Meltdown

When you are at your worst (remember, this book is about me), you just want to disappear into the Australian wilderness, or you just want to let your body fall into the deepest hole of despair. Let’s imagine that you wake up one day, and you are on this spectrum of emotions, from O.K. down, feeling more bad than good. And because of your alexithymia (a condition that makes it difficult for you to identify or understand your own emotions and physical sensations), you have no idea why you feel this way. In top of that, the night before you had a dream about your ex-partner, in the dream you were reunited, but he had another partner and in the dream you felt anger, jealousy, frustration (curious how alexithymia does not exist in the Oniric world, in dreams you find answers “I dream, therefore I am”): You wake up in this emotional state, you go to the bathroom still confused with the unbearable return to the conscious world, you find it hard to move, and you stumble over all the things in your house, your heart hurts, and you don’t like to feel like that because you also have low tolerance to feel bad, you sit to pee still with closed eyes, and it is at that moment that your mind goes to its faithful and loyal friend, imagination. Your mind needs to escape from your back pain and the burning in your stomach, the lack of exercise, and the punch in your soul after your friends didn’t invite you to movie night because “it’s for couples only” and you’re alone, without a partner and alone in your house, alone in the bathroom pooping with the door open. “Well, have fun at your swinger,” you reply, trying to hide your anger with humor. You don’t mind being alone, you mind being excluded. When you are at your worst, your mind becomes hungry for fantasy. And because of your confusion, anger, and sadness, hate injects its poison into your mind. Then you no longer travel to a world of roses and perfumed sheets where you will give your first kiss, but to a world of horror, drama, revenge, where you get lost for hours in the fantasy of your own funeral. A message that I never sent to M, one of the singers crushes:

Why did you mute me on Telegram? Why so cruel? Why deny me access to talk to you? Is it because deep down you care about me? Or because you don’t care about me at all? And what can I do about it? Respecting your decision makes the most sense to me. But it hurts me. When I told you that I was not interested in seeing you or talking to you about anything, I was under the effects of a strong emotional des-regulation, it is my brain the one to blame, not me. You, so neuro typical, took the bull by the horns, and you obey. You blocked me by telegram, so I couldn’t talk to you about anything, not even send you songs for our playlist. This is how I found out when I sent you the link to Briceño’s song. I thought that the musical language would be more appropriate to try to win you back, I just wanted to ask you for a second chance and this song would break the ice. What a rage the uncertainty you leave me in. Not knowing why you blocked me is killing me. I guess it’s because you find me toxic. What I did wasn’t so bad either. An explosion, a loss of temper. Nothing a good face-to-face conversation couldn’t fix. You come here in two weeks. Maybe you’re not blocking me, you’re blocking the possibility of continuing to ruin everything by chatting. How quickly we can go into madness when we chat, because that’s where we’re alike, we’re both lovers of verse.