Dear reader, I feel I can tell you I finally know what rebirth means.  Renaissance is not just a period of history or a random festival where people dress up in Medieval attire.  It is the single opportunity of being born again, as on an ancient ritual.   My renaissance unfolded over the course of these several months.  Yes, the pandemic did not quite go away in the meantime, I was initially fat and not really believing I could effect change in my body or in myself.

No, things did not just happen by design.  At some point, I hit that invisible wall that separates who you are from who you want to be.  I decided to tear the wall down and move forward.  So far, it seemed to have worked.  Now the key lies in becoming a better version of body and soul without stopping whatever change we triggered when the Universe decided we had learned how to receive.  The key lies in giving and receiving with purpose, being ourselves and reaching out for more than the low-hanging fruit.  Always…to life!

It has been a while since I last wrote a post for this blog. It all started during the first lockdown as soon as the pandemic began last year. While 2020 was a miserable year for a sizeable share of mankind, it was not bad for me on many levels, including financially. Thus, I was able to start this blog in the hope that I would find some solace as life around me fell to pieces and my ten-year relationship with the wrong person came to a rather unnatural but inevitable end.

If 2020 was financially rewarding in my book, 2021 was equally devastating. But hey, life goes on and I’m still not done. Home repairs are something that you never really get done and over with anywhere in the world and particularly in the United States, where houses are built with drywall and materials that never last enough to give you a bang for your buck.

And now, as the world tries to awaken to a new way of life — for better or worse — let’s celebrate what we still have by reminiscing some peaceful moments in a light blue sky.

One day, just as smoothly or as loudly as they once jumped into your lifeboat, people leave. Lines disconnect, lives take different turns, or people simply move on and stop loving, if they ever loved at all. Many of us insist on thinking that once we were loved, so that should count in an of itself. Others prefer to dwell in anger, in the wrong inflicted, in the lies told. Perhaps a good middle ground is to have a bit of both, knowing that life and love are both quite complicated. Somebody leaves you when you have already left them. Is the first one to speak the leaver or simply the faster party? Well, they are not the leaver, let me tell you. They simply need to feel they have had the last word.

2021 will be no different than 2020. A pandemic virus put the world on its knees in 2020, but the world will continue to be on its knees for a while longer, or even much longer. Humans have disconnected from one another to an unimaginable degree, walking back on much of the progress we had in the tail end of the 20th century. Was it the internet, with its promise of a protective screen that puts the world at your fingertips while taking out the worst in you? Or was it humanity itself, unable to be the best part of their souls even after centuries of war, famine and pandemics constantly reminding it of how feeble it is?

So here 2021 starts with a severe winter storm that leaves me, along with a high number of my fellow Houstonians, reeling in dismay and growing repair bills. My taxes go up, I decide to change house and there too my taxes go up, along with my expenses because I can’t quite move in yet — home repairs hit me on both fronts. And this is me, just little old me trying to emerge from the ashes of a bad breakup, a year of lockdown and the sense that things, like people, need to change.

The internet is swimming in posts and articles about people’s expectations when the first year of a new decade began vs the reality they were dealt by an unforgiving God or the silly invention of a global pandemic that nobody was really prepared for.

There will be families without loved ones to celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas with. New Year celebrations — the typical moment when it’s a new year in Australia — will probably need to be more creative. It will be sad to certify that major world leaders did not care in the least about the many challenges that everyday folk have to confront.

Somewhere at the other end of a Christmas tree there will be a Zoom meeting. It will be tough to communicate over the platform with everybody suddenly going through the same motions on a global level. We will complain about the quality of our connection, knowing that it’s always been hard to call home for Christmas.

I will be going for walks and rides on the bike here, carrying my thousand masks with me so I don’t make the mistake of locking myself out of a coffee shop. People will sit outside in Houston, still unwilling to declare itself in winter, much like Trump unable to bring himself to the reality of having lost a presidential election.

The world will be a tougher place, much tougher place, for a long time. Reluctantly, I must confess it could last longer than my own existence. I would not be surprised if a new war is in the horizon, involving this country and other global powers. Maybe, if they do happen, some of the enthusiasts willing to pull ubiquitous weapons to attack fellow citizens will have a chance to redirect their aim to a higher purpose…if a war entails one, of course.

I am not sure about the future at the other end of this annus horribilis we are still almost drowning in. I just know it will only be better to a certain degree, for example that the war on a virus can be concluded or at least half-won. However, the larger view is bleak. So many certainties and tacit agreements have been broken in the transition of power and the preservation of our institutions that it has become scary. The best world we have is the one we can turn to if, every now and then, when the need arises, we know there is a place where we can live inside ourselves.

To my right, Obsidian is open to the help vault, which is useful as markdown does not come to me as naturally as I would have liked.  Further to my right, across the massive monitor I decided to buy about three months ago, the Intense Studying playlist is on from Spotify  It all feels good, inspirational.  Tomorrow is a holiday that, back where I come from, we used to celebrate as conquered non-Indian souls.  How come the Spaniards first conquered the Indians and then oppressed the Latinos?  Something is definitely missing.  On a side note, when I was a kid the holiday was commemorated as Race Day or Día de la Raza, which in Spanish sounds way better than anything I could say in English to reproduce its brutality.

I’m not fully on board with the latest woke movements like #Metoo and the like.  I think they went too far too soon for my taste, even though I can totally see how the original idea made perfect sense.  So, while its tone, purpose and ultimate success is all debatable — and I agree that it is — I don’t want to digress into multiple degrees of separation from my original thought.  I brought the idea of tomorrow’s holiday to the table as a blessing that I cannot quite thank enough.

I am beginning to feel truly in need of a vacation, even if the whole pandemic business makes it risky and erratic.  After all, I live in one of those states in the US that sooner or later will be taken over by rising water or forceful hurricane winds.  So, for me, it’s all about living to be another year old — or young.

While I described almost to the letter what lies to the right and rightest of my screen (to the left there is WordPress, you fool), I have yet to tell you what lies on my desk.  Well, it is a little jewel of a book I found years ago and photocopied — making a better use of my resources than today and owning less stuff.  It’s called Self-editing for Fiction Writers, and it was written by Renni Browne and Dave King.

The book is great in that, in a concise and very American way, it gives you tips on how you can edit your own work so it is more polished and readable.  It’s looking at fiction primarily, but who knows what I will be writing in the end, when the time comes for me to decide?  Maybe I should even consider this blog as a form of writing…because it is, even when I neglected it for months and haven’t written in English more than for work.

That’s my quest these days, writing in a polished and clear way so I don’t become an embarrassment to myself when I try to read my own production years from now, in a dark corner, far away from the madding crowd.

We get off the phone. Her son has a minor procedure tomorrow and she is naturally worried about him, regardless of the statistical significance. That is called motherhood, and I get it. In my inevitable desire to please, I share a light-hearted anecdote about my own wisdom teeth removal — long ago — that turned out to be wackier than necessary and hopefully fun. Before I uttered my first word, I knew I would miscalculate, no matter what.

Once again, the familiar silent treatment that psychologists describe so well when they give a rundown of a narcissists’ traits was there. Her chosen response was aggravation instead of connection. Instead of the predictable “twilight complicity” between two people who, for better or worse, have been together for almost a decade, I get overt censorship and disregard.

Her voice is strained as she issues a snarky, half-serious reprieve. It is all so natural to her and so boringly familiar to me by now that it doesn’t hurt anymore. We say goodnight and I tell her that I love her, in a monochord wrap-up. Noise cancellation is an amazing engineering discovery, and my brain has half-learned how to go ANC as she drops off the call enjoying the rush that petty power gives the lost souls who know no better than to drown in the pool of their reflection. A classical move from the narcissistic textbook: redraw the battle lines when there is risk of seeing your power wane; you can change them again tomorrow.

In the sharp mind of a narcissist, anything you say can and shall be used against you, if not now, at some point. Your words doom you more than they will ever exalt you. What you and any normal human being would think is fun becomes the worst possible offense in their eyes, a hurt beyond repair, and most of the time will trigger an escalation of hostilities.

Open conversation eventually becomes impossible with them, and that is what they want. They never cared about how or what you feel, so why should they indulge you? Sharing your feelings, being you, equals handing them the gun that will shoot you into oblivion..your own more than theirs. They will never leave. Repetition and reinforcement of how useless and powerless you are is a practical technique that they can use flawlessly.

They pull the strings in measured increments. They continue to draw the line farther away from them and closer to you in unnoticeable ways, so that ultimately you are left to take care of the broken pieces of your surprising offense. Their talent to make manipulation work to their advantage is immense.

In the process of loving the narcissist and investing yourself in a fruitless relationship, you waste invaluable energy to end up the wiser and also the worst, doubting yourself and allowing you to be engulfed into their always-changing swamp. In their world, black is white one day, grey the next and nothing if they simply wish it so. Gaslighting you is an art they master, a weapon of mass destruction that narcissists will not hesitate to use against you if it serves them well.

The blank space of denial lurks in the background. After all, tomorrow is another day.

I put my Ipods on and set out to walk while listening to Who’s Pulling your Strings? on Audible. The book, written by Harriet Braiker, is the typical self-help narrative by PhD psychologists on dealing with narcissists, manipulative personalities and passive aggression. I say “typical” because I’ve been through a few of those. The description of my problem is accurate. The solutions on offer are more diversified. Yet, it all helps.

As Braiker starts discussing strategies to deal more efficiently with those “pulling our strings”, she first discusses the importance of removing yourself from the immediate pressure or accepting the manipulator’s requests or wishes. Right after that, she recommends an exercise involving meditation following an intensive write-up of an episode in which your manipulator made you experience anxiety, fear or some other intense negative feeling. The technique is aimed to desensitize you and help you detach your memory of the pain your loved one and manipulator inflicted on you from the actual words that were uttered by him/her or the way circumstances developed during the traumatic episode. I am not sure if the technique is effective yet, as I haven’t tried it, but at least it seems intriguing.

I haven’t tried it yet because, as I was walking back from the 3-mile walk to my car, I realized that some of the most intense feelings of despair and pain I have felt over the past decade (even longer) around my manipulator of choice have softened significantly. In fact, I have to admit they have weakened to such a degree that I can probably start talking about them openly without really feeling their intensity, not in the way I used to.

In view of that half-conclusion, perhaps it is time for me to start writing the pain completely out, recalling what I may or may not have done to lull it over the past year or so. Perhaps it is time to understand how to let the truth I was always capable of seeing take on a stronger role in my exit strategy, whether I leave the situation or the person.

I do not know if there might be someone out there who could eventually read this and say, “wait a minute, I know what she’s talking about”…but I can try for myself. In the solitude of a foreign country and with my friends more than a phone call away from me, I know I would have loved to chat with someone other than a random YouTube psychologist about the abuse manipulators can subject us to and our complicity in making it happen.

Perhaps I will.

As the 2020 beast of a pandemic continues to ravage the world Attila style, it is only inevitable for a mere mortal to look for ways of breaking a self-imposed restraint to contact others. In defiance of nature, some choose to take the risk of flying, whose assessment in the exposure scale ranks higher every day as airlines ease restrictions on anything that could keep passengers safer. Others opt for the road, although they try to restrict their adventure to a couple of days of driving. In this context, a road trip that usually lures the typical American to grab his vehicle and just set out for days on end becomes a cost-benefit decision. When large states such as Texas, Arizona and even California find themselves increasingly at the mercy of a virus that seems at least well-placed to conquer, risks feel more like Russian roulette than light gambling.

It was caution rather than fear which triggered the thumbs-down on this trip. It may have been the right call or it may have been the last. Of course there were other reasons, but they were hers, so it is not my place to own them.

Death is inevitable, no matter if you are facing a pandemic or simply your everyday life. And life will have its moments, always…on or off the road.

I have far too many traumatic memories of being a child forced to camp out for a couple of days with other classmates and feeling no human being with a roof on their head should be subject to that. Well, the upside was having my own sleeping bag…it was like having a bed of my own, which I did not.

In this ugly pandemic the world has plunged into, curbside shopping has become a privilege — but also a good option if you want to preserve yourself from the virus as much as possible. HEB is the local Houston/Texan store of preference for many of us, and they have a good curbside service that I have been using for several months now, on and off as availability waxed and waned in accordance with the average level of public panic.

It seems tonight the service is offline…just when I was going to close my shopping and check out. So now there is no slot (by the way, the system is dead but alive enough to tell me my slot has expired) and I will have to wait who knows how much longer to get my groceries as I had originally intended.

Fuck this pandemic and fuck HEB.

Where I come from, the corrupt leaders in charge have opted for imprisoning the population just to protect a large mass of underserved workers and lower classes that they, in their awful iterations in power, have failed to provide for. Some people realize they are being had while others don’t and probably never will, or at least not until they miss their own plate of food on the table, ironically while waiting for “their” chosen leaders to do the right thing.

Too much is going on, here in the US and in my hometown. Too much is happening while it is not, but only a few eyes can see that or want to see that. Can I blame them? No, not really. Who wants to wake up to the reality of not being free? Who wants to support a regime that pretends to be the solution when it is at the root of the problem?

Nothing is eternal, but quarantine — not COVID — might as well be. The democracy you thought was a given is nothing but a fragile whiff of air, stale and locked into a small fist that you will not dare to show anyone for fear of going to jail.

If I have to be afraid of anything, I’d rather be afraid of not being, of not feeling, because that might not be convenient.