I had almost no record of you. I don’t remember you. I don’t know what time you showed up, but you did it through the big door, ready to stay. To blow my neck so I can feel like I have you stepping on my heels. There are days when I manage to stay on the sidelines, not leave room or prominence.
But you take advantage of my vulnerability and, at the very least, pinch me in the heart with your cold black hand. And I don’t want you to remove every single one of the cells that make up my body again and reactivate yourself, and beat me. Yes, sometimes you defeat me. And I am not able to climb. Weighs like a slab. I feel small. Very small. As much as when, as a child, he protected me with a blanket thinking that I would go unnoticed in the face of the danger I feared. Or I would completely close that closet door that in a hurry to go to bed had been left half open.
My psychologist reminds me that you have always existed, but now your presence is more evident. They call you scared. And you hurt, silently, my weaknesses. You join them and you get feedback. I know you are not rational. I thought I was myself. Able to put his head in front of his heart. But no. Illness has made the latter rule part of my day to day life. What if. You remind me again that you have come to stay. You tie me up and accompany me the nights before I get results. You walk barefoot and cold. You are the reason for my waking nights. I press my chest. My throat tightens. And you shut up.
Because it’s hard to express that I’m afraid of others. I, the brave, the positive, the one who has been able to do everything and has “won”. They use the rational part. “Afraid of what? Everything will be fine.” Who insures it? Who gave them the diagnosis? I callus. And I’m getting smaller and bigger and my fears getting bigger. How to dominate yourself? I won’t call you. I will not think of you. Maybe that way you get lost in oblivion, for a few seconds.