lettersfromcarm

[lettersfromcarm]

February 23rd, 2024

Bottling up my feelings about this situation is starting to take a toll on me. I've slept awfully this week, not to mention that my patience is running thinner as the days go by. There was a point in my last class in which I just decided to sit down and continue until the kids were sitting down and quiet so I could finish my lecture.

I'm thinking about going to therapy, because I truly need to let go of all this sadness and frustration that I'm harboring. Yet I'm probably the closest open person to ever exist, because I avoid talking about how I really feel and I can't trust people easily, even if that's their job. And I know I find it hard to actually talk about what's eating me up inside because Naty has always forced me to go back to topic.

I wish I could talk about this publicly, but it isn't my place.

I hope this weekend helps me to pause this pain.

[lettersfromcarm]

February 21st, 2024

Sometimes, your head is filled with headcanons of your favorite character in a manga that ended badly and a gorgeous French edition of the manga that is keeping you going.

[lettersfromcarm]

February 20th, 2024

It's been four years since I started teaching, which is a bit ironic considering that I've never considered myself as a patient person nor someone that is particularly adept to the position because my voice isn't loud enough, and I unconsciously speak quickly, a bad habit that I've worked on since I started college.

And to be fair, I don't know if I stubbornly refused to slower my speech because one of my teachers in middle school reassured me about the way I talk, by telling the whole class who was about to jump in to laugh at me that my ideas swiftly travelled in my mind and my tongue didn't have enough time to catch up. I hate that I forgot her name, but I remember how we used to call her because we were teenagers, and we didn't respect enough our teachers as to call them by their names. Piolina, wherever you are, thanks for building my confidence.

But that wasn't the story I wanted to tell.

I've been teaching teenagers for almost four years, since I started during the pandemic, and I'm still amused by their antics.

Every time I look at them, I can't help but to admire their imagination when it comes to quickly solve problems, and how big their dreams are.

I want to protect those precious thoughts.

In my English as a Second Language class, I asked my students to do a resume, imagining themselves in their 30s. Most kids in my class are in a lower intermediate level, yet some of them see themselves studying in Ivy League schools, whereas others are still unsure about what they want to do, as long as it gives them money. Becoming a teacher means to strip away from your pessimistic worldviews, so you can become a guide and make them consider studying their right call, or assure them that it's okay to change their minds because up to that point, most teens still consider life as a straight and continuous line...

And they need to let go of that idea.

Because life is not as easy as they believe. But the only thing you can do is give them tools to help them realize that maybe the right decision about their future is what truly makes them happy.

But also, I have the ones with active imaginations who want to produce mockumentaries instead of Anthropological documentaries. And I find funny how they can argue about their outrageous scenarios because they're in the realm of their possibilities.

I believe those are the ones who will find out of the box solutions to our every day issues.

I won't lie. Working with these young minds remind me of how lovely and welcoming humanity can be.

[lettersfromcarm]

February 19th, 2024.

Some people claim that their soul is magic. Others, that it is made of love. And there are some (annoying) poets who will indulge in beautiful words to describe their soul as an ethereal beauty, a unique and calming landscape that they love, but exalted with the perfect words to create a perfect illusion.

Arguably, I belong to the last group. But my soul isn't pretty. I wish it was. In reality, it isn't nothing special. It's just an intricate weaving of contradictions.

I call myself a writer, yet I refuse to give myself time to bleed out all those thoughts in my head that could become stories.

I long for deep connections, yet I'm afraid of opening up to others and show vulnerability because the intensity of my bottled up feelings scare others.

I want to achieve bigger things, way bigger than the satisfaction I currently feel, yet I'm scared of giving up the stability and peace that I found so hard to believe is mine.

I miss my friends all the time, yet I'm so afraid to call them because I think I'll bother them.

I act like I'm quite confident, yet I'm always second guessing myself and all my shaking beliefs could crumble instantly with the right combinations of events.

And despise my awareness about how short our mortal life is, I still firmly believe that there's always a tomorrow...

Tomorrow, I will start writing again.

Tomorrow, I will start doing those things I've thought about, but I can't find any motivation to do.

Tomorrow, I will drive there and treat myself

Tomorrow, I will text them.

Tomorrow, I will tell them that I love them.

Tomorrow...

But what if tomorrow never comes?

I always joke about how old I am. After all, I'll turn 30 in a couple of months. And even if I should know better, there are some realities that still feel foreign to me.

Seeing my peers getting married and having babies is not as scandalous anymore. But seeing them getting sick is still unusual. Our parents are starting to pass away. Some of us didn't make it to 30 either...

Yet that noise of finally establishing ourselves in a job we actually enjoy, of having a relationship, of meeting new people, of looking the prettiest we will ever look, makes us forget that death is always lurking. Almost completely forgotten by the numbness of our daily routine, it is always ready to stab us from behind.

Over the weekend, I got some news about a friend that left me shaken to my core. I can't disclose the situation because it isn't my place to do it, especially because they kept their situation private for as long as possible, yet the quick scaling made their partner reach out to their friends. And they have always been quiet about their life. Their social media is almost empty, just a few snapshots of some particular moments they shared with the world.

And whereas what they did is respectable, I can't help but to feel guilty about trying to fill those gaps they left, and as soon as I stop keeping my mind busy, I can't help myself but to spiral down into so many what if in our particular relationship.

It suddenly hit me. I'm the same way.

I barely share anything publicly. I just tweet what comes to my mind, and I think people don't really care about me because I allowed myself to be forgotten.

But for some reason, I don't want the people I love to feel the same way as I do right now. I'm pushing myself to write every single day, journal every day to leave a footprint for them to find.

Is it selfish? Definitely.

But I believe it's even more selfish to keep on accumulating my experiences for me and me only.

I think that tomorrow I'll also start an Instagram with captions in Spanish, because I want my mom to easily find a piece of me as well.

But for now, I've pushed myself so much out of my comfort zone. I hate that I can't just rant. I need to find a "cute" way to let everything go.

God bless for this empty blog I guess.

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