moonlit tides

many miles in between,

In my grandma's infinite wisdom,

In my friends infallible support,

in my mom's indellible words,

in my cat's softest purr,

and in the children's laughter outdoors.

y aún así, mi optimismo la añora y me reclama;

me dice que es el poder de la vida misma,

lo que mi cabeza dicta,

y que para que unidad en mi ser habite,

debo ocuparme de la falta de reparo que me aflige.

The word victim keeps being thrown at me. Is it a weapon or a threat?

It comes with shades of shame and guilt, multilayered with safety and comfort.

I can’t recognize it in others, because I refuse to recognize it in myself. How do I change it? Do I want to?

Being a victim does not sound appealing to me, but the prospect of avoiding all responsibilities lures me still. Why?

My heart says "victim" is not a word I want to use to ever describe myself, because being a victim implies something happened to me. "What happened", my heart asks. "Life", I reply.

I'm painfully aware that this word implies I didn't have control, that I felt powerless and defenseless, that this thing that happened to me could not be changed and now I carry the weight of it with me everywhere. And I show it to others, and care for it, and refuse to let it go.

All this weight does is keep me still; like a balloon tied to a brick, wanting to soar but refusing to cut a part of themselves. I must let go, I must forgive and move on. Avoidance sounds tempting, but ownership and power sound even more rewarding.

All of this within the jump from victim to survivor.

I am drowning. The current was strong, and it swept me off, and I have been drowning for months. It started out silently, as it usually does, and when I finally noticed it, it was too late, I was underwater already. And it's not that I don't know how to swim, I do. But I have been thrown off by crushing waves so many times before, swam my way out only to get thrown against rocks again so I figured, what's the point?

I am in this weird limbo, constantly worried, anxious and hurting, you know, from all the water. But I don't actually die, and I am getting tired so I must decide whether to swim back up or continue hurting.

Depression sneaks up on you, you feel fine one day and then suddenly you haven't showered in days, your home is messy, and there's takeout packages everywhere. You feel like crawling out of your skin but can't actually move. It's only you, darkness and the unstopping current of pestering thoughts in your head.

I can't breathe under all this water, I can't see surrounded by all this darkness, I can't feel anything but tired.

I constantly see perfect lives on a tiny screen, I read about incredible love and friendship stories and wonder if that will ever be me.

Because at the moment it's just me, in the middle of the ocean, angry, tired, trapped by darkness and uncertainty, willing myself to survive when all my focus is centered on how easy it would be to just let go.

Letting the void consume me. Surrendering. Give up. Let go.

I can't drown and I refuse to keep floating aimlessly, with a heart full of anger, sorrow and regret that sinks me further each day.

I better start swimming then.