She had a premature knowledge of crisis.
Her childhood was shaped by chaos and love.
Adored and overprotected, she was taught to study, fear God and be quiet.
Her mother heard voices that no one else could hear and saw things that no one else could see.
After a while, her mother’s instability accumulated and overlapped until there was no way to see past it.
No one addressed it.
Self-appointed, she was the one who minded the gaps.
Cleaned up the messes.
Apologized.
Got lost in managing her mother’s extremes.
She felt responsible for her mother’s behavior and handily designed her existence to compensate for it.
She wanted people to feel comfortable all the time, even at her own expense.
Being a pleaser gave her a purpose, a reason to take up space and be less of a burden.
Something is wrong with me, she decided early on.
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She created a story about a broken girl with a broken mother who would grow up to live a broken life. She chose that fate and lived according to it.
Resentful, but kind.
Polished, but cracked.
Full of secrets, she became a representative character, busy with lies to remember and images to keep up.
An artificial escape, based on what she thought people wanted her to be.
Everything was fragile, hanging on a thread, unhealthy.
This viral depression diminished her.
Dread was always with her, an alarm system in her head, alert to her next disaster.
Despite being resigned to a life of misfortune, she became resourceful.
She grudgingly noticed that things always worked out, even when she claimed defeat.
An inconvenient truth, yet it was right there, in her face, betraying her self-punishments and assumptions.
She kept overcoming things, dammit, aggravating herself.
She still felt so much joy, despite her efforts to be miserable.
Her life was full of miracles and spectacles that she was afraid to rely on so she didn’t know how to enjoy, how to be thankful, without guilt.
She didn’t want to win and she didn’t want to lose.
Ambiguity intrigued her and she found passion in the gaps between hope and despair.
