Si aparecen a la noche, algo anda mal

My stomach is twisting... the desire to die has come back again. I lied to myself again. It hadn't happened since April. Waking up as if vomiting pain. What a shitty feeling. Writing has to help me get through it.

My life is dead. Two of my best friends are gone. One really messed with my mind, besides doing good things for me. My partner told me to fuck off without giving a damn about everything I did for him. I made forty mistakes and didn't acknowledge the faults of others.

I saw all that happen with my mind shattered.

I was forced to move cities. I don't enjoy my current job. It's really hard for me to teach and have the kids see me tremble at any ambiguous comment.

I lied to myself again. I don't want to have this feeling in my stomach. I don't know how to live. I don't want to live like this. I worked hard for the life I lost.

A grandfather wanted to play tough and bought a gun. Too many losses and possible health problems.

I keep looking at myself in the mirror, remembering when after nine years you casually told me you didn't see me as a mother at all. I simply looked at you and said I had a lot to improve and learn, but that it was a desire. I feel very stupid, but the truth is that I feel a burning that opens my chest, a wound of emptiness so great every time I remember this or look at my body. How can a few words hurt so much? How can it hurt so much?

It may not seem like it, but the issue of motherhood and after nine years weighs a lot.

Thank you, grandma, for helping me so much to get out of a littler hell and I'm sorry for this. You and grandpa are an example to me. You went from picking potatoes and sewing clothes in the countryside to striving together to build a life with love, happiness, good friends, and you made it to Paris together. More than 60 years together. Call me old-fashioned, but I value that challenging construction so much. You cared for your children with love and determination. I love you.

Last year I took him to eat there, but it was different. We had a portrait of him at home. I took it when he passed away. He knew what it meant to me. I showed him the photo of my grandfather in Paris, for the first time in his life, with white hair. I told him that at 18 he was carrying sacks of potatoes in the fields. The worst job. He didn't say much, as always, maybe I lied to myself assuming a yes from all the silences. Assuming yes for all the times I had an intuition that you were lying to me and when I asked again you got angry, then I thought "it's just me" and kept quiet. I am really very angry with you and with myself. We should have fought much more.

I admire you so much, grandma. You had the business and you were the one who went to negotiate with the suppliers. You've been like a mom these last few weeks.

Your older sister died at school from pneumonia at 8 years old. You were next and your dad didn't let you go because of the pain. What you had to fight, grandma. I love you.

Writing helps to get through this that is really shit. I hope it passes soon.

I understood what I really feel. If the night tells the truth, I feel like I don't belong in this world.

The destruction of the mental structure that supported my known existence, removing the elements of reason, led me to this conclusion. I had to progressively destroy and build while dealing with the fears. But no.

I hate having gone through this. I don't want life to slip through my hands.