social media things that legit doesn't serve for a bigger purpose bit to mess me up even more, there's another problem: the fact that I know there a lot of guys that doesn't like me, as me, but because of what they think I am or because they legit see me as a pair of boobs with feet, and I intend to do nothing about it.

Attention is attention, right?

And sometimes I swear that I'm good with that, but everybody knows I'm just lying to myself. Even I know so.

So when I'm lower than ever I feel the need to feel needed. I feel the feel to be accepted not minding the cost of it. Do you want me to be a mindless body? I'm on it. Do you want to use me and then leave me? Sure, I'm in. Do you want to fuck my brains out, not minding if I get hurt, just so you can feel the king of the jungle? Why not.

I've lost count on how many people have I fucked because I knew they wanted, not me. And it's not their fault but mine. I've lost count on how many people thought it was cool, but hours later I'm just lying in my bed, regretting my choices and trying to make myself feel better about it, saying it's not a big deal, it's living my sexuality freely, it's what I wanted at the time.

And it's not a lie. It was what I wanted at the time. Because I wanted that attention. I needed it.

But this time is different for two reasons mainly:

There were feelings involved.

I just had an abortion.

So let me explain the first one. It was a friend, a true one, and he made me feel safe and secure, and that made me feel better about myself. Or at least it would have been that way if it wasn't for reason 2. But like... the last time I felt that it was only with people I've fucked several times before, I thought it was normal... but I guess it wasn't. So that makes me think: is it better with feelings? Would it be nicer if I was in a relationship? Not with him, but like in general... is this part of that sweet magic they say love is?

And then the second one. I know I have a lot of issues to treat, a lot of therapy to go to, but I didn't think it was much of a big deal, I thought it was a little bit easier, superficial.

Not only do I hate myself, but I truly despise me.

I feel ugly, horrific, I feel it is a punishment to have to look at me the way I truly am, naked. That's why I didn't let him see me. Usually I don't care, but then I felt awful... like, I'm not enough for anyone, they deserve better than me, I suck at everything, even at that: existing.

And then the fear. Is he gonna like me? Is this gonna end up badly? What if... I end up pregnant again? I'm alone, I've always been and I'm even used to it, so that's why I didn't even ask for that guy's help on the abortion. I'm used to being disappointed so I just don't expect anything from people anymore. It's not his fault, and he's got the benefit of the doubt about if he would be responsible in that kind of situations or not, but I wasn't gonna risk it, cause then I'd lose the little amount of mental health I had left. So I did it on my own.

But again? There's no way. I can't. I won't.

He doesn't deserve it, and I don't either, so why risk it? Why through everything away? My life? His life? Our friendship? Our little group of friends? For just one horny night? It will never be worth it.

And then, taking into account what I was saying at the beginning, there are some other guys trying to get into me (yk), and speaking from my hormones, I want to too. But speaking from my future self, my actual self and my past self... even the thought of it makes me sick to the bone. I deserve better, I deserve to give myself a chance to change things, to make something worth having grow into me, into someone else, teach me all those things I haven't had the chance to know.

So... I guess as a conclusion there are a few points I need to get my eyes onto:

I need therapy asap for the abortion, for my absence of self love and self esteem.

I need to be more honest with myself and my partners.

I need to judge more about the people I trust and the way I do it.

I need to give myself the chance to be happy.

I need to give myself to know what love is.

Hopefully I won't die trying.

Literally.

[danoneediness]

m a n i f e s t (h) i (m) n g

I miss the thrill of liking someone. I miss the excitment of receiving a text. I miss the anxiety that came along with the fear everytime I was about to go on a date with someone that made me feel that thing. That sparkle.

I miss him because he made me feel that way in a healthy way. I miss him because I really could imagine myself by his side, I could really do things to make everything work in a perfect way. I wanted to change for him, but the precious thing about it was that I didn't have to change anything but the fact that I wouldn't be alone anymore, that I wouldn't be single, but I'd be his girlfriend.

But, once again, I was getting ahead of myself.

He doesn't miss me because I didn't make him feel that sparkle. He doesn't miss him because he couldn't imagine being with me, he didn't have anything to change because he didn't wanted to. He doesn't miss me because he never did anything remotely close to an effort to contact me, to say something, anything.

I guess I need an explanation, right? But then again, it must be my karma.

Fucking karma.

Because now I'm here, but more than once I was there, in his place, just turning my back to people who trusted me, who wanted me, who loved me. Just ignoring not only their feelings but mine, because I was too afraid to try.

Loving is getting hurt.

That's just the way it is. It is beautiful, it is gorgeous. It is happiness, it is precious moments, it is a rainbow after a beautiful afternoon of rain. But it is also the flood that it leaves behind, it is selfish and it is pain. There's no way to know if you're gonna like something until you try it. There's no way to know if someone is gonna hurt you until you let them love you, and you let yourself love them back. How can you expect to receive everything if you're not willing to give it all?

It is so easy for me to like someone, and even easier for me to fall completely for someone that doesn't like me back. But why is it so complicated for me to like someone that shows me that they care about me? That they might not hurt me? Is it my subconscious thinking that the quite ones are the worst? Or is it just my masochist ass trying to make everything harder than it already has to be? Either way... I'm fucked.

Because I do miss him. And it is impossible for me to even start to think about liking someone else when I just realized that I liked him more than I wanted to admit, more than I wanted to like him. It hurts because it really was too good to be true, and it definitely wasn't true. I guess it was all in my head. It must have been all in my head.

I wish he'd look for me. I'm trying to make myself available, I try to be reachable for him to talk to me, to say something, anything, to explain, to say that everything was a fucking misunderstanding, a terrible timing, a bump in the road. But that it is passed, that it is all behind, that he wants to try again, that he wants to give it all.

It doesn't have to be forever, because forever is a lie that we tell ourselves to feel less scared about the future, about what is yet to come. But we can't stay in the same spot if we want to grow. I know everything is temporary and I've grown to hug that fact and make it part of myself even though there should be a balance between giving up and holding on. I prefer the first one because I don't want to sow myself in this ground, or any ground for the matter. I want to travel, to meet new people, to leave a little bit of myself in every place I go. But to do so I do need to lose that small part of myself.

Doing so isn't the problem, but wanting to is.

And I wanted to with him. I still do.

But what's the point of me looking for him all the time? What's the point of me forcing things, imposing things into him? That wouldn't be authentic, that wouldn't be right.

So I just dream wide awake that he will, I just keep putting myself out there for him to reach out, I just still hope he likes me the way I like him, I just hope he's willing to try one last time, for real this time, to just live, laugh, love together, learn together, support each other. Is it a fantasy? Of course. But I'm not willing to give it up. Without this hope, without my daydreams, without me faking my power of manifestation... what do I have left? So I hold on to this, I hold on to him, just for a little while more, because I don't have anything else to lose now that I don't have him anymore, because I don't have a better place to go for now. Because this is my place, this is where I want to be, and he is the one I want to share all this with. All my growth, all my achievments.

All my rainbows after rainy days.

[danoneediness]

psyco-must

I guess there’s something wrong with me. 

It must be. 

Like, why the hell do I not feel a thing? It’s not the first time in my life that I study this subject. Not in general (like, I mean, pregnancy), but like this specific topic (as in, yk, “ay, mi piernita), and I know there’s something I must feel. Maybe regret, maybe sadness, maybe worry. But no. I feel nothing. 

I do not even feel empty because some part of me refuses to believe there was something inside to begin with. So much less I feel relief. 

So why do I feel bad then? 

I mean, it is not guilt, it is not physical sickness, it is just the feel of: wow, if I don’t feel anything I must be a psycopath, right? There’s no other explanation for this. 

I’m not truuuly worried about this, I’m not even truly mad or sad about this, I just felt the need to get it written down. Cause I’ve got this feeling that I might feel the need to read through this lines again in a few weeks, months, maybe years and find in them some explanation about something worriesome that I must be experiencing. But until that happen I’m just gonna limit myself to write what I feel, in this drunken state I’m in. 

So, let’s dig into it. 

Let’s see... I got pregnant a month ago, right? But I was really sure I was not. I mean, I was about to get my period, so there was really little chance for me to get knocked up, right? Still, it didn’t came. Then it passed like two weeks and I started drinking té de ruda. Which was awful, it doesn’t taste that bad with oregano and cinnamon, but it is still not good, much less when you drink a whole liter in just one sitting, as you try not to puke ‘cause your morning sickness are starting. Awful. 

The pain never stopped. At first I thought there were cramps, like... as in my period, yk. But then it didn’t came, my breast became more and more sensitive and painful, even bigger, and I started to get worried. Because the stomachache I could bare with, yk, I could think it was because of the hepatical damage I was giving myself, but the humoral changes??? Then I started to start convencing others so I could convence myself. 

Hard as fuck. And didn’t work. 

So then, a month later, here I was, and decided to buy a pregnancy test. It wasn’t even an expensive one because I was really sure it was gonna be negative; it was all in my head, right? I had heard all these stories about muy friends not getting their periods, doing the test, getting a negative and then the period, like if it was just waiting for the perfect moment just to say “ha! got ‘ya!”, came. 

But then there was two bars. And I started to feel I needed to panick. 

Cause there is the thing: I didn’t actually panick, I was not even mad at myself because I really was sure it was fake; I still was living on my own lie. So I told my two best friends and then they panicked the way I couldn’t. 

So I took a shower, trying to get myself together, trying to snap myself out of the cute little world I had gotten myself into. But I couldn’t really. Again, I was just thinking about the things I should be feeling, the things I should be doing. And then I started punching myself in the stomach. 

Well... not quite yet. It was actually the abdominal area, more like pubic area... trying to reach the uterus. It hurt. A lot. But didn’t help.

I was telling myself all the things that would change if I had a baby: my parents probably would kick me out of the house, I’d have to look for a job, I’d have to quit school and I’d totally ruin my future. But kindaaa didn’t think that would happen because, come on, let’s be honest: I’d literally kill myself before letting any of that happen. Like... yes, I’m that sick, and yes, I’m that depressed. 

When I got out of the shower I started looking for other ways to make myself abort. And then misoprostol came. 

I had read about it before, but didn’t buy it because I was scared I was gonna get asked about the prescription, and I didn’t went forward with it. But I was kinda getting desperate cause I really wanted to get my period. But... you know what is the sickiest part? I wanted to get it because less then a week after I had to go to my pre-internship on the hospital with my white scrub, so I didn’t want to get it stained. 

I found the way to buy de medicine (had to borrow money from my best friend -which I payed less than 2 days after-, bought it on a supermarket online and went to get it in person), and I took it. Fucking pain, it was really the worst feeling. The cramps hadn’t stopped since (I lit took it on wednesday and today it is saturday, sooooo), and neither has the bleeding. But now I’m really sure that I’m not a mom. I’m not pregnant. And, weirdly, I’m happy. 

So this takes me to some kind of debate I’ve been having with myself this weeks: what kind of feelings do I have because I want to have them, and what kind of feelings do I have because I have to have them? I mean, have as in: society tells you you should feel that way, you should think that way so you’re not a sociopath, a psycopath, so you’re not weird, so you have a heart. 

So I guess that’s a topic I’d like to get more deep into later, but I just felt the need to get ‘just the tip’ of it. (not good, don’t do it, sis)

But then here I am. I feel nothing. And I’m good with that. 

I mean, I feel cramps cause that shit won’t stop until like a few weeks, lol. 

But I do feel some change in my life: I won’t be this careless anymore, and I definitely won’t feel the same way about men anymore. 

I’m legit doubting my own sexuality, cause my gay panick is gigantic and I don’t know how to select men, lol, but I guess I should/have/must stay single. I have to get to know myself, I have to elevate my bar, my expectative, I have to make of myself someone worth respecting. 

So this is where it all starts. I was lowkey thinking about this as I drank beer, listened to day6 and the rose, and then I was like “yk what, im legit about to start pre-internship, so I should start a journal about how I’m feeling, ‘cause I feel like I’m about to fall appart if I don’t. There’s so many things happening, there’s no way I do not have emotional consequences about this, and it is gonna explode sooner or later. It should be fun to keep a record about the way I lose my mind”. 

Also it should be like a journal so there’s no way to doubt about how I was if something happens, yk, I have a pretty shitty memory. 

So that’s it. 

Enjoy, I guess :) 

#personal #personal blog #write #journal #medical journal #pregnancy #and i oop #had to get it out #that was a really bad joke cause yk had to get the baby out but also get this out of my system xd #sorry not sorry