Achei que já tivesse passado da fase diário. Aparentemente não.
Insegurança é uma palavra que me quebra no meio. Eu sou o tipo insegura agressiva - quando você é insegura e fofinha, todo mundo acha que é um tipo de "defeito bom". Um defeito que só prova que você é toda perfeita e o caralho a quatro.
Quando você é como eu, sua insegurança parece tudo, menos insegurança. Parece ódio, parece desdém, parece falta de paciência, parece sarcasmo. Parece um montão de coisa que fazem de você um monstrinho social.
Eu sou um monstrinho social.
Minha tristeza vira tapa na cara alheia e eu não sei como detê-la. Às vezes tudo o que eu preciso é meu melhor amigo e um copo de cerveja e, de alguma forma, acabo com uma briga nas mãos e um monte de ofensa lançada sem pé nem cabeça.
Eu sei dizer "preciso de você". Mas eu deixo pra dizer quando já estou gritando, arranhando, mordendo e rosnando. Deixo pra dizer quando a pessoa não liga mais.
Eu sou carente. Para um caralho. Sou carente pelas pessoas que eu amo, que são pouquíssimas, mas que dificilmente sabem que é isso que eu estou sentindo - e não um surto idiota de ciúmes ou posse.
Eu tenho dias ruins. E meus dias ruins são muitos. Porque eu sou o tipo de ser humano bosta que só faz merda e só pensa merda de si própria o tempo todo. E eu aguento de boas os dias ruins. Mas às vezes eu não aguento. Às vezes eu só quero companhia.
Mas não qualquer companhia. Aquela companhia que entende que eu sou um poço de estranheza e geralmente não sei como lidar com as coisas que quero e preciso.
Eu sinto tudo feito uma enxurrada e, talvez por isso, tenha tantos dias ruins.
Eu exijo muito sem dar nada e, talvez por isso, tenha ninguém disposto a me dar companhia.
Mas seria legal conseguir dizer, uma vezinha que seja, "não vai, não. fica aqui comigo porque eu preciso de você".
quinta-feira, 7 de janeiro de 2016
sexta-feira, 9 de outubro de 2015
They teach us in therapy and psychiatry treatment that happiness is not the goal. What we should seek, they say, is the ability of looking outside and being stable.
Today you did not cut yourself, you did not throw up, you did not self-sabotaged. Today is day one.
And then there is day two. And day three. And 344566 days in a row. And you keep counting. You never really know what’s the safe number, so you just keep on counting.
Happiness is a lie we tell ourselves, I heard them say. It is not what keeps you from hurting yourself, it is not what keeps you sane. Happiness is what prevents you from objectively looking at yourself. If you’re happy and sick, that’s cause you’re kinda blind.
But it makes sense. It looks logical, cause every time you try to hold on to your happiness, you end up scattered all over the place, heart in hand and all.
So you go for it.
But you only need the light when it`s burning low. Only miss the sun when it starts to snow. Only know you’ve been high when you feeling low. Only hate the road when you’re missing home. Only know you love her when you let her go. And you let her go.
So you look at yourself - there, on the verge of things. Picking up pieces of your soul to remind yourself of who you are. Feeling like a failure cause all you do is let people down - your therapist, your doctor, your brother, your boss, your friends, yourself. Thinking that maybe… Maybe if they think there’s something wrong with who you are, so maybe there is. Maybe it is not just depression, anxiety and bulimia. Maybe you're just no good.
Self hate is staring at you. It is asking permission to return home. To crawl into your chest and sleep there, until you can’t remember why the hell you got rid of it in the first place - after all it only tells the truth.
There is this hope. Coming from someplace you can’t put your finger on. You would guess it is your stubbornness.
This thing he told you, the only one you trust. He said “Let it go. It’ll come back. When it’s time”.
You stand still in silence for seconds, minutes, hours, years...
And you let her go.
segunda-feira, 28 de setembro de 2015
Tem uma sombra atrás de mim, que me segue o tempo inteiro.
Ela tem o poder de ler a minha mente e se apoderar de todos os meus medos. Ela faz uma verdadeira coleção - com categorias, datas de adição e intensidade de pânico. É uma lista tremendamente organizada e indexada, que pode ser usada contra mim quando lhe for mais conveniente.
Começa com um sussurro - ele disse algo que eu não sei explicar. Ela me aponta para a explicação, que começa e termina com “minha culpa”.
Depois vem a carícia - ele se nega a explicar, e ela assopra minha nuca dizendo que é porque eu não mereço.
E então o castigo - ele se cansa da minha suposta alma quebrada e me diz pra pensar sozinha. E ela me aprisiona numa jaula feita com seus ossos e escuridão, onde eu tenho a plena certeza de que eu causei toda a dor que eu vejo em volta de mim, que as coisas mais lindas vão ser intoxicadas pela minha presença e que eu nunca vou conseguir ter em minhas mãos nada que eu ame de verdade, não por muito tempo…
Porque se eu tiver, nem que por um segundo, eu levo tudo pra escuridão junto comigo.
Por fim, ela me pergunta: é isso que você quer fazer com as coisas que ama?
domingo, 24 de maio de 2015
she smiles. it's the best "hi" you are going to get. it isn't a bright smile, though. it is full of bitter, disbelief, and for some reason guilt. she is smiling like someone would say goodbye or i'm sorry.
she is just standing there. of course she was waiting for you... she's got that big sister thing that makes the others spill their guts. they must have told her you were on your way.
she doesn't move or gesture in anyway. you feel like you're staring into an animal eyes - they're careful, angry, hurt and so scared. so scary.
you take a look around. the stone room has a yellow light coming from somewhere, but it doesn't make it any less dark.
- i lit it. so you could see. but you won't find any candles - her voice is surprisingly high-pitched, yet harsh and dragged. you know why. you know it's 'cause it's hard to talk, not to stutter, not to overflood the room with her insides, not to fear judgment.
you nod. she is hugging a book in her arms, a little too tight. it's an old, leather covered, big book. the girl, on the other hand, is short. shorter than you'd think, knowing how much power she has coming out of her pores.
her hair is very black, long and straight, with bangs that give her a younger look. her hair is messy, though, you'd bet she spent the night awake and didn't bother combing before leaving in the morning.
her skin is the kind of white that makes you worried. and you can spot purple bruises on her wrists and collar bone... were they self inflicted?
- i have a few questions - you say in a low voice. the situation is weird and intimidating... knowing yourself, after all, was no easy trick - they might bother you, but i'd like you to make an effort...
- fine - she is rude. and you hold a little laughter. of course she is rude, you think, she wants to sound as wild as she feels.
- well... have a sit - and at that moment a table and two chairs appear between you two. and immediately you regret it... you know that table, you both do. it's the one where all the others locked her in when she became too dangerous for herself.
she backs away, the look in her face makes you wonder if she is about to attack you or run away. but she stands still, rubbing her wrists... the place where the cuffs digged into her skin.
- i think i'd rather stand.
- why don't we.. ? - you gesture to the other side of the room. you both sit across from each other, on the floor. - the first question i got for you is related to responsibility.
she crosses her legs and lay the book there. the school uniform is dark blue and white, and you wonder if she's worried about getting it dirty.
- why do you entitle yourself the big sister?
she rolls her eyes. you raise an eyebrow. she is a real teen.
- i don't entitle myself anything. they do. i just do what i have to do.
- and what is that? what do you have to do?
everything is silent for a sec. you almost think she won't asnwer. but then you see it... she's trying.
- i have to make sure they are ok.
- why? ok from what?
- ... because that's the way i know how to keep who i care about close. and probably from myself... because i manage to ruin everything, anyway.
- that does not make sense.
- doesn't it? i am so messed up that anyone close to me just gets infected... and gets in danger. and hurt.
- so why do you keep them around? if you care about them?
she looks at you with such pain in her eyes that you regret saying it. you regret every word. it starts hurting you too.
- because i can't stand it alone - her voice cracks at the end. she really is trying.
- why do you think you are so messed up?
she took a second. you're sure she thought about this before, but for some reason explaining was... hard.
- ... you have to ask?
- yes i do. i really do.
- why? 'cause you think you got to build yourself up again and there is some part of me that belongs to you? well guess what? i am nothing good or savable. so you can just leave me alone and be done with it.
- ... louie, please.
she closes her eyes for a second. and breathes. when she comes back, it's cold and focused, like she was finding strength from speaking without any attachment.
- i am the one who can't live a normal life. i screamed my way through sleep my entire childhood. and then i grew up and it didn't got better... they say it's gonna get easier, that life changes and everything changes along. and you know what? the feeling is still the same... i am still that kid with ghosts in her room making her see things. and no one comes to send them away when i scream.
- why don't you send them away yourself, louie?
the question did two things: both pissed her off and made her wonder.
- is that what you do nowdays? you send them away yourself? - it was an honest question.
- the ones i don't want to talk to, yes. the ones i do, i listen to. i can teach you how.
you can hear her heart from across her chest, clothes and the space that separated you two. but you knew what came next.
- no. fear is all i have to keep going.
you nod. you can't say you're not disappointed. neither that you are surprised.
- one last question... why is it that you think you can't do it alone, in life? why do you need people to need you?
she smiled again. that same sorrowful smile. but this time with a bit of fun.
- i don't want my life to be just hate. and i hate myself.
you look at her face and you are sure you're looking at a stranger's face. it's you, but missing parts.
- it's gonna get better, louie.
and you both laugh. what a crappy promise.