1/9/24

No Internet at My Favorite Café Today

I feel like I'm in the slow process of recovering from an illness—one that has left me weakened and still not healed. Last night's headache was so intense that it made me question everything, a familiar echo of the uncontrollable pain I experienced in Bolivia due to the high altitude, where every pulse felt like a hammer against my skull.

As I laid there in the darkness, I found myself in a quiet dialogue with myself. I noticed something strange: the more I resisted the headache, trying to distract myself with other thoughts, the more it tightened its grip on me. But when I finally allowed myself to sit with the pain, to really feel it and gently spoke to myself as if comforting a child, the pain began to shift.

“Is your head uncomfortable? Where does it hurt? I understand; you’re trying to tell me something, right? Maybe you're asking me to stop thinking so much, to give my mind a rest? Do you feel overwhelmed? It’s okay, I’m listening. What are you feeling? Tell me.”

With every word, I felt the headache ease—not suddenly, but gradually, like a river beginning to flow again after being blocked. There was a sense of energy shifting, of tension releasing, much like blood finally reaching a numbed limb.

Even yesterday, amid pain and discomfort, I made chicken soup, and multigrain rice, and did the grocery, at night I made sure to take the time to gently stroke my skin, to remind myself that mimo—self-care—is a form of love. But the panic still crept in, especially when I couldn’t fit into a pair of jeans easily and felt so bloated, my face, my eyes, my entire body puffed up like a balloon. I realized that this might be the result of a perfect storm—stress, mood swings, anxiety about many aspects, also consideration about moving to a new city, thinking about separations with BA and my life and my friends, and planning my next steps. It all became too much, and my body simply couldn't bear it anymore.

I fell ill as if my body was saying, “Enough.”

When I woke up today, my body felt heavy, as if gravity had doubled overnight. The first thought that crossed my mind was to stay in bed, to pull the covers over my head and hide from the world just a little longer. The idea of facing the day felt like too much, so I allowed myself to linger in the cocoon of my sheets. My phone chimed with a reminder of the asado gathering with a tango community, but the thought of putting on a brave face and engaging with others felt overwhelming. I cancelled, knowing I needed to conserve my energy.

Eventually, I forced myself to sit up, but the world around me began to tilt and swirl, and for a brief moment, everything went black. My head felt light, my vision blurry, and I had to steady myself against the bed to keep from collapsing back onto it. It reminded me of a morning months ago at Sere’s place, when I woke up with anaemia, my body weak from blood loss, and dizziness making the room spin. It had been during my period then, and I wondered if my body was preparing for the same now. Was this the reason for my exhaustion, this familiar sense of fragility?

A chapter in my life had quietly closed, and instead of sadness, I felt a deep sense of peace, an acceptance of what is. The realization hit me: I’m not in a place where I can maintain certain conversations or forge intimate connections right now. My energy is depleted, and I need to prioritize my well-being—my mood, my mind, my mood, my time, my health, my heart. I can’t afford to give away too much of myself at this moment.

I began to wonder if I was too fragile. I’m so easily influenced by the people I care about, or those who seem kind—because they’re kind, it makes it hard for me to say no. I’ve been so absorbed in their lives, constantly checking on how they’re doing, letting their emotions seep into my own. But this recent wave of discomfort in my body feels like a clear message: it’s time to turn inward and focus on what I need.

Lately, I’ve been craving sweets(it's unusual for me), the kind that offers comfort in the moment but leaves me feeling out of control afterwards. It’s as if my body is seeking some sort of balance, though I’m trying not to be too harsh with myself about it. My recent state hasn’t been ideal; I haven’t exercised much either, which is normally one of the sources of happiness for me. There’s a strange kind of pain during a workout, but it’s the kind that leads to lasting happiness, far more enduring than the fleeting pleasure of a sugary treat. I’ve decided to return to my Pilates routine more consistently, and the thought brings excitement. Once the weather warms up, I’ll go back to the pool too. Being in the water has always felt like my own form of meditation, a place where the world falls away and I can simply be.

Today, I don’t feel the spark to write. Instead, I think I’ll curl up with that story about the Irish girl searching for magic on my Kindle, and let myself get lost in her world for a while.

It’s September now, my favourite month, and I can hardly believe that my birthday is approaching again—my third one in Buenos Aires. It’s almost surreal, the idea that I’ve been in this city long enough to celebrate three birthdays here. It feels like a strange commitment to have stayed in one place for so long, but there’s something I love about this bizarre situation in my life.

But for now, I think I’ll leave it here. Writing can wait; I need some time to just be.