I don’t remember the day when, as a very young girl, I decided to wrap my heart with an anti-feeling bandage, so that I wouldn’t see all the pain and suffering that floated around me and that I was unable to digest.
I did well to survive for a few years, until I forgot that I was wearing it, until I forgot to take it off, until I forgot who I was…And, without realizing it, I began, very slowly, to die.
I got used to not having me, not knowing me, not playing with me, not telling me, not hugging me, not kissing me, not touching me, not feeling me, not loving me, not being me. I got used to walking in the dark through the storm, believing myself invincible, invulnerable, unbeatable, when the only thing I had become was a truly untouchable, impenetrable and insensitive human machine.
I wanted to be the superhero of the stories in which I took refuge, the one who never stops fighting, who does not allow herself to fall, who endures the unbearable, the one who never cries, the great savior, the one who “has” to resist, the who sleeps with her magic cape, who wakes up with the sword, the defender of the weak, the fierce wolf who protects her pack, the dragon who burns hypocrisy, the scale that sentences injustices…
I wanted to be a superhero with a big…tin heart.
Until all the beats of life that had been accumulating inside me began to manifest. Until all the tears I had imprisoned began to suffocate me. Until all the hugs I had rejected began to squeeze me. Until the costume that covered me could no longer stand and flew to another lair.
And I was left naked with my loneliness, with my false appearances, with my fears, with my movies, with my insecurities and my fantasies of bravery. And without being able to do anything to escape, I looked in the mirror and surrendered to Me.
I cleaned all the wounds that spilled in that moment, I dismantled one by one each lie that undressed me, I changed the anesthetized skin for one full of caresses, the empty gaze for one of a newborn, the voice of ignorance for that of consciousness and the bandages that covered me through spontaneous transparencies.
And little by little, my heart began to laugh again, to sing, to dance, to play, to jump, to vibrate, to enjoy, to enjoy, to get angry, to cry, to be sad, to rejoice, to get excited, to escape, to lose oneself, to find oneself, to defeat oneself, to draw one another, to run, to scream, to silence one another, to get annoyed, to have a heart attack, to resurrect oneself, to live-oneself, to feel-oneself and, again, to fall in love.
Since then, I have never dreamed again, wanted to be a superhero or a superwoman or an all-rounder or a predator or a princess or the best version of myself or the perfect one or the excellence or the eminence or the sublime or the everything nor nothing nor always nor never nor more nor less nor “from here to the grave.”
Since then, I only want to be myself, with my ups and downs, with my straight lines and my detours, with my outliers and my tunings, with my charming rarities and particularities, with my strengths and my weaknesses, with my lights. , my shadows and my cowardices, with my wrinkles, with my gray hair and with my curves, with my attempts and my frustrations, with my good or bad moods, with my my stretch marks, my weaknesses and my laziness, with my well-marked scars, with my tics and with my tacs, with my unpainted nails, with my newly woken up hair, with my belches and my wind, with my mental or non-mental handjobs, with my abandons and my tomes, with my stresses, my fears and my hot flashes, with my “because I don’t feel like it” and my “fuck it”, with my “I can’t” and my “I don’t want to”, with my stops and my accelerations, with my daring and my fears, with my “Who doesn’t like me not to look”, my seeds well sown and my “I’m planted, I’ve come this far”.
Just ME, with me, without any other character. And period.
Because I don’t want to forget to feel again, because I don’t want to stop loving myself again.
