Help!!!!!

Please, make it stop! Make the pain go away! I can't handle it! PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME KEEP ON FEELING!!!!!

Don't mind me, I'm fine

Numbness. Sadness. Despair. Emptyness.

I know how to deal with these. You just have to ignore the big white elephant in the room that they are. Mask them as anything else, be it sickness, anger, tiredness. Pretend that the seat next to you is always unoccupied and available to anyone that may dare to take it, but be painfully aware that no one will because there's an invisible and incorporeal somebody sending the vibes that scream "back off, she's mine", soundlessly but loud enough to be perceived.

And then, watch the scenery of your life passing by, never managing to be a part of it. While al it, do try your best to not think of any other person's life and experiences. Take heed that if you can't not think about it, the presence next to you will gain force and gradually become ethereal: just with enough matter to hug you tightly and never let go, but never enough to be seen by another human being.

And when that embrace that smothers tightens its hold on you... don't try to squirm against it. The pressure won't kill you, I promise; you'll get used to it and then you'll never notice it anymore. Besides if you stay still long enough, not fighting it, it may ease up a little, from time to time, if only as a treat. The presence of those insubstantial but very real arms around your chest may fade, but you know they never wander far from you.

The painting seems to be a bleak one, is it not? Perhaps. But I know how to deal with them; I'm not afraid of them anymore. I take comfort in their familiarity, in the known and verified fact of their permanence and constance and the unwavering intensity that may sporadically peak like the unusual warm day during winter or the unexpected blizzard during spring, but never dissipate completely.

No, I fear the strenght, vibrancy, voluble nature of my own mind; of my own feelings; of my own heart. I fear myself. I'm scared of my potentiality becoming actuality. I'm scared of both, my light and my darkness. And so, I let myself become a monster, a being of the shadows that thrives in neither the light nor darkness, for each is as lethal as the other. I exist only in the in between, where one is not really dead, but neither is one really alive.

I am brave enough to not fear my own death, but coward enough to not want to bother anyone with the nuisance of it. I don't mind my own pain, but I'd hate to be the cause of it for others. I can see the beauty and worth in others, but I can't bring myself to relish in mine. I can pass kindness onto others, but I seem incapable of extending some to me. I am generous enough to give away time and advise and sympathy without expecting anything in return, but selfish enough to not accept any for myself so that nobody can hold that over my head.

I guess it comes with the territory. I hate passing judgement onto others, but I can't help but feel that I'm being judged all the time by everybody. I feel obligated to be independent, autonomous and free as an example for others, and that only makes me feel like I am alone and lonely; stranded, estranged and isolated. Perhaps I'm being unjust. There are people that claim to love me as I am, but the truth is that I can't feel it. And me, feeling this way... it's unfair to them. But the fact remains: I think I may be incapable of creating connections... or feeling them.

All I seem capable of doing is taking heed of my own inadequacies, of those aspects in which I fall short, in which I am not enough. And then wallow in guilt and misery for being so unforgiving of myself. Life is messy. Death is messier. You can only expect scars that may itch for as long as you can feel anything at all. Or marks that you'll have to hide away if you want to be part of polite society. Either way, you won't get unscathed from being alive, nor for merely existing. It's not a choice that you get to make: it will happen, whether you take advantage or your time or if you let your time take advantage of you.

Estado civil: [...]

Asustada hasta la médula de mí misma. Sin idea de todo y nada por el momento... y por el futuro cercano. Dando palos de ciego porque no me he encontrado y me aterra definirme. La capacidad de reinventarse es una virtud y un defecto, una bendición y una condena eterna a un infierno mental. Aburrida al punto del hastío y la desesperanza porque no logro hallar esa pasión por algo. No encuentro esa "causa" por la que estar dispuesta a hacerlo todo, a darlo todo, hasta la vida misma. Solitaria y paranoide. Siempre sobre la muralla que más bien parece una cuerda floja que de un lado tiene el rechazo y el aislamiento y del otro la dependencia y las ataduras. Queriendo y haciéndome chaquetas mentales para balancearme entre ambos abismos, entre ambos deseos contradictorios, en una represión nazi y medidas draconianas en contra de los intentos de sublevación. Sabiendome e ignorándome como persona apreciada, querida, amada. Siendo injusta y culpable para con otrxs, tratando de compensar con generosidad, tolerancia, paciencia y bondad el hecho de que no me siento conectada con ellxs. Aplicando un juicio de valor objetivo contra mi misma, en el que no hay piedad ni excusas para mis errores, pero tampoco autoreconocimiento por mis aciertos -son mi obligación, ¿no? Y entonces soy una hipócrita que cree que escapa de la norma, cuando en realidad soy más corriente que común; que domina la naturaleza de su propia humanidad, siendo que soy humana, demasiado humana y sin esperanza de dejar de ser un Mensch para llegar a convertirse en el Übermensch que siempre pensó que era. Inmóvil. Estática. Desperdiciando entre chaquetas y metachaquetas lo que la gente cree que son los mejores años de mi vida, siendo que en realidad, la vida se reduce a algunos momentos memorables; a flashazos de luz en una oscuridad envolvente; en las bocanadas de aire que tomas al salir de un ataque de pánico. Cansada de mi anormal normalidad. Quisiera hacer algo lo suficientemente bueno, malo o estúpido como para que alguien se tome la molestia de escribir en mi lápida -que no será más que un ladrillo abandonado a la mitad de la carretera- que mi única virtud fue armarme de valor para hacer algo bueno, malo o estúpido pero fuera de lo común. Quiero ser impredecible y salvaje e implacable. Quiero dejar de ternerme miedo, de ponerme límites, de ser autocomplaciente...