Can You Feel This? It’s My Heart, and It’s Broken.

“I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.” – Edgar Allan Poe

It’s already Sunday again, I’ve been drunk and coked up for over a week and He and Lautrec have been handling me patiently, the outbursts of rage are now over.

On the first Spring weekend Alcohol helped me drain my chest and I was a walking drunken-ramble of heartbreak and fury for a couple of days. All the inappropriateness of those days sums up with me trying to kiss Him once, kissing his jaw as He avoided me in front of Lautrec, moments after Lautrec had to immobilize a violence-possesed-Regina.

“Don’t touch me!”

I tell Lautrec as I cry for him, Dreizehn, Him, my father, Santiago and the baby we lost on the super bowl weekend.

“I’m pretty sure it was a girl”

I say as I try not to choke on tears

He approaches, leaving his sit and tries to confort me

“Don’t you fucking touch me!!”

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He ignores me and tries to hold me, I’m furious, and I hit him with my elbow as we towers over me. He’s over 1.85 meters and strong. I’m drunk, 1.63 and I lost 4k during those two black-weeks, plus, I haven’t eaten much. He lifts me up as I kick the air and cry, he’s holding me from behind, his arms over mine so I don’t hit him. Once I’m calm again, he leaves to get more cigarettes and as he returns back He walks into the kitchen (where I’m drinking, smoking and crying) and I forget what has happened and try to kiss him, only to kiss his jaw as He lifts his head up to avoid my lips. Lautrec ignores the episode and sits in front of me on the kitchen table, he sits, looks at me and goes on listening to my rambles.

But it is Sunday now, and except for my Pulp-Ficion moment last Friday (in which I trusted a bisexual girl at a bar to give me Cocaine after making out with her, and we accidentally snorted Meth in the girl’s bathroom together) I’ve been pretty handleable and in a I’m-an-hyperactive-partygirl-mode that has been positive.

I’ve made up my mind and I’m demoting Lautrec: I am about to friendzone my husband. I still carry the rings around, but wearing them makes my fingers feel strangled. It’s almost a physical rejection to commitment now, and I try not to be cruel when I hide them at the bottom of my purse. He says nothing because he stopped wearing his ring over a month ago, but I know he noticed, and I know it bothers him. We can be friends, we can work, he knows I’m leaving him and he’s calm, that makes me think he has already accepted it. I sit him down on a café at Bat Country (Querétaro, where my wicked mother lives. Romi, my ex, nicknamed my mother Nosferatu, hence the state’s nickname) and he seems to accept it perfectly, but he seems too eager to make me get on a bus from Bat Country back to Stepford. Trying to get to the bus terminal at Bat Country is a terrible waste of time, gasoline and money, but he seems obsessed with the idea of me not returning to SM, only half an hour away from Bat Country. We’re friends now, we’re still starting a band eventually, we’ll be roomates in SM and I’ll pay for his rent in His house until he finds something stable. I introduced him to M, a British kid who’s starting a gaming company and offered Lautrec a job in it. Everything we’ll be fine and he’ll get the life he always wanted.

After getting lost, we are back on His house in SM about three hours after we planned. Everything’s relatively ok (Lautrec’s been getting money and I don’t know how much we have left or how much he’s receiving since I have him all I had and what my dad gave me so I wouldn’t spend it on garbage, so I’m a little stressed out), and I go upstairs to check my Facebook in the room we’re staying in. I ask him for his cellphone so I can use his internet, but as I open his cellphone to check if his sharing it, I see a What’s App conversation between Lautrec and my mother. I remember the fact that he hacked all of my social networks and my e-mail accounts, so I don’t feel guilty by reading the conversation.

Evidence and it’s translation. The pictures and screenshots are not in order and some of them are repeated (editing angry blinds you so…), so if you’re reading them I would rely a bit more on my translation below.

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My heart drops to the ground when I’m done reading. It’s worse than I imagined: he’s not only possessive, jealous and controlling. He didn’t only avoided fucking me and told me I disgusted him. He’s a manipulative asshole, he’s a coward and a traitor. I turn into water and not in the good way. I’m so disappointed I can’t even be angry, I feel so betrayed I don’t think I can leave the room, walk down the stairs and confront him about it. He knows how the place I was locked up in is, he knows I escaped, he knows it wrecked me more than anything I lived in 2013, and he’s been accepting (or asking for, I don’t now to this day…) money from my mother, who denied me 100 pesos to eat and pay for buses back when I was a nineteen year old living in Wreck City with an English Teacher salary, that didn’t leave me with enough money to both pay the rent and eat regularly.
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We had been having problems since the superbowl misscarriage, I realized I didn’t love him anymore when he told me I disgusted him, and I almost left him when I found out about the spyware in my computer. But I thought we could fix it all, I thought we could talk our way out of that. I wanted to. I wanted to grow old with him, and now, I couldn’t even look at him.

He had been having problems with his family, and his parents stopped paying for his university and kicked him out of his house. He had been staying with me in my dad’s house, and my father was going to build a room for him because my grandfather lives with us too, and he wouldn’t accept the two of us sleeping in the same room until we were religiously married. I was still going to pay for his rent until he got out of this dark times, I had convinced my grandfather into letting him live with us before we moved officially to SM. I payed for the trip, I payed for many things, and he was still biting the hand that fed him in the worst way possible. Of course not everything was on me, he gave me clothes, shoes and payed for my lemonades and cigarettes whenever he could, with his starving-student funds. But this was too much. I can’t stand lies, I can’t stand manipulation. I am all honesty, truth is my motherfucking moral code and he was twisting everything for people I cared for, for Him and for Gaby, for people I introduced him to and for everyone around us, while plotting with my mother to have me committed.

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My impatient editing cut the following: “My magical crystal ball tells me you’re full of sh*t”

I went down and confronted him, in front of our friend Artie and Him. They stood there quietly as I fell apart again, he denied everything I didn’t have evidence of and told me everything I read was said and written with the best intentions. He claimed he only wanted to help me, but now I can’t believe anything he says. I go upstairs and he’ll sleep on the couch, and as I ask Him for covers because sleeping alone will be cold he hugs me. I stand there shocked “I figured you needed it” I hug him and kiss his cheek, He‘s a little scared I’ll try to kiss him but I assure him I’ve accepted my friendzone. I ask for just one cover but he gives me three, and I fall asleep fast enough.

The next morning I’m so angry I almost flush the Coke I have left, and I stop drinking. I’m so furious rage can sustain me, I don’t need to be perpetually wasted anymore. I give my facebook a makeover I’m no longer married to Roberto M. (Lautrec’s real name) my nickname is no longer Señora Vinney, my profile pick doesn’t show my rings and as I change the cover too I wonder if I should get my “R” (for Roberto + the date in which we started dating in braille) covered.

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I ask him for the money my mother gave him and he has already spent half of it, but I’ll use it to leave. I spend that Monday cleaning His kitchen while Lautrec cleans the rest of the house, and I leave on Tuesday, arriving to my father’s house at night.

Cuarón rocks and two of his scenes sum things up perfectly.

-Gave me your hand. Do you know what this is? It’s my heart

and it’s broken. Can you feel that?

-I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

What have I done?!

My house is full of Lautrec’s things, and every place in Stepford reminds me of him, so I spend Wednesday and Thursday crying like an idiot. But, fuck. It feels good to be free.

And as I no longer have to feel guilty about relapsing, or worry about embarrassing Lautrec for being an alcoholic, I can breathe free tonight, because on Sunday, this Ultraviolent Spring started making me rebuild myself.

That night most of my dreams had come true, and like all happy endings it was a tragedy of my own device: for I succeeded. I cut myself loose from mamá, from the past, from Bat Country, from poverty. I had invented myself I’d done it cruelly, but I’d done it. I was free. You don’t have to be embarrassed by me anymore! isn’t that what you wanted? are we happy now? Don’t you understand that everything I did, I did it for you?

But now, I’ve got no one to make happy, but myself.


3 thoughts on “Can You Feel This? It’s My Heart, and It’s Broken.

  1. You are simply amazing.

    Excellent conclusion:
    “But now, I’ve got no one to make happy, but myself.”

    Your life combined with your talent to write takes over my whole existence.
    My brain begins to imagine while I’m reading you and thinks:

    “How is meraly possible that she can suffer this much”

    “But if she had not gone through all this maybe I would not be reading to this great writer”

    Without a doubt you are my favorite writer. I will follow you till the “Ends of times”, no matter what. I will be waiting impatient for read another day your amazing strength.

    For some reason I have this indescribable feeling directly from my bones. I have so many things to tell you but I won’t do it because I enjoy our Writer-Reader relation more than what I have to say. Moreover anything that I could have to say won’t change anything in you, more than that, I don’t want to change anything on you. You are simply perfect on your own and unique way.

    ¿Why would I want to change that?

    ¿Change what makes me feel alive in this birdcage?

    ¿My conclusion?:

    You need this shitty things to write like you write. This is you. This is your incredible way to be.

    This makes what you are. You need experience, you need sadness and sorrow. You are a genius and I want to quote something that you quoted before:

    “I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.” – Edgar Allan Poe

    Like him is what he is, you are this. Both are a kind of genius

    ———-I will be waiting for more.

    Alex Mange.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. HOLY FUCK, this comment blew me away… thank you so much for everything! Reading, commenting and promoting the blog! And thanks for being a friend, I wish I could be more poetic, but sometimes an honest “Thank you” does the trick. And comparing me to Poe… you just made my whole month! And yes, suffering builds character, and if I had had a normal life I’d probably be some boring ass engineer (don’t get me wrong here, engineers rock and I wanted to study Aerospace Engineering back when I was 17, but in the end the desire to write and to eventually be a writer was too strong) thank you again, there’ll be more posts up today and I’m back to regular posting, so there will be new posts every week from now on ❤ have an awesome Semana Santa, mr. Mange, let's stay in touch 😀

      Liked by 1 person

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