When I write to myself, I write for different reasons. Sometimes I write to make sense of things, to force my brain to go slowly. Sometimes I write to look at my own pain from the outside. Sometimes I write to make something beautiful out of something ugly. Sometimes I write to say thank you.
Most of the time, I write to capture something: a moment, a thought, a feeling. I write to help myself create the story of my life.
I don’t trust my own memories; I am not sure if I really remember things. Instead, I think I keep feeling things and attaching those feelings to a story. Making things somehow fit.
Life in real-time is confusing. Life it’s just meant to be lived, too big to be understood.
But I still want to know the real story of my life. I want to be able to look at who I was and to connect the dots that lead to who I am.
So, in one way or the other, I always write to my future self. I tell her about how it feels to be myself today, expecting that things will make sense later.
Today I’m writing to capture a glimpse of the strangest of times. Recent events have disrupted the order of our lives at high speed, making us see how fragile everything was in the first place.
I say that this series of unprecedented events have disrupted the order of our lives, but that is not totally true in my case. In a way, this is the most order I’ve experienced in a long time.
I have now permission to not think about the details of the future, since right now things are changing so quickly that to plan anything is useless. There’s peace coming with that for me.
All my life I’ve been searching for something. Among all the disorder I experience, that’s nonetheless a consistency I can find. No matter where I am, I stay in the corner of the room and I look around, participating only partially. Trying to understand.
These last years, some kind of searching has become a central piece of my life. A search fueled by hope and by pain. An anxious search, urgent. And the truth is that I’m tired, more tired than ever.
Perhaps this is what happens, when you start being aware of your own age for the first time. Aware of what it really means to grow older.
There are some things that I simply won’t do, unless I start quickly. That realization hits me strong. It’s me understanding for the first time the cost of opportunity that comes with having a life with an expiration date. I guess I need to evaluate priorities now, to create a vision for myself. To discover who I am, as they say.
I find it difficult: to combine the idea of having a vision with what I feel it is a fact; that plans mean very little, that things change quickly, that I couldn’t control them even if I wanted.
In this period of my life, polarities like this come to the surface often. I’m unable to position myself between one or the other. I’m trapped between two things, all the time.
One. To keep pursuing what I thought was the love of my life.
Two. To stop pursuing anybody at all.
One. The wish to run away from what I knew to find who I really am.
Two. To stop burning all my bridges.
One. My fear of other people.
Two. My urge to be accepted by them.
One. The sensation that I’m too good to be easily seen.
Two. The fear that I’m actually being seen, just not loved.
Trapped in between two things that feel both true, I am forced to stay still, and to keep observing.
That is something I can learn from all of this: to improve my ability to stay just here, in between. To stay aligned but fluid. Ready to be curved.
I’m scared. But I know fear works differently when you don’t run from it. If you feel it, fear hurts—but it doesn’t destroy.
I choose to see fear as the ultimate tool of my biology. Fear gives me the extra push I need, when I’m about to take a look at those things so difficult to handle.
So, inspired by fear, I’m doing that, and only that: looking at them.
And time will unfold, doing the rest.
Los Angeles, California