Happy non-graduation day to me!

And it's hard. Today, as a arrived to my 8 am class, I saw a lot of people in their fanciest dresses, who were graduating today.
As I stared at the window, I saw many familiar faces and I knew, this was the moment I've been fearing ever since that day in July 2016, in which I decided to go on a sabatical semester to heal physically and mentally of demons who were eating me alive.
I've had a melancholic cape all day, as I remind that decision. I remember feeling like a freaking failure, and not understanding in what moment we had come to this point. I was always the girl who had it all planned, and went according to the plan as it was supposed to. My life never had an inch of doubt in my organism. Never had, and I assumed, never will. I knew exactly my career choices since elementary school. I graduated from high school and I never doubted, neither about the program or the institution. I had everything perfectly timed out, and it never crossed my mind that it could change.
Before the breakdown, I remember my psychiatric asking me if we should consider postponing the semester that I was already half through in. But I was making my thesis, ending a year long practice and I remember as painful it was to wake up every single day, and as few my mind could capture in classes, I couldn't conceive doing it.
But months later is wasn't just a responsibility as me as  human being, it was also the quality of treatment that patients in a clinical practice were going to receive. And all of the sudden it wasn't a matter of sticking to the plan or not. It was a matter of survival in a moment when I was hanging to life by a tread. It was a matter of falling in love again with life, or at least make the idea of living it possible.  I was prisioner of my mind and body, and all of the keys I've used in the previous 22 years weren't useful anymore. I had to find new roads, water and fertile soil, in a ground that had just been shaken and deserted thanks to a horrible catastrophy. It was a matter of life or death.
I don't know honestly, if I would've survived in that semester if I were studying, seeing clinical pathologies and having contact with patients. I really didn't want to find out what were the odds of killing myself in the process of following my plan, so with great grief, I didn't enroll myself in the university that semester. I say this, with great grief, because it was a painful process. I refused to be that girl who wasn't perfect. Honestly, it wasn't until a year ago when I realized how obsessive I am with plans and the way I had my whole life planned out. And it hurted, if physically burned to let go what I though we're the plans and the times of my perfect life, to adjust to the needs of the reality.
With my whole therapeutic team's support and my family's unconditional love, I dedicated myself to art, writing, volunteering, spending time with my godchild and therapy, exams, new diagnoses, and pharmaceutical changes. I traveled, I learned how to walk and talk again, I accepted the chronicity of those things I can't change, I saw the best and worst in people, I traveled to a multicolored ocean and to my childhood home to love life a little bit again.
All of the sudden I was back with my studies and the sabatical was a past thing. But life always reminds us of those things that still hurt to show us, we've gotta heal. And today it strucked me again. I hated those who were graduating and I couldn't help but feeling I belonged there, that I made the wrong choices, that this wasn't the plan. And as all of this things crossed my mind with a serious face and way too much eye rolling, I sat in a class with a teacher whose one of the wisest people I've ever met. I chatted with people that I never thought to meet, but feel like friends after some weeks. I even did an exercise in which I could talk about my difficulties of my parent's separation as part of the role play.
And as I reflected in how many amazing things have happened since this plot twist, how many incredible people I know now who I wouldn't have met if I had followed my university plan with no time off, I felt lucky. I remind myself of how wise is life. And how perfectly timed it is. Clearly that didn't make me immune to today's graduates. I had to blast Kelly Clarkson's "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" on my way out as I passed through the place the ceremony took place.
And as I finish this sentences all that I can say is that I'm grateful. That taking those 6 months for self care purposes was the wisest choice I've ever made and that I don't regret it for a second. That those who told me I was weak or not responsible or poorly treated can kiss my recovery ass. And that yes, waiting for those extra 6 months to graduate didn't kill me, it made me stronger.

https://youtu.be/Xn676-fLq7I

La sonrisa de la Mona Lisa

La sonrisa siempre ha sido uno de mis elementos característicos. Desde que soy pequeña, en la mayoría de fotos, salgo sonriendo. Incluso, mi mamá decía que la única forma de hacer que yo dejara de pelear o me contentara (Porque siempre el genio ha sido cosa seria) era sacando una cámara y pidiéndome una foto. De esa manera, yo dejaría de pelear y sonreiría. Y se me pasaba.
Me acuerdo que a mi ex novio lo que más le gustaba de mi, era mi sonrisa. Y a otro, que no sé como clasificar, le encantaba como se me arruga la nariz y se me ponen "chinitos" los ojos cada vez que me salía una carcajada.
Viendo una pared de fotos que tengo a mi lado, veo como desde los 2 o 3 años algo en todas las fotos igual: con una sonrisa, los ojos brillantes y los cachetes como dos bolitas rojas (como esos que las señoras que se ponen botox quieren y pagan tanto por tener).

Aún así, veo las fotos y me acuerdo de los primeros ataques de pánico que tuve, de la ansiedad que me hacía devorarme las uñas pensando que en las noches alguien entraría a mi cuarto, de la sensación de no tener amigas por no ser tan buena como el resto de niñas, de mi irritabilidad y deseo de estar sola, de tantas lágrimas que salían fácilmente y de otras cosas más que duelen y todavía no se dejan escribir.
Creo que solamente tengo una foto donde salgo llorando. Tenía unos 6 años y acababa de salir de una presentación donde éramos los planetas del sistema solar. Yo tenía una trusa amarilla y una especie de tutú azul. Y algo pasó, y por la cara roja llena de mocos y lágrimas, con expresión de fin del mundo, sólo puedo suponer que algo le pasó a mi disfraz.
Una sola. De miles de fotos que tengo, porque me gusta tomarme fotos y siempre me ha gustado. Porque soy posuda y siempre lo he sido. Porque tengo una necesidad de que quede una constancia del momento, de ese instante donde las cosas iban bien o donde todo se sentía agradable, para que después yo pueda mirarlo y recordar eso que fue, y que ni el tiempo ni los cambios pueden modificar.

De alguna manera, me acostumbré siempre a sonreír. Recuerdo la cara de un psiquiatra que me decía que era la única persona que decía que entraba a sesión sonriendo, soltaba una bomba y arrancaba a llorar sin que se me borrara algo de la sonrisa de la cara. O la cara de una recepcionista quien me preguntaba aterrada cómo podía hablar de mi artritis y sonreír al tiempo. O ese paciente que no entendía porqué mientras yo le decía que debía hospitalizarse por su riesgo suicida, yo sonreía, y me decía que no debía ser tan malo. O mi abuelo, quien me dijo hace poco que no podía verlo tan acabado y enfermo, porque yo estaba sonriendo, entonces eso significaba que él estaba bien.
Si tengo que rastrearlo, creo yo que vendría de mi mamá. La mujer más sonriente que conozco, la más positiva también. Algún día le pregunté que cómo podía sonreír tanto si había tenido tanto dolor, a lo que me dijo que dejar de sonreír no iba a cambiar su sufrimiento y que además, así nadie se daba cuenta de su pesar.
Y es chistoso cuándo pienso en mi constante sonrisa, porque es una gran máscara. Pero que a mí, como escritora de mis penas y dolores, no me sirve de nada sonreír pues igual soy un libro abierto para lo bueno y lo malo, y el filtro al hablar me lo quedaron debiendo.
Aún así, agradezco ser sonriente. Porque creo que seria invivible reflejar el dolor y las caídas en mi cara. Claro, el brillo de mis ojos no volvió a ser el mismo de antes y desde hace un año mi sonrisa y mi mirada tienen un aire melancólico. Cuando me levanto al baño a media noche, ciertamente se nota que algo pasó y cambió el paisaje a su paso. Claramente mi cara, mi mirada y mi sonrisa no volvieron a ser las mismas. Hay algo de herida y supervivencia en ellas, lo que hace que sean, como el término en inglés "hauntingly beautiful". Pero me gusta, y lo agradezco. Porque esa sonrisa de mil secretos y esos ojos que guardan las historias más dolorosas, aún se atreven a volver a las viejas costumbres. A ser como siempre. A intentar imitar a esa vieja Mariana, con su risa ruidosa y su fe en la gente. Aún sabiendo que ella ya no está, y que salen todos los días a escena en un campo de guerra en mi cabeza, salen. Y de alguna manera, sigo siendo la persona que "es toda sonriente", a la que la gente no le cree los diagnósticos que carga en su maleta de mano y su cansancio físico y emocional.
Y seguiré sonriendo, pues mi sonrisa parece no importarle los síntomas que vengan y vayan. Y seguiré entendiendo, por cuenta propia, que se puede sonreír en el dolor, se puede sonreírle a la vida así nos parezca que no se parece en nada a lo que esperábamos... Y finalmente, entenderé, que no se puede asumir nada de nadie por su sonrisa, porque esa la ponemos todos. Al final, ese es el tema de la sonrisa de la Mona Lisa, ¿Está realmente sonriendo? ¿O solamente la vemos sonreír como un efecto?

50

Here we are people: 50 pieces,  9 months and almost 9000 visits later. Here we are still, having topics to write about not only for your entertainment but also for my mental health, as I dare to say this is one of the most therapeutic things that have come into my life.

And as I stand here, trying to figure out what kind of topic can be magnificent enough to be the owner of the title of my 50th article, I've reached the decision that not topic is important or not important enough to have some words written about it. So, with that in mind, I hope truly that this piece will come as awesome as I hope, as I don't have a clear north about where I'm heading with it.

As I think in these less than nine months that have gone by since I posted my first article and decided to open up a mental health awareness blog, the first thing that comes to my mind is that it has felt like 7 lifetimes have come and gone during this time. It has had all the elements of a tv show, or a movie. It has been chaotic, undesirable, unwanted, complex, at times way too much to handle. It hasn't been easy, that's for sure, but I'd be lying if I wouldn't mention it was also been beautiful, satisfying, rewarding, loving, and happy. I've been living, more than before, the ambivalence of being happy with a chronic depression, of trying each day to fall in love with life while struggling with chronical suicidal ideation. 

I've done my best to enjoy different places, landscapes, the flowers I've seen on the road and beautiful creatures like butterflies, while doing it with a cane or with pain in a joint I had no idea, existed in my body. 

I've been broken and reattached so many times that my inside can perfectly look like a raggedy doll. I've fought, cursing back and forth to some, and I've hurt in silence, crying at night, because life's that way, and not everyone is going to stay on our lane. Still, I've found that friendships can endure the pass of all the years, and that you've gotta stick to those who aren't expecting from you a reason, explanation or justification.

 I've found that there are people, some whom you never expected, that can be in your life with you being the truest to yourself, no masks or hiding needed. 

I've seen, and experienced, how resilient can humans be: we truly have the ability to overcome any harsh or unexpected situation because we are, indeed, much more stronger than we thought. I've met professionals who do their job out of love, commitment and faith in their patients' journey, and not the fee they charge out of the work done with them. 

I've understood that some people aren't meant in your life, and you gotta let them go, no matter how painful it can be. 

I've seen that God, in his infinite wisdom, will send you chaos on top of chaos, because that's life at the end: a beautiful chaos. 

I've experienced that you don't have to be perfect, and that you can help more than you'll ever imagine, no matter how broken you may feel... Somehow, someone is always even more broken, and will benefit from the wisdom this journey has given you.

 I've come to the conclusion that even though life can seem easier as you deal with less people, and somehow assure less chances to get hurt or disappointed, the others is what make the journey so absolutely worth it; people are worth the risk, and if you believe in them, they'll come through. 

With sorrow, I've accepted the fact that at life will never be how or what you thought it will be, that being your own hero means something different than what you used to dreamt, that you can't escape from tragedies and uncertainty, and that with all of that, life is absolutely worth it and will turn out just how it should. 

Finally, I've come to the following teaching: I'm not who I used to be. I'm not going to classify if I'm better or worse. I'm alive. I'm less than 6 months away from getting my psychologist degree. I have people who love me and my demons. I can afford treatment, I have a home, food and family. And God, I can't emphasize this enough: I'm FREAKING ALIVE. That's way too much than some in my condition can say.

I've struggled, and I still do, and will. But I'm here. I'm writing my 50th article. I'm alive, and it's worth every second of it.