The final one of the year

2013 is knocking more and more insistently on my door, and I’m not even gonna have a chance of willingly open it because at 12 tonight it’s gonna come bursting in. Also, I have no way of knowing  if the uninvited guest is friend or foe, or if I’m prepared to entertain it.

But still, it’s not up to me and a new year is coming up ahead. I can’t deny I’m a bit scared. Anything new and different scares the hell out of me. But I’m also glad 2012 is ending. It wasn’t the best of years, and I’ve been going through a lot. I can only hope what’s coming is better.

After analyzing the rights and wrongs of 2012 I’ve reached the conclusion that it is the Frankenthesis what’s been pulling me back and down. It’s not by far my biggest problem, but it’s certainly the one that nags me the most, and that’s why I’m determined to not let it be the doom of me.

I do have to say it wasn’t all that bad. I’m in a good place with BF and it isn’t thanks to luck but rather to our hard work and will to stay together. I also started this blog back in june and I feel incredibly happy of doing so. It’s like a door that existed long before I wrote the first post but never really dared to open it and when I did, not only did my cramped issues formed a flowing stream outwards, I also gained friends, and input, and acceptance. So thank you for reading this, for accepting me, for not pulling away when I’m letting all the sh*t out in the open, it really means the world for me, and all I can do in return is wish you a happy 2013, you deserve it, you really do!

So 2013, I feel you rushing like a tsunami, but I know it won’t kill me, not this time, I’m gonna embrace you and be opened to what you have to offer even if you scare the sh*t out of me. Welcome!


Do you have kids?


I cheated on my shrink. There, I said it. More specifically, I cheated on my psychiatrist, and I did it because she made me angry at her by refusing to answer the silliest question of all times: Do you have kids?

Let me start at the top. I’ve been seeing her on a monthly basis ever since Mr. Shrinky (a psychoanalyst himself) said, very early on in our work together, that therapy was too much to handle by myself at that point and I needed extra help. I was severely depressed and suicidal so evidently I agreed, after all I was sitting there at his office asking for help wasn’t I? He referred me to her and said she’s the best at what she does. Fine then.

Anyhow, after a while I hit it off with Mr. Shrinky, but things with N have never been quite very smooth. For one thing, I don’t see her far as often as I do see him, and when I do I usually don’t have a lot of things to say to her because I don’t feel entirely comfortable, among other things because of her office. It’s dark and cold, and our chairs are so far away we have to speak up to hear each other.

Another thing is the barriers she puts up: once, at the end of a session when I was looking for my wallet to pay (a moment which is always very uncomfortable for me), I found a pair of chocolates, so I offered her one. I didn’t even think about it, it just came out of my mouth (for those of you who don’t know, us mexicans tend to be sharers, we share whatever it is we’re about to eat to anyone who is around), and she said no, thanks. It didn’t bother me, it’s also rather common for people to first say no, and then accept whatever it is they’ve been offered. When I insisted, she said “but it’s yours, I can’t accept it”, response that caused a big WTF gesture on my face as I proceeded to put the damn thing back and take out the money.

So during my last session with her in the middle of November, I saw something in her office that resembled a Xmas gift and I wondered why she would keep such a thing in her office when it wasn’t even December, which got me to think that maybe it was a gift she was hiding for her kid(s), and I realized I didn’t know whether she had any kids at all. And so, without paying attention to any of the previously described signs, I asked her if she had kids, and she simply stared at me. So I asked yet again, and the conversation went on a bit like this:

-Why do you ask?

-Just because, I saw that thing that looks like a gift and it got me wondering if you were a mother.

-Is it important for you to know?

-No, I’m just curious,do you have kids N?

-(Stares at me)

-Are you really not going to tell me?

-(Stares at me)

-Fine, whatever.

Then she said something about me redirecting my anger towards her and we needed to find out where it was coming from, but at this point I wasn’t really listening and was just waiting out for the damn session to end, I was too pissed off. What really fueled my anger was that she wouldn’t answer, she didn’t even say “You know? I’m just not going to answer that” or something, all I got was her silence. And it offended me. It was like I wasn’t even worth an explanation.

After the session I was sure I wasn’t coming back to see her again. I told Mr. Shrinky about all of this and he said it was something she and I needed to talk about. Right, yet another conversation fueled by an insignificant, silly little question, don’t they have enough?

Aside from this, my female progenitor approached me one day, as female progenitors do, to say she wanted me to get a second opinion on my psych treatment, after all I’d been going for quite a while and it wouldn’t hurt to listen to what another shrink had to say about it. My most natural, immediate response, would’ve been something on the tone of : “Hell no! You’ve got no idea if I’m making progress or not, and I’d really like you to say out of it”, but because the situation with N happened just days before, I was suddenly open and willing to do as I was being suggested, and much to my surprise I even made an appointment with the doc she suggested.

Mr. Shrinky was pissed, he said this was a decision that we should’ve made together, that he couldn’t make a team out of the blue with this “person” and that I could “get confused”. After this session with him I realized I didn’t want to see any other shrink at all because I trusted them both and was content with the progress made. In fact I couldn’t find a single fiber in me telling me to go see this new doc, except for one: the part of me that was still very upset and offended and angry at N.

So I went, this other shrink concurred with the way my treatment had been handled, and I even got to leave with a month-supply of the meds I’m on. So far so good. Now, my next appointment with N is tomorrow and I’m gonna have to tell her I cheated on her, and I think this may cause yet another bump in our way, and all because of a simple unanswered question.

Agreed, I may have a bit of a problem with boundaries, but it’s not as if I asked for her address or her children’s names. And these steel barriers are not something I think I can get accustomed to, mainly because they seem illogical to me and thus I can’t seem to deal well with them. Let’s see how it goes (I may or may not report back on it 😛 ).


I don’t know what’s going on with me. It’s like I’m back in robot-mode, except I’m a broken robot. I can’t be on time for work, I can’t catch up on my work, and most of the times I feel like I have no feelings left in me. My mind’s been playing hooky and leaving the auto-pilot on, the down side to vacationing inside my brain is that I can’t control it, and there can be times when I have no memory of what happened in the time I was gone. Fortunately it seems like robot Dani knows how to handle herself and knows not to get in trouble, the worst thing that’s happened is having awkward situations where people act like I should know something but I don’t, or where I come back in the middle of a conversation and have to discreetly find out what it is about. I know for sure it could be worst, I’ve driven and gone places without really being there

It’s like I’ve lost the ability to feel happy or sad, and most of the time I feel like a blur. The only time this week when I felt emotion was rather lame: right before T, I decided to stop for a coffee. I’m very picky about my coffee, probably because it’s very comforting and because if I’m buying expensive coffee I expect it to be exactly the way I ordered it. Anyhow, I payed and waited for it. It took them a while, and when they finally gave it to me, it was all wrong, so I politely mentioned this to the girl who prepared it, who said my coffee was ok. I told her I had asked x and y, to which she answered: “Your coffee is done the way it’s supposed to be, but if you still don’t like it I can change x and for you”. This coffee was not even close to being ok. Even if I had ordered a plain one from the menu it wouldn’t have been ok. I was mad but I told her it was fine. She was making me feel like the most annoying client ever, so I just left with my crappy expensive coffee.

I wanted to let it go, but I was triggered by now and when I got to the car I cried and felt miserable while drinking my crappy non-foam, weak, coldish latte. How lame! And this was the feeling-peak of my week! This was the reason I started feeling(!)  uncomfortable about not feeling stuff. I’ve been playing along with it because I thought it was better than being miserable, but when you start crying over coffee I guess it’s a sign that you’ve done as much denial as you can. Problem is, I don’t know how to shut if off. I’m paying more attention to the things I do and that’s helped me stay inside my body, but I still can’t find the on button for my pressed down feelings, anyone know where it is?

If i find it, I wish it’s over the weekend when I can take some time to deal with stuff, and not on Monday first thing in the morning like it’s happened before, because if I’m lucky I’ll manage to bottle everything and go to work and if I’m not I’ll go to work a mess…again, either way I’d be screwed.

In the meantime before any of this happens, I know I won’t be going to that coffee shop again! 🙂

Not me anymore

Today my long weekend ends. I really needed it, thank goodness for Mexican Revolution. However, I do have to go to work tomorrow. I do have to face a thesis seminar and I do have to face my tutor. It’s not a matter of wether or not I can take it, it’s is a matter of last chances. Tomorrow I have the obligation of not f*ucking up. As of this moment I feel sort of capable, I hope to continue feeling that tomorrow morning.

It’s just so hard getting out of bed in the morning. Once I manage to do that, it’s usually already a little bit late and I have to run, which makes me very anxious all day long. If I could only not feel sick, if I wasn’t sick, I know I’d have finished my thesis already, I know I’d enjoy my job, and I know I’d be on may way to graduate school. The worst part is having to lie about it, because no matter what people say, being severly depressed is frowned upon. And even though I don’t want to, even though I should know better, people’s view on my performance affect my own personal view of myself. I’ll  feel like an irresponsible whining baby because I can’t comply with what’s expected from me.

And when I stop being so hard on myself, still I can’t shake off the failure sensation. I can’t forget that I used to be the shining star of my undergraduate generation, the one everybody consulted before handing in papers, the pride of teachers, and a girl who had her act pretty much together ALL the time.

I’m not that person anymore. I don’t know where she went and I don’t know if she’s ever comming back. I sure do hope so because I miss her. I can only wonder how she managed to handle everything, not just her everyday stuff but also the garbage that keeps me a complete mess and forces me to be medicated and go to therapy three times a week.

There are flashes when I feel everything will get better, and periods of time when I do feel better, but even when that happens I can’t forget I’m not what I used to be, I don’t forget my utter failure in all of my goals, and I don’t forget there are still battles comming up ahead.

Damn, I’ve written a sad post again, and I’m not even feeling that sad. Come to think about it, maybe writing all this stuff helps me chanalize it instead of feeling it on my flesh. It has always been this way, except before I only wrote when pain was piercing me and now, sometimes I’m able to hit the keyboard at the first sign of a crisis, and I think it has helped me in reducing them. I wish this was all the therapy I needed, but until that’s the case (I do hope that’ll be the case someday), here’s a cat.


Veredict’s in: I need surgery on my left wrist. With it I’m gonna have 3 of those on my back, and though thoughts of my painful recovery from the previous 2 I had on my right wrist keep flooding me, when the doctor told me I felt like he was casually sharing me news from another patient… I didn’t feel anything. Also, an inner voive keeps telling me that this isn’t real so I don’t need to worry about it. I’ve even managed to feel better, so maybe I’ve fought this thing off, like it was possible to “fight off” a damaged ligament that has cysts.

When my more reallistic side tells me that I should get the surgery as soon as possible so that my condition doesn’t get any worst, I can only mentally utter that I’ll have to wait until until I’ve finished the-thesis-that-must-not-be-named because there’s no way I’m writing it with one hand.  Ironically, accostumed as I am to finding new things to procrastinate on instead of working on my thesis (hence this blog), now she (yes, she) has become a way of delaying my surgery until further notice. And hell, it has worked so far, I’ve gotten more work done on it on these 2 post-diagnosis days than I had in weeks. Also, I find myself miraculously enjoying my job more, so I can tell myself it’d really be a shame to skip some days of work, even if it’s on a sick leave of absence, and I certanily cannot be absent one more day if I’m indeed gonna have to take some days off. I’ve even stopped having self-harm thoughts, maybe because I know that there is quite a lot of pain right around the corner for me anyways.

I don’t know if I want to or if I will get the surgery yet, but it seems like having it in the horizon can be a positive thing for me…even when most of the time it feels like this isn’t really happening to me.

The kitten chronicles

We usually keep kittens with us until they are old enough to eat by themselves and have learned to use the litter box properly, which means they are boarders until they’re 6 or 8 weeks old, and then we find them a definitive home. However these litter came in with a little problem of skin fungus, and since they were too little to be medicated we hoped that with proper feeding they’d be able to fight it off.

Unfortunately this wasn’t the case, and since it’s growing and they’re already 6 weeks old we’re gonna have to start medicating them, and we can’t let them go until they have fully overcome this, mainly because the stress of moving to yet another place would probably affect their recovery. We’re gonna have to give them medicated baths as well as a cutaneous solution and hopefully that’ll be enough. Otherwise they’re gonna need ingested meds, which I’m really really crossing my fingers for them not to need it, they’re mere babies!

Here’s a picture of the whole litter (sorry for the low resolution pic), another one of three of them eating dry food all by themselves (!!), and one of the little one who’s got the worst share of fungus.

The nightmare before, during and after Halloween

The-thesis-that-must-not-be-named keeps haunting me like the worst kind of Halloween spook. I simply don’t know why I can’t get on with it, and what’s worse is that I’m actually starting to imagine a life without graduation…after all I already have a job I moderately enjoy and that keeps me from begging for money on the street. What I don’t think I could live with is

The past few months have been a rough ride, and if I were a little sympathetic with me I’d accept I’m still healing from the mayor crisis I went trough, the real problem here is that the rest of the world is not going to be as nice, and it’s  more likely to keep pushing and pushing and pushing until I break or bend. I like to write, and tough I don’t have time to sit around doing nothing I could certainly manage an hour or two a day to work on my it, so why the hell I run away from it like it was the plague is beyond me. And it’s not even like I forget about it, because I get absolutely no moment of peace, my mind is never really free from it and I can never say, like I used to when I was in college, “well, I’ve worked x amount of time so I’m gonna relax for x amount of time”, come to think about it, I never truly relax because I have this huge weight on my back that I could but won’t lift from myself, it’s freaking masoquism!

On a totally related note, perhaps becuase of the cramps it’s causing me, here in Mexico we’re a month away from Enrique Peña Nieto’s ceremony to officially take office. I say officially, because the current president has basically stopped pretending to have any authority left. I remember six years ago I was hysterical because I had no doubt Calderón’s election was a fraud; this time around I’m quietly watching the political changes go by, not because I’m happy with them, but because I cannot honestly claim without the election was a fraud.

Peña Nieto’s party bought the election, that’s definetely truth, but is was the mexicans who decided to sell their votes for groceries, and since everybody knew beforehand that our electoral institutions are a sad joke, it’s no surprise there was no punishment for these actions.

On December 1st, when EPN becomes Mexico’s president, I will not be angry, I’m just gonna be terribly sad because my country got the president it deserves…

Me, myself and I

3 in the morning.

Body: I need to pee. I need to pee NOW.

3:10 am, post-peeing.

Right hemisphere: Writy write write…writy write write.

Left hemisphere: But it’s almost 3 am and you have to get up early, if you start writing right now, you’ll be tired and sleepy in the morning.

RH: Don’t care. Writy write write, writy write write!

LH: Ok, we have to get up at 5:30 anyways, so I’ll get up, put on a pot of coffee, write for an hour, and I’ll just have an early start today.

Body: BTW, I’m hungry! Feed me now!

3:30 am, post-feeding.

LH: Ok, laptop’s all yours RH, go ahead.

3:40 am, post-minor writing.

Body: I’m sleeeepy! Let’s go back to sleep now!

LH: Sorry RH, we really have got to go back to bed.

4:30 am, post-minor sleeping.

Body: Can’t sleep anymore, think we should listen to RH!

LH: No way, I’m not gonna listen to you two irresponsible dumbasses anymore, we’re going back to sleep!

RH and Body: Not gonna happen dude!

LH: The hell it’s gonna happen, we’ll just lay here in bed until we get sleepy. We’re not writing any more!

5:30 am.

Body: I’m sooo tired, what a terrible night, let’s sleep until 6:00 just for today, pleeease!

LH: Ok, just this once, but we have to get up at 6 sharp and hurry up.

RH and B: Will do, promise!

6:37 am

LH: Damn it! I’m late, I’m super late! Can’t be late for work again!


In the end, we made it, minus coffee or makeup that is. Let’s hope for a better understanding tonight!

Avoidance mode: off

Gosh, some dark stuff I wrote about last time! The good thing is I can always fall back on the bigger picture to have some sense of calm and feel a little better… oh, wait… except for the ongoing drug-war, the devastating economic crisis, and why not? Mexico’s demoralizing political reality. And while it’s easy for me to get my system jammed in the pessimistic mode, I also find it relatively common to find reasons to have a good laugh about things, though apparently that ability decided to take a hike for the past few days and it’s just timidly starting to return.

For the past couple of months I’ve been avoiding the fact that my country’s reality pretty much sucks, and it doesn’t look like it’s gonna get any better any time soon. Well, apparently my avoidance is over,  just in time for my conscience to fully appreciate the pathetic show us mexicans will receive on December 1st, when the legally, though not legitimately, elected president takes office. Just in time to watch the government announce they have killed the second most important drug lord…only to have to add that they “lost” the body, and the list can go on. That’s why it’s pretty darn important for that acid humor to come back soon if I’m to bear stuff like the European Union winning the Nobel Peace Prize!

Just to show you what I mean, on the left there’s the avoidance face I’ve been carrying around for the last months, and on the right there’s the face I intend to put on from now on.

I cut myself, I want you to love me

I don’t remember when was the first time I hurt myself, but I know I started doing in on a regular basis as a teenager, after a couple of harsh isolated episodes when I was around 12 or 13. I don’t know if I enjoyed being in pain, I just remember I was desperate for attention, but my efforts were always futile, so it turned into my own little private ritual to take out all of my anger on me. Yes, it sounds dumb. To take out on yourself the anger caused by the abuse donde to you in the first place. But when you feel your blood boiling with anger inside your veins and you know the blade will make it stop, sometimes you just don’t stop to think about the pros and cons of it.

However, cutting makes it better only for a very short time, and after that it makes it worse. The anger certainly stops, but as time goes by and I realize how pointless and stupid my actions are, I start to fall into a depression that’s almost handicapping at times, and its a fight uphill to be able to feel functional again.

The difference this time around is that I’m talking about it (not without some pressure from Mr. Shrinky). I told my partner, which was pretty hard, and I guess know I’m letting it out into the world, something I probably wouldn’t have done without meeting such brave and amazing people and their blogs here at WP. And now that I’ve done it, that I’ve shared it, it actually feels just a little bit better, almost as if I were exorcising at least one of my demons. If I could only not feel that kind of anger again… all that seems to help right know, besides this, is Proust, so I’ll leave this little piece of me right here and continue my reading.

The return of Monday

It was a Monday and for me as an elementary school teacher it was a day off thanks to Miguel Hidalgo and the Department of Education, but my time had run out. I had to deliver my fourth chapter, and it didn’t matter wether I was happy with it or not. I was already a week late and there was no possible way to get out of it with a plausible excuse. So I printed it and drove to UNAM’s Historical Research Institute, a.k.a. Mount Olympus, and handed it in. I wanted to see my tutor, but she wasn’t there, which in the end turned out to be not such a bad thing.

I spent the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself. My chapter was probably sh*t, and to top it all off, my morning off turned out to be a bitter reminder of the days when I could do whatever I wanted and especially GO wherever I wanted. Compared to that, now I was basically a prisoner from the moment I woke up until 3:30 or 4 in the evening! And it’s not that I didn’t have responsibilities before, it’s just that I could choose when and how to address them.

To make it all a little bit worse, instead of getting the usual I-got-your-paper-now-let’s-meet e-mail from my tutor,  I got an even shorter mail asking me to call her…and that’s when I flipped. Of course it had to be a different mail, given the less than awful text I had dared to hand in, she was probably pissed and disappointed, she might even tell me to find another tutor since I can show no sign of commitment to my own thesis. It was until Friday when I gathered the will to call. She was as nice as ever and just wanted to organize our schedules to be able to meet soon, and had probably asked me to call just to avoid all the coming and going of messages that usually takes for us to find a time to meet. I mentioned in the most normal voice I could find that I wasn’t happy at all with what I had sent and had expected her to feel more or less the same, and I got a silence that felt as: “What on earth are you talking about, crazy girl?”. She eventually said that it wasn’t the case, the progress could be seen, and we could work on the bumps I had encountered when we met. The call left me feeling as crazy as ever, but still definitely a little better than before.

Mondays are pretty sh*tty on their own without your crazyself pitching in, so I hope I can control her tomorrow. Let’s see.


The 24/7 torture

Being a teacher is hard, and there are a ton of things I hate about it (no, I’m not going to balance this sentence by adding next all of the wonderful things about it, I’m just to grumpy right now for that), one of them is the fact that half the work is done outside the classroom. This means that my full-time job is not finished after my work hours, for I have to spend a percentage of my “free time” planning. So, having a growingly reduced spare time for working on my thesis, I’m starting to think I might not make it through.

What’s worse is having to dedicate just this free hours to the single most important thing for me right now, and it’s a vicious cycle that never seems to end: I can’t work on it full time because I have to make money for my expenses, so I have to get a job, the mentioned job being so far away, I have to use a car, which needs maintenance, which costs money; I also need clothes for this, oh and groceries to prepare the lunch I’ll be taking, and a whole bunch of small expenses that just keep adding up.

After working 8 hours straight plus another couple wasted in traffic, the last thing I wanna do is sit dow and work on my thesis, though it’s usually the one thing that tortures me on a daily basis. Now another deadline is approaching, and the whole process feels like watching a snowball running downhill to get me, I guess this is just one of those days.

Chaotic Organization

I can’t seem to balance what I want to do with what I have to do and what others want me to do, such as having to work, having to finish my thesis, while hoping to one day (that seems to be further away each day) being able to do the things I actually want. All of this, having people pushing and pushing on one side for me to finish this antiquated rite of passage while on the other I have more (if not the same) people expecting me to be able to meet economic responsibilities that started long ago before I could manage them and continue even when I never really had the proper  time to mentally and pragmatically prepare for them. I feel like I am being forced to bake a cake without the proper ingredients (not that I will ever do such a thing).

Still, I also don’t feel like I have plausible reasons to bitch about it ’cause the way I see it, the situation here in Mexico is getting darker and darker by the moment, and I’ll hopefully be writing about it soon enough, since right now I’m stealing hours from my most needed sleep to catch up on my other writing, the one I keep talking about but stays offline.

And about that, I’ve been thinking about creating an anonymous blog, maybe that could be more helpful to me and definitely more entertaining. I of course will not be linking it to this one but I thought I’d share the news anyways. It may sound like I have all the time in the world to spam my two readers with my babbling, but I guess it’s just a matter of getting my sh*t together.

I will however promise myself to work on my organizational skills all through the month the remaining week and see if it sticks, since this Monday was my first day at a new job doing something I had kinda thought I wouldn’t do again: teach English to elementary kids. This will require me to force my usual chaotic self to take a hike at least in the mornings, I’ll report on the results.

In the meantime, here’s the first image I have of one of my students:


One does not simply “write” a thesis

You should know this post started out in Spanish. I simply didn’t feel like writing in English… or so I thought, and before my text resulted in a reasonable causality for a linguist’s heart attack I decided to go back to my adoptive language (still not sure of who adopted who).

I’m meeting my thesis director tomorrow afternoon. I’m considerably afraid of her. The worst part is that there’s no justifiable reason to do so. She’s not only an academic warrior and someone to look up to professionally, but also a very nice person, and whenever I come down with my regular this-thesis-is-a-joke mood, she’s the one to show me all the good things about it. In short, I’m scared of her and ashamed for being so. I’m meeting her tomorrow and as I sat a moment ago wondering what it was that made me so uncomfortable when she’s so nice even as she helps me work out every millimeter or my work, I thought that it really isn’t her whom I’m afraid of, but my thesis.

Grabbing it and working with it has become something similar to working with The Monster Book of Monsters (go google it…ready?…let’s continue). And when anyone tries to stick their nose into the matter, it’s usually on the tone of: it’s just a matter of sitting down and writing it, I just feel like paraphrasing poor tortured Tolkien’s Boromir and screaming: ONE DOES NOT SIMPLY “WRITE” A THESIS!, though what actually comes out is a low, pathetic little voice saying “yeah, you’re right”. Of course they’re not right! Are they? Well, maybe… The fact is the “writing” process is coming close to a whole year and even though I’m working in the fourth chapter, I feel like I’m moving as fast as Frodo and Sam inside Mordor (gosh..maybe I should re-name this blog: Almost Everything About The Lord of The Rings…) and yes, just as them, as I get closer and closer to achieving my goal, the task becomes harder and harder. So I guess what I urgently need is a way of dealing with my pathologic fear of my own thesis.

By the way, while wasting valuable time researching important issues on the web, I found this (though I guess my thesis won’t have tea and cookies with me anytime soon): Image

And finally, to honor the actual name of this blog, I should report that exactly a week ago Mrs. Gobby was lost and found. She fell dow the balcony of her first floor flat and spent a couple of hours hiding in some bushes, which has resulted in her becoming the most spoiled and neediest ensalver cat ever.

Writing Ghosts

Ever since I can remember stories have been holding me together. Wether in the form of small plots or entire novels I would create for myself, mere day dreams or elaborated fantasies, there has been a world inside of me with varying levels of importance depending on how much I’ve needed it to survive.

The first elaborated story I remember writing was some sort of foundational myth with gods and wars and Creation, and it all resumed in the Universe creating me and my mother. I was 6 or 7 and have no idea where my story went.  But though the imagination has stopped at times, the writing has been a continuum. My narrative certainly became scarce when my adoration for literature grew more and more, making me realize I had no job competing with my idols; however, the physical action of the writing in itself gives me a sutil pleasure I’m not sure I can effectively describe.

The futile action of holding and using any kind writing device makes my heart beat in a different way. It can be a pen, marker, preferably a pencil, and even a keyboard… anything goes; and when I’m feeling low, the very words that are ripped out of me through the chosen item seem to have a life of their own. The therapeutic sound and the feel of the tip of the pencil sliding rhythmically as I write, or the touch of my fingers dancing through the keyboard making what to me sounds like music, is sometimes good enough to uncover and free whatever demons have been feasting on me.

The thing is, those are the exact kind of writings I seem to be unable of sharing because they expose me in the deepest way. That’s also the reason why I think most of my idols were not only amazing writers but absolute heroes, because they were brave enough to share themselves and their inner world with outsiders, with strangers who might praise on their work and whom’d tear it apart in a second. As for me, I think I might be something of a Gollum-like writer, holding my precious close to my heart while hiding it in deep dark caverns that no one should ever find.

Aaanyhow, that’s the reason why my attempt of a blog wasn’t updated lately, and so before this turned out to be just another thing I started and never saw through, I thought I should write about NOT writing, well, at least not writing for anyone else except me.

And my three faithful readers might be asking just exactly what has gotten me off my blogger mood in the past few days. Well, to keep with my Lord of the Rings analogy let me just say that I feel like the war against the Dark Lord has just been lost. No one came in our help and we were simply outnumbered. As I see it, Mexico has been lost to Mordor and we are just gonna have to learn to live under the regime of dark wizards and their orcs, while knowing we had the chance to end it all for good and we decided not to.

Election day came and went, and after the electoral prosecutor’s office has basically declared that anything goes and nothing’s gonna be made about it, Mexico’s gonna have to put up with a president 60% of mexican voters did not choose. A man accused of murder, a proven repressor, with no political career and who could not mention 3 books read by him, is going to rule over me, woohoo!

Sure, AMLO is a bad looser, if it means not putting up with fraud and resisting an election which was bought vote by vote. Being a “good” looser would then mean to act as the female PAN candidate, who recognized her loss with only 2% of the votes accounted for and who has not spoken a word against the proven vote-buying and constraint.

Ha, I think I managed to trick myself, started talking about me and my demons, ended up talking about my country’s demons… guess mine have locked themselves up for the night, and I’m gonna let them tuck me in ’cause I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow, and so does Mr. Sylvestre Bombon, who left the realm of the awake a while ago.Image

The Butterfly Effect

I’ve always been one to observe people. Most of the time they’re gestures, attitude, or sometimes even their tone speak louder to me than the words coming out of their mouths. I guess I’m more of a looker than a hearer, and it does get me in trouble every once in a while when someone catches me off guard and notices how I didn’t seem to pay attention to a word they just said; it’s just that I wasn’t paying attention to what they wanted me to, but to what they usually don’t want me to.

Now, when it comes to being watched, I’m probably no more comfortable than most people, but most people don’t really seem to notice or observe others so I’m not usually in that place. And then there are the tattoos: a butterfly sniffing a flower on my lower belly, and The Little Prince flying away from his planet on my upper back. I never imagined they would prompt such a wide range of reactions, or that people would tend to be so eager to share them with me.  Some probably won’t ever see them or notice them, but when they do, especially for the first time, chances are they’ll want to tell me all about it.

However, noticing their reaction does tell me more about them than the other way around. The one I like the most is the honest no-reaction face, where they’ll see them just like something completely ordinary, add them to their recollections of me, and then we can move on and forget about it; maybe they’ll even be mentioned in the future, though more as a natural part of people sharing themselves. The funniest one is the pretend-I-saw-nothing face, where the person in particular will have to gather all of her strength just to NOT look at them, it will bother me a little bit but mostly it will entertain me. Then there’s the Ahem-excuse-me-I-don’t-know-you-but-I-love-your-tattoo reaction, which doesn’t entirely piss me off though it’s still uncomfortable to have some complete stranger telling you how much they love a part of your body. The opposite reaction I’ve only had once, and it left me so shocked I didn’t even know how to respond; I was writing my name down on a list before a lecture, when this old folk taps on my shoulder and goes “Excuse me, but is that the Little Prince?”, “Why, yes. Yes it is sir”, “Oh, I thought so… I guess it’s nice, though why would you want something like that on your back?…Well, to each their own, right?”, to which I could only answer in a soft voice: “Indeed”. And I was almost forgetting about the one where simple acquaintances expect me to share my tats’ personal meanings like we’re talking about what we had for breakfast.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that the least of my concerns when I get tattooed is people’s reaction to my chosen modification, though it’s something I have to deal with every once in a while. I also wonder if it’s something cultural, and what other people with a lot more tats and piercings may have to deal with here in Mexico, ’cause if this happens to a fresa girl who’s got just a few tats… Anyway, of course this is no reason for me to hide them, of course I like to have them seen and appreciated, and most times I’ll even share their story if asked, but don’t expect me to always be in the mood for it, because the way I decide to live within my body is not a free pass for everybody to give me their opinion about it every single time. (I swear it din’t sound so bitter in my head!)

By the way, this is the reaction I absolutely love the most. It comes from Mrs. Gobby and it is wordless, has a perfect balance between awe and approval, and if you can manage to put this face on for my tattoos, or even better, just for me, I’ll adore you! (though I have to say, if you’re reading this, you probably lack the mandatory whiskers needed for that).