Six

To begin with, a quote:

"I'm not a bit changed -- not really. I'm only just pruned down and branched out. The real me -- back here -- is just the same." L.M Montgomery

I thought about this sentence today, while I was getting my hair done for the second time in less than a month (Oh, what actively avoiding a shower for a month and a half will do to you: resort to salons). I'm six days away from starting to use my right leg again and there are a million feelings going through my head as I type these words: anxiety, excitement, despair, joy. Pure and unparalleled joy. But also regret. Confusion. Did I really become a different person since November? Has it really been this long since I felt my entire life stopped belonging to me? In a word? Yes. No.

Why yes? For starters, I know now more of what was wrong with me before and what I need to change now. I became a different person in the sense that I know I can't waste my time anymore and that the fact that I was given the chance to stop, reflect and change what was wrong in my life in order to put an end to such a damaging attitude towards myself and towards the people who surround me. I remember all the times I've prayed to god to give me a life, and to know what to do with it: in His infinite wisdom, he granted me such a wish. But as to why I had to be granted a second chance (in a way) at life like this, is something that I will NEVER understand. Yet I accept it, am humble and grateful.

My life stopped belonging to me when I let two things take control of it: other people, and my own temper. I let responsibilities that did not belong to me control me -being my mother's mother, my father's companion, a provider for a house that is not my home. The minute I decided to take them as my own, that is the exact moment when my life did not belong to me anymore: when other fears, other apprehensions and basically what other people felt or said or believed or thought was good (or not) for me nested in my head, I was screwed. Even if I have to take them under my wing again, I have to fight to stay true to myself, as daunting and fucked up and complex and lovely as she may be.

The second thing that stopped me from being, well, me, was my awful temper. I've been known to reduce my mother to tears with my insults. I've frightened pets with my yells. I've broken chairs, windows, phones and a few other things during fits of rage. ¿Hacía quien va dirigida mi ira, mi rabia y mi odio? Tristemente, a mí misma. This is something I still have to work with, A LOT. Part of this anger and rage comes from hating who I am, what I look like, what I say, the feeling of helplessness that strikes me when the responsibilities I chose to embrace seem to be going nowhere. And then it hit me: if I can't fix it, or fixing it is out of my league, then why worry? And if I can fix it, then why not do something about it? There are tides in this world that I cannot break-I don't need to rage over them, or make others pay for what I don't do. Fortunately, or unfortunately, this is what growing up entails.

But let's go back to that two letter word which seems so bad and awful. As in "No, I didn't become someone else". Or, "No, the time that has passed means nothing. It is, quite simply, not there". Indeed, I did not become someone different than who I already was: Though I may have changed my hair, my clothes or the skin I live in, I am still me. I still will deal with insecurities and fears and hopes and dreams I will never make a reality. I changed the way I look at life, and the chances I took, but I am still me. There will be a time -and I don't know when that will be- where the boy that lives in me will become a woman and he will curl up into a corner to sleep softly. Do I want it to happen? Yes, but not now.

The time that passed may have not meant much to me because I spent it idly. After two solid MONTHS of crying, I didn't know what to make of me. I felt lost and helpless. I didn't have a function anymore, and therefore, I felt so useless that I didn't find a reason to do anything. There is no way to cry over spilt milk-all I can do is take full advantage of the time that is now ahead of me. And you know what?


Truth is, I was always there. I just didn't realize it. There will be no better me, nor will there be any worse me. There will be me. And that should be enough.