Like, you know, whatever
There is no end to the wisdom of The Simpsons
I was remembering an old poem of mine today:
My name is Agueda. I was born on a full moon during a Lunar Eclipse. I like to write, but I also detest writing. I am neither here nor there. Some say I am "pocha" but I say I'm just fine. Mi español no es perfecto pero tampoco lo eres tú. En las mañanas me despierto sin alarmas y en las noches no duermo. I feel my feelings, but I also ignore them. Today I felt good. Tomorrow I'll feel better.
I wouldn’t expect any of you to know this, but I completely lost myself for the better part of last year. It’s something I’ve wanted to write about, but like with most of my best work, I’ve kept it to myself. Why? The simple answer is that being vulnerable is scary. Vulnerability is like a bouquet of flowers. Give it to the right person, they’ll put it in water to preserve its freshness. They’ll care for it until they decide maybe its time to put it out to dry and let the beauty of its death live another way.
Without saying more, I gave my bouquet to the wrong person.
So I lost myself. I forgot how to smile. I could not hear the melody, the beat, or the soul of a song. Words looked like gibberish. Everyday felt the same. I didn’t know how to pick up the pieces of myself I needed, because I didn’t know where the pieces were and even if I’d found them I wouldn’t have been able to recognize them. This didn’t happen overnight, like most abuse it was years in the making, but that’s a story for another day.
There was moments the light would shine through. When my daughter smiled. When my cat curled up next to me and purred. In the embrace of my mother’s arms. Or when I was out at high seas. These little things helped me find purpose. Over time, poco a poco, little by little, I started to recognize myself. I felt a little less broken each day. The weight of the pain I felt in my chest was easier to hold. No one tells you this, but the harder you want to ignore that feeling, the heavier it feels. If you decide to hate it, the more aggravated it becomes. I didn’t know I had to baby it, cradle it, tell it everything would be alright. I cannot thank my daughter enough for teaching me this.
I was chatting with a childhood friend the other night. She was up early and I was up late. She moved away to Vietnam some years ago so our timezone are on opposite ends. While we don’t see eachother as often, our bond has not been broken by distance. I wish for everyone to have at least one friendship like ours. Everytime we talk, its like I travel in time to when I was thirteen years old. I giggled under the sheets as we updated eachother on our lives and she referenced her “lore.” What a beautiful yet hilarious way to talk about those intense moments in life. We all have them. I realized then that what happened to me was just that – my “lore.” You can imagine that as a writer, the concept brought excitement to my heart. Thinking on losing myself and the lore that led up to that, it occured to me that I had found myself again and I hadn’t even realized it happened.
I was dancing again. I was singing again. I was dreaming again. I was trusting again. Maybe I hadn’t lost myself. Maybe I was just disoriented, discombobulated, like when an explosion goes off and you lose your balance and all you can hear is white noise. I’d never lost myself, I had merely lost my barings. Whatever you want to call it, it was destabalizing none the less.
At this point, I’ve been through it all. I lament the pain I went through, but would I change anything about my past? Would I have done things differently? I think these are questions we all ask ourselves at one point or another. In the spirit of “lore,” probably not. There’s nothing I could have done that would have changed the outcome. Unfortunately, bad luck is indiscrimenate. I can’t change the past so there’s no point in letting those questions linger. One must persevere. Nietzche says it best: “I willed it thus.”
Today, I am grateful. I love that I was born during a lunar eclipse. I love that I’m a crybaby, even though its not always apparent. I love that I am different, that I’m weird, that I’m messy, that I was born in Mexico, that I was raised in the U.S. I love that my existence makes white men mad. I love being unbothered while powerful men waste their energy and do the most to destabalize me and my community. Yerba mala no se mata weyes, ojo.
I love that I love.
I love these and so many more things about myself. I love that I love. My poem reminded me of this today, on my birthday. Loving yourself is the best gift you can give yourself ever. In reality, no one can take that from you. But thats something everyone must learn for themselves. You can tell this to people but it will always go in one ear and out the other. I know it took me forever to finally learn and accept that truth.
I’m back and a better version of myself than ever. I’m no longer losing myself in the chaos. Instead I’m losing myself in art, in music, in family, in innocense. In the process, I’ve been adding more parts to the collection of experiences that make me the little alien that I am.
I’ve got so many things I want to share with you all, but in due time. Stay patient. Thanks for reading.