(Listening to Silvana Estrada – “Tregua”)
I got to my room today and when I looked in the mirror, I saw my sixteen-year-old self looking back at me. I’ve been running from her a lot lately. I run into her on the metro when my headphones die, in the middle of some conversation with my friends, or waking me up in the middle of the night because it feels like she wants to tell me something.
It’s extremely cruel, but I don’t feel like dealing with her, or with everything that weighed on me at sixteen. I’ve become lighter; I’ve moved forward and left behind that exhausting performance that felt like the only way to exist.
Dealing with her feels like putting on a skin that makes me uncomfortable, one that always felt too tight. It’s going back to feeling heavy.
At sixteen, I was never unaware of the space I took up. Of the folds of my skin and how my belly bent, of how my legs filled my pajama pants. There was no rest because I noticed how the bed sank. Hugs felt like being examined. I don’t remember a moment when it was different, but I remember how exhausting it was.
Going back to her is accepting that she still exists within me.
I am 25, I want to be a background character — I am 20, I feel rejected — I am 16, I feel fat — I am 12, I think I’ll never have friends — I am 6, I feel too big.
I am 25, I cry on the metro after laughing for three hours — I am 20, I try to stop eating — I am 16, I lie about everything to everyone — I am 12, I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack every day just from going to school — I am 4, I cover my belly with my Princess Jasmine costume.
I am a spiral and I don’t know where the origin is.
Where do I begin? What is me and what is a character? At what age did I manufacture the belief that I take up more space than I should?
I am feeling again.
Life is no longer flat.
I am very afraid.
But I am feeling again.
I am 25, I take photos every day — I am 20, I make collages with the magazines I collect — I am 16, I discover making playlists — I am 7, I write song lyrics in my journals.
