quarta-feira, 16 de agosto de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°66: You're going to suck at it

Slowly, then all at once. You can describe a lot of things like this, but I chose to use this to exemplify the fact that you got stuck at some point I didn't perceive you're always late. There's this tall person in the entrance of my bedroom and it's always you, but not really. Sometimes you shrink, sometimes I don't know if I've been doing things right and if at some point I'm going to be punished for that. It's only natural for this road to always lead me to you; even in the depths of hell I'd find the road you took. The sad thing is that you're always blindfolded, you never get to see me being the heroine. 

There was this house I've been and despite all the princes and monsters inside it, I never got to be neither of them. My boots makes no sound as I walk upstairs, you clearly know it's not real; there should be a crack crack crack somewhere. Maybe I wanted it to be genuine, maybe I wanted you to look at me in that way that could destroy entire civilizations; my trembling hand is just a sneak peek. Maybe. I don't hate you enough to not love you in such a way, the amount of pain I'd bring knows no boundaries and there's nothing too different about you. I'm not a prince and I'm not a monster, I'm a clock that goes up, goes down, a clock that stops, a clock that people expect to be functional forever. I'm always late, too.

Time hates me and I hate it too, we're sworn enemies living under the same roof. But it don't get to walk around and observe the miscellaneous of colors in the sky when you're sleepy on the grass, I almost forget I should laugh at what you're saying. Not much, you say you want to save yourself from the world, then a smile, dimples and all. I want to really laugh because you're so oblivious, you already did.

People I can't meet in the same timeline are the ones I want to attach myself to, otherwise it all falls in the realm of boredom. I want them to see me dying and not being about to do shit about it, someone has too. I'm scared of being alone and you have to comfort me. In your voice I hear the word "cruel" and I don't care, oh, how lovely would be to vanish from this world in your arms.

I know this is a war I can't win, yet I entered the battlefield alone as if thousand of men were behind me. This losing game is better than being stuck in some point, gagging the words I couldn't say because I got too comfortable. That's you. The sound of your boots can be heard a hundred of miles from where you are, wherever you are. You keep being the pretender and I can't bring myself to give a damn about it, but you should now who you are. You should know that failing to read me perhaps will be one of the worst mistakes of your life, but I'd never push you off this cliff. There are days I don't know what is real and what's in my mind; you are in both and it's so confusing. Your body is not helping my body, but I'd still prefer to burn in your presence; the fire has no chance against the memory of your embrace. If one day the world is meant to fall in a strange and profound darkness, it's because you won. Don't be so mad once you realize I'm too late be by your side in the celebration downstairs, just close your eyes and let your body go with a flow that keeps drifting far, far away from me. You still can't see, but I'm mercilessly giving all I can do for you, all at once; I hope you don't hate me, I hope one day you find gentleness in your heart to accept this present; all the space of the world is yours, do you like it? Is it enough? Keep using my boots that are you small for you and stop being late; jump in the goddamn fire, it can do no harm, bring this world to it's knees for you. Pretend I'm watching and you'll do just fine.

segunda-feira, 14 de agosto de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°65: I was a camera until I went blind

Night comes and I feel like telling stories that I don't quite know if they were real, but if I'm never certain that doesn't make me a liar. Even though I am — I hoped you could read me. Somewhere, the fast forward button of the control of my life is pressed so damn hard that I forget I am a person, with a body, with a sorrow. Imagine it as if it were sea waves, I'm suddenly there and I don't belong; I am brought back here and I don't have a home. Of course there's a place for me in this world, even if it's on a graveyard. Do you believe that? The eternal search for ourselves and what to make of it comes from wanting to be akin of those we love. Sometimes believing isn't enough. 

It's the sunset and I want to tell you so many things about the type of bird that eats all my organs everyday; it all grows back up after midnight. It's a silent abduction, you wouldn't want to hear about that. You'd make it all about yourself in the end. Don't misjudge me, I bring no shame upon you, I've never been good at doing that. My kidnapping into the underworld has nothing to do with you, no matter how many times you ask me about it. Don't you get it? No creature alive could turn me into an island, I am forever unbowed even when sprawled over the floor beside your bed. Every time I look at my arms I see shackles on my wrists, yet my knees won't bend. I'd rather die by my hand in every life than to allow someone to hold this kind of power. This is why I tell you nothing, but I hope you like birds anyways. 

The next story is simple, it's about a boy and a girl. Not in that kind of way, it's him being there when I needed someone to obsess over it. Your job was barely well done and you still looked like you could rip my heart out of my chest at any time. Funny how you never lived up to the you inside my head, me neither. You never loved me and I never loved you, but you were fun to daydream about. Human bodies that aren't really real are my favorites, at least in my head when I pretend I didn't care, you cared. There was no white horse and you never had the balls to kiss me again, it's boring and it's nothing worth to remember. The wheel of time waits for no one and allows no rewinds, but I would've kissed you longer if I knew how quickly you'd fade away. 

There was a time I didn't live in my head and I did everything right, poster kid of the generation of children that would be known by name in this place. As a matter of fact, today I'm an ace only in holding back. Concealing is a skill then it turns into a cage, no matter how fancy a cage may look like; it's still a cage. It's bigger on the inside though, might look like a ship container by now. Throw a fearful moment inside, throw all the people that told me they wouldn't leave (and left), it fits everything. Never open your Pandora's box, wait five years, wait fifteen years; at the right time it'll start to leak blood and tears. It's not my fault, they say. I never asked to go through this stuff, they say. Am I expected to forgive and forget? Walk with thorns wrapped around your toes for most of your life and see if it turns you into a benign creature. In my head you are the monster, and you knew that you were. Sins demand punishments, and I hope that you're still in flames. I can't say these things out loud. There's still this child in me that wants to be understood with her silence. 

All the girls in the world are stories worth telling. I wouldn't know where to start even if I had a guide book. In my dreams, there was this girl, all in black, that came to me and brought me a pair of shoes, it was lovely. I really didn't care for the shoes, her hands in my skin were the only thing worth of inventing. The antics of my creations are never quite original, but I'd give you my feet if that meant that you could walk in reality with me and hold my hand, I don't mind crawling. It's understandable that you've noticed at this point that melodrama is my specialty.

Why do humans are so eager to write down their explorations for posterity? Oblivion it's not a curse, it's a blessing. To fade away, hand in invisible hand, it's not like you'd think. I've been burning for so long, so brightly, I'm not even warm there's no point, stars are lonely and dead, I don't want to be seen. You see, most of the things I want to forget are those that made me into who I am today, and I really hate myself. Would you still look down on me for this? The way I hurt myself has nothing to do with anyone, but you still want to be the hero. Am I the dragon or the princess? You can choose. However, you won't. Not until it's useless and you still think it's about you. It's not my fault I habit this body, and I never blamed you for being so oblivious about how much I've sunk in this sand. Always choose yourself first, it's the right thing to do; maybe if I had done this a bit earlier in my head I wouldn't have opened that box. Scratch that, I'm a fool. I'll always take the bullet for you even with your hand stabbing me in the guts. I don't know how to love in any other way.

segunda-feira, 7 de agosto de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°64: 24

24.

It has been weeks since I've had a proper sleep. There's something in my eyes that can't match all of the other eyes; I think of it as a door I keep open even though I know only the wicked ones are coming, at least they bring some excitement. I'd rather go blind than be bored and this says a lot about how I'm living.

24.

I'm waiting for them. I'm waiting for you, I'm waiting for me. Just imagine we're somewhere else and nothing can harm you; if we make it I can get a deal. You know I never care about myself, so let's not be pointless. I wish this was a love story. An adventure story, a fantasy story. Life is already depressing enough to a melodic character to be interesting. Let's propose I walk forward on my own; can you imagine that? I want to walk backwards into my past years and protect myself from my ghosts. I never made it, it never got better.

24.

I love colors. Sometimes it's too bright and I can't stay still, but as soon as I touch it, just fits. My hand in the paint and it almost speaks to me. There's this trick I try every time to receive the answers I need, it never works therefore I wait. If you take a closer look, people are made of tiny fabrics of speckles like a kaleidoscope, it's astonishing and tragic; can't bring myself to really hate them. Of course it's because I'm a coward, sorry for forgetting to be clear about that. Only cowards hate their own skin tones, only cowards and martyrs, if you needed I'd still die for you though. You can see I'm a fool, a person shouldn't be that ready to die at such a young age. Not 24, but 14. 10 years in the making of an earthquake, the only patching up I get is forgetfulness and the way you laugh with your mouth wide open up and I swear I see butterflies coming out of it, when you laugh so hard and get an asthma attack because it's worthy. 

24.

The devil does not exist. Take that affirmation as an universal truth for a second. Look inside your guts, in your blood; it's you. Deep down you know. There's more blood about living that you could've imagined and it's okay, just keep breathing, I am too. These violent battles and dreadful acts are nothing but a brief look at the mirror; keep them locked up and smile, nothing to lose sleep over (they say). I accept that you are the way you are and I still love you and it's almost not fair how you get to be a goddamn aurora boreal, you can't see your own sparkling aura but I did, I do, I swear I do. 

24. 

Contrary to popular belief, I can let go of things that don't fit the picture anymore. At least it's me getting hurt, it's a Jane Doe; I can take it, I'm used to it. Honestly being so full of shit my entire life made me expect a knife in my liver at anytime; it's not about rightfulness or pity, expect expect expect and that's the only thing you'll think you deserve. Don't fret, I'm always waiting for the non boring things to happen like the little mediocre bitch that I am. Letting go means bittersweet juices and cupcakes and my drilled hand trying to hold corpses. There was a time where I wished for good things to happen; no longer after that I realized I don't know how they look like anymore. Happiness isn't the same to everyone, however the common factor is wanting to share it. So be in a pair; make one, invent one, go to find one. My letting go is flawed, despite my efforts. Some days I still let the door open to people I know that won't come back anymore — just to stop breathing for a moment, I need it. This is not healing, it's damage control. Good luck with these two hundred cracks on my skin, no light on these obsidian walls, no rope for escaping. I'd still help you, because your hands are cotton and silk, if you let me touch it for this long you'll get burned. Count until three and let go.

24.

On August 6 2012, the mars rover Curiosity landed on Mars. It sings a birthday melody for itself every August 6, alone, on a fucking planet of sand storms. Everything should be made in pairs, if you ask me. Even God supposedly understood that, that one God that later wrote some bullshit saying that one of the them is inferior. Things and humans aren't made to be alone, anywhere. Do you think it would despise you, it's Creator, if it had to spend their life spans singing to it selves? Don't overthink, let me bring you back to the singing. There's birthdays where I lock my bedroom's door and spend the day sleeping until the day ends; there's birthdays that I sit on the floor with a cake without candles and cry until my body passes out; in some birthdays I tell everybody to fuck off and I sing silly birthday songs to myself, scrolling through the internet to see if anyone remembered me even though I'm always MIA and wait, here comes the expectations and nobody gets to beat them, it's a kobayashi maru, nobody is in my head. Some birthdays people say they love me and I can't bring myself to give a shit, not their fault. People try to sing to me and I feel even more like crap, I don't want to make wishes, I don't want hugs, I don't want more birthdays. I don't want to be alone anymore, but I'm always fighting invisible monsters and it's so hard to feel real again and reach out. I prefer the birthdays I sing to myself, they're little bread crumbs marking the way back home, which is useless because there's no such thing. So just sit on this empty corn field and scream til there's only void in your flammable throat; come to find me after that, I'm always waiting. That way, your silence fills me with a love you didn't know it was was an option; you never thought it could be like this. It will kill me someday, but the door is unlocked and I still manage to have hope. This is what masochism looks like.

terça-feira, 25 de julho de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°63: The middle

How can I explain? I don't make pretty things. My hands are full of weeds and it wants to eat everything alive. The tenderness was desired, but my face smells like dry blood and wind dust because I'm always on run. God, I wish I special like you, like them, like that mango tree over your head. They are what they are; I'm not what I am and I'm not what I wanted to be, maybe, maybe that's okay. Close your eyes and follow the sound of my voice, hold my hand and tell me I'm pretty — I've always wished to be that — tell me to write about love again. I hate orders, but you're under my skin, I can't refuse.

Walk through a street alongside me and, if you pay attention (nobody does), you can see that I only have half of my body; as if I'm wandering half in this world and half in the void. The me in the void is long gone and my head doubts if it even existed in first place. Don't get distracted, pay attention to the hole in my chest sucking the life out of me. It turns into a hurricane so fast you barely can see the wind dirt dressing me down.


Get out of the middle and choose a side, someone yells. Well, I would if I fucking wanted, I reply. I like the hurtful and unbalanced switch, at least it's not boring. The middle is my mom and my dad bring me into this life even though they're fuck ups. I'm not a mixture, I got stuck in the strains of heads on the wall and cultures that don't accept me. The middle is needing labels because I don't know how I am supposed to act in this existence. The middle is my skin being hated, and hating my skin, but not expressing myself about it because I'm not really there. The middle is my friends making plans — I hate plans and promises and people who give up easily — because my imagination doesn't go that far. The middle is me being a mediocre person, I was more in my head, I did everything there. The middle is wanting to hold a hand forever and then 30 seconds later rushing back to my room to isolate myself for 6 months. The middle is wanting to die so, so much, but there's people making noise. The middle is wanting to smash someone's head into a wall, but being terrified when people start raising their voices during an argument. The middle is wanting to say so many cruel things to the people I love for they don't live up to their versions in my head; I hold back, I wanted them to read my mind so I don't have to speak about it. The middle is running away from everything that could have an ending coming soon. The middle is me, with 14 years, trying to kill myself for the first time, but hoping if something extraordinary could happen and erase the bad things from my head. Instead, I keep forgetting, bit by bit. The middle is laughing while your brain displays a compilation of solid points about why you should die as soon as possible. The middle is talking about how I didn't want to be broken then hearing every week every time that I can change that if I really really want. I don't. The middle is from where I can see you and the wonderful, painful, joyful life you'll have. I won't.

Somewhere from where I am a memory, I hope I'm a good one. Keep following the sound of my voice and don't look back, I've already turned into a clock. Tick tock, tick tock, keep measuring, keep counting, keep walking and then silence. The silence will cut through your throat, but it'll be alright, darling. My dry blood thrives, even though I'm a cardboard cut out, the velvet overwhelms this room. Don't open your eyes, just tell me I'm pretty anyways.

quarta-feira, 28 de junho de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°62: You were beautiful

You see, I want to give calls when I want to say I love someone without really needing to say the words, but I bleed so much. I don't feel my hands and there's just so many bright lights, all around all the time, don't you ever get so dazzled by all of it and all of it becomes none of it in a millisecond because I'm dumb, I can't reach and the darkness is so familiar. I look at you through the curtain and I think “darling darling darling”, my tongue disappears and I can't breathe (again).

The nature in me (the Hyde) wants me to be cruel when I'm in physical pain, I'm hurting and I want you to hurt too, I want to see you burn just as much as I do; you'd have pretty wings though. But I never do and never regret it, I'm that mean to myself, I'm that greedy. There's only so little I can prove it's real and the burning hand squeezing my heart it's real, darling. The vintage picture of your laugh it's still so clear yet so blurry it's almost a recording on a video tape just like the Twin Peaks one. Pause, pause, pause, pause, pause I want the perfect angle, I don't want to forget (I'm lying), please let me keep this. You never laugh like that again in front of my face, I close my eyes forever and I bet you're still smiling. Hands on the floor, hands on my neck, hands on my skull, scratching my hair to make access, to make space.

Lady Destiny made me to be one to forget, little round broken machine somehow at the front of the store's display. I'm sorry about your purchase but darling, you're sorry too, I can read on the glint of your living eyes hovering above this corpse; you have so much useless hope, darling. Listen, there was a nail making their way inside my foot; blood everywhere and I said it was kinda cool. The other me(s) in other realities just cackled, chanting silly little round, silly one. The joke's on them though, the velvet thickness is my the best function. And I mean it, darling. One day you'll get to see that even I made use of it to paint my journals and bedroom walls and the parts of me I still can't bring myself to go deeper, blindfolded I'm on my way to not see more of me, only trying to see more of you. All the versions of this broken chest built skyscrapers around themselves and look, yes I am shattered, but I'm not a puzzle piece. My body may be on the ground and I can't breathe, darling; just once give me your oxygen (I want to say) why can't I be mean right now (I never do). 

In my memories there's always a bulletproof vest. I lie and I say that I'm protecting myself, however we both know I haven't shielded myself in a long time. You speak about the future and goddamn, there's this effervescent gold light crafting a crown over your head; you tell me the future because you have that power but I'm sure I'm never there, you always know I'm certain I'm not there. You're still talking and I want to touch the inside of you that have all these soft things and maybe steal it, but I can't be that selfish, not anymore, and it's pointless. A part of me rejoices because you are there, darling, I never doubted that; but who you'll have to see dying to become stronger? Is it me, is it yourself? Your arms can carry this weight of flowers that feels like the weight of iron bars? I saw myself dying two times and I still can't do it. The point is that you're better than me, darling. You can make paper birds and they'll carry you along the way, are you listening? I hope you are, I love you. Simple as that, simple and I can't feel.

The sea is catching fire and I only look at your picture in my bedroom desk. But I can't feel it, I'm sorry. You cry when you think I'm not looking, silly. My sight has never left your side, silly. I'm taking pictures so I can remember you and I are real, and because when I can finally breathe again I'm always alone, your ghost-object-permanence hand is on my hair, thank you, hurriedly you move back into the photo I took of you though. Like I said, the sea is catching fire and I'm only saving your smiling face. I'll take it to my grave, I don't like to be alone anymore and I still can hear your voice. Darling darling darling, please forget me. I'm satisfied with just the ghosts of you. 

quarta-feira, 26 de abril de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°61 - 2-stars hotel

One of the greatest symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder is the intense and profound fear of abandonment, even when there's no base to this fundament. There isn't much of logic when you have BPD, but it's always about leaving. Somehow, it always end up being my fault. For being too introverted, for being too clingy, for being too scary, for being unable to control my voice's volume, for being too weird, for being too boring. I get it, really. It's not like I'm gonna refute this. My body turned into a 2-stars hotel, these ones mostly given out of pity by those who stayed here and then, like everybody else, left. There's not even other three stars faded beside it, and you can blame on my negativism. It's just so fucking tiring to be the one who's always making the effort to take the water out of this sinking boat; the hole in the very deep fabric of it has always been there, I can't remember it not being there. My arms are numb along with the rest of my body, must be because of that that I can't feel a motherfucking single thing. I'm tired of trying not to drown forever in the lives of the people I love, when clearly they don't seem to mind the water entering in my mouth; my lungs are full of salty water and they dare to ask me why I'm having trouble to breathe. I never thought I'd be like this — the water around me feels like two thousand knives and I've always thought that sinking would be worst thing that could've happened to me, but then I noticed I started floating. The lapis lazuli roof over my head hurts my eyes; it's too shiny and I have goddamn photophobia. The waters are calm while the fury of the eye of the storm crushes my chest, but I never flinch; I'm too afraid that if I do, there'll be no turning back. No matter how much i think, it's (i'm) never worth it. So I float and I see all of you, and I still can spare time to smile at this sight. The truth is I'm just a fucking coward who runs away in order to not being abandoned. Being forgotten is easy, forgetting others is a splinter under the nail that haunts you. It's a splinter under all your nails, even from the hands and feets that you didn't know were there. I cut all of them, however they just multiply the former misery. By now, the rock in chest is so damn heavy that there's no law of physics that would agree to this situation. Yet, I float. I float and I listen to music that makes temporarily happy, and others makes tremendously sad, on purpose. I remember they're dead and something dreadful inside me twitches, I remember everything taken from me and I want to tear this world apart because I didn't deserve being made this way. And I can't forgive either. But I'm floating as all of you can see. Did you know they used to drown women accused of witchcraft back in the XVI century? But I float. I get up everyday asking for mercy with resignation, I look at the universe and just plead to die. But I continue to float. I'm adrift and voiceless, every day an centimeter away from the sight that still manages to make me smile. Why don't you swim, you (you, you) ask me. I don't fucking know how, and everybody keeps saying that the pills will teach me. (They didn't) So I float. If you ever wonder if I'm writing about you: I am. And I float. And I left. I float but I burn; I'm the thick layer of oil on the water that can't wait to combust, because I think I deserve the flames. There's so much sorrow without a reason and I just want to feel less insane. The water in mouth goes merciless through my throat and stabs my lungs in every single way possible, perharps that's the reason I can't really breathe sometimes.  I still can laugh once in a while, you know. Even though there's blood (my own blood, my ancestors' blood) all over my body so often that some days I think my skin turned red like the ones who lived before me had. I'm truly a half; not quite 100% here, not really 100% there. I leave even my halfs behind, some kind of murder that isn't acknowledged yet. There's a plethora of things I'd like to be. However, I left. And that's okay. It's love. It's pain and it's not beautiful, not anymore. At least I can still see you on the dry land.

sábado, 15 de abril de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°60 - Hate

I think about girls in towers and dragons vigorously guarding — threatening, hovering over their aureola like the moon tries to cover the sun on an eclipse. Sometimes the dragon is yourself; sabotaging all the good thoughts you could have about who you are. That's how self hatred starts. At first, you think that, even if you hate everything about yourself, you could still do something to change your body. You try to exercise, eating healthier or sometimes not eating at all because you think you already had too much in the past days. For a while, it works; you look at your reflex on the mirror somehow, endeared. Then the breakdown comes. It's like standing on a beach watching a tsunami coming at your direction, but you don't know if you really want to manage to run away. So you're dragged down. You try loving yourself again, but something is different. There isn't the same motivation, so you start to slack off. At certain point, you give up. The thoughts that stab you right in the gut don't flinch at any compliments; you stop believing them, and not much longer you don't believe anything else. The dragon wins, you think. There's flames all over your body, the touch you provide feels like it burns the others even though they don't say so. There's a beggining of the damsel in distress complex. You start imagining that someone magically will into your life and love you unconditionally — even though you haven't left the house in four months — until you start to love yourself, and you'll be whole again because you'll realize how wrong you were. It doesn't happen, sorry. You might find someone, cultivate feelings with them with the delicateness of someone who's building something with Lego, but it's still about you. About you and your goddamn dragon. Suddenly you're seeing everyone through a thin but effective pane of glass — you can hear them laughing out of happiness, looking at you and saying something you can't hear because of the goddamn pane of glass. You try break it, reaching out, but you're still deaf to them. You can only hear the bad things your brain create about your disgusting self. So you stop trying reaching out, stop trying to convince yourself, and even all the praises in the world won't make you feel less miserable. You still seek them though, mostly as an automatic thing than a real desire. You get used to the burning. The pain that your knuckles against the wall causes somehow brings you to a peaceful moment. Adrenaline runs all over your body telling you you're still alive, mostly out of spite. Pain becomes common, the heat of the flames don't bother you anymore, yet every foreign touch feels like a bomb dropping on your body — it's because of all the shame of existing. I wish there was something poetic about that. However, there's just something very wrong about the way I'm living. 

quarta-feira, 12 de abril de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°59 - WANTED

Well, how you doing? Cool. I'm the way I've always been (between psychotic and depressed) Oh, why am I writing in english? Cause I'm fucking tired of having to translate my thoughts. When I'm seeing my doctors and we start talking about my shitty life, it feels like there's a timer just in front of my head counting how many time I'm wasting by being a bored dipshit with a fucked up brain that gave me a personality disorder. I guess that's what pisses me off the most when I think about going to these appointments; logically I understand that my rage comes from the undeniable fact that they're telling me all the stuff I need to hear, but it is still painful and gets under my skin like fire, burning up every other emotion. But hold on, the worst is yet to come. I'm technically pretty fucking useless and still don't have a single fucking clue of what I'd like to do with my life. So, who'd like to be my friend right? I don't have nothing but Korean music to talk about. Pretty sure I'm human version of watching paint dry. Don't get me wrong, I love all of my friends whom for an unusual cause still consider me their friend. I just feel like I belong less and less in other people's lives like I'm an old version of a program that doesn't run at all in a new upgraded software. I can't avoid wanting and wanting attention and surprises and to feel wanted and loved and not for a second to doubt this, even if my disorder is screaming the contrary in my head. I know I'm not my disorder, but in the end I kinda am. How do I ask somebody to deal with my feelings being  50x more intense than what other normal people experience? I can imagine in seconds at least 20 different scenarios of you abandoning me. I know it's not always real, but it's not something I can control. But I wanted to be wanted, so bad. I still do, I guess. I've made up my mind a certain time ago that I won't get in romantic relationships, but I still have my friends. I still could have more friends. It's easier for me when I want to disappear; sometimes everything is too much and the world doesn't need to see me breaking down. It's always been hard for me to to people in, mostly because of the 20 meters layers of  thick concrete that I used to build a fortress around me since I was a kid. People don't like walls, it's hard work that you don't even know if it will pay off. So, here I am, FBI's most unwanted. I'm always checking up how you're doing and I know that I never apologized for being a piece of shit 3 years ago, because as you may have noticed by now I'm always with my head sticked far up my egocentric ass. I hope you know that none of what I said back then was true. It was just depression eating me up for breakfast, lunch and dinner. As long as you're all okay, I'm okay. No need to hurry, to worry; I'm not going anywhere for now. This is not my home, however all of you treated me very well, and I'm always thankful. Sorry if I end up never fitting in; I never belonged here anyway. All of my best memories come from this special place of special people, my own secret magic garden inside my fortress.

"Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else." Richard Siken

domingo, 26 de março de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°58 - Carta fechada

Na maior parte do tempo é difícil pra mim saber exatamente onde eu estou e se eu realmente existo. Às vezes eu consigo passar um bom tempo centrada, sem muitos episódios de raiva ou ódio de mim mesma. Eu procuro falar o suficiente com meus amigos; mando mensagens e mesmo que às vezes não respondam, já é algo pra mim. As conversas que tenho me fazem sentir de carne e osso, e quase por um momento eu esqueço que no fim eu vou esquecer da maior parte disso tudo. Eu vou religiosamente ao psiquiatra e ao psicólogo, dois engodos que eu suporto por causa de minha mãe. Eu continuo não querendo viver, mas ninguém me dá ouvidos. Enquanto não aprendem a arte de deixar ir, eu fico remoendo toda minha trajetória até aqui, tudo o que meu transtorno destruiu, tudo o que ele sem pudor nenhum me tirou. Minha criação se baseou em atacar pra me defender; queria eu não ter sido assim, todo dia eu me arrependendo por algo que não é minha culpa. Como alguém ataca a si mesmo e sobrevive? Alguém sempre tem que pagar um preço, nunca é o perpetrador. Foi difícil aceitar que meu cérebro e eu nunca vamos estar em bons termos, afinal ele é um amante que me manda sinais de duplo sentido e eu me canso de ter que interpretar. Eu não pedi pra ser assim. Eu nunca quis ser assim, mas quem me trouxe a esse mundo cinza, que às vezes se colore quando as pessoas certas sorriem, nunca me viram como uma peça do tabuleiro; eles não viram quando o embate deles me empurrou pra fora da plataforma de xadrez. O rei e a rainha se degladiaram; eu fui pisoteada e nem percebi. Eles fizeram a eu que (acho que) existe hoje, e ao meu ver perdão nunca foi uma opção. O quão diferente eu poderia estar agora se eles não tivessem quebrado algo dentro de mim que não tem conserto? Eu me pergunto isso quase todos os dias. Tenho quase certeza de que não vou estar aqui ano que vem, mas sou grata por todos os meus amigos estarem bem, por todos os momentos (até os menores que não lembram) que eles partilharam comigo. Eles ainda são bonitos na minha memória, e perdão se eu nao puder estar em alguns próximos. Eu estou tentando muito não me odiar em tamanha grande escala, mas eu vivo com o inimigo. Bem, isso era pra ser um texto que pessoas seletas entenderiam, então deixa eu dizer: eu não te fiz, você que se construiu na pessoa excepcional que hoje és. Eu amo e sempre vou amar sua cabeça maluca, sou mais do que grata de receber seu amor; eu te escolheria em qualquer mundo. Sinto muito se o banheiro chegar pra nós algum momento não muito longe; você foi como  o sol pra mim por muitos anos e não há palavras suficientes pra minha gratidão. Você não me deve nada, lembre disso; enquanto você estiver feliz e saudável eu vou estar contente, e obrigada por ter tentado lutar por mim. Nossa afinidade foi o que nos uniu e não houve um dia sequer no qual eu deixei de pensar em você como minha amiga mesmo com todo nosso afastamento natural; sempre esteve no meu coração no lado mais florido. Meu amor não tem data de validade, não tem barreiras nem condições. Eu não perdôo, porém amo. Meu desejo é que toda a raiva dentro de mim se tornasse um combustível pra alimentar a felicidade de todos aqueles no meu coração, por que deus, só assim ela teria ela serventia além de me fazer abrir buracos em paredes. Eu continuo existindo num bolsão atemporal assistindo o mundo morrer enquanto eu ainda continuo viva, quase como por castigo. Seria bom poder lembrar das atrocidades que cometi e me transformaram em Atlas.