4/12/25

Last night I took Ry, the older of the two little ones, out into the yard to paint with water made from boiled jabuticaba skins.

I watched this child create so naturally, without hesitation. It’s such a beautiful thing to witness.

I put on one of my favourite bands, Sigur Rós, a post-rock band from Reykjavík in Iceland, and then I just lay down in the yard, quietly watching his brushstrokes, watching how he let lines and colours land on the paper.

The night air, the music, a little boy completely absorbed in what he was doing. I wasn’t doing anything in particular. I was just watching, and being present.

Evening, I cried again.

In the afternoon, Emma and I took the two kids into the city centre. We browsed some clothing shops, then went to the supermarket and bought a lot of food. There were people everywhere, the kids were crying and fussing on and off, cars rushing by in all directions. I could feel my energy slowly being drained away. I felt weak and exhausted.

When we were in those clothing shops, suddenly I remembered that Beans once told me his parents work in the clothing industry.

I immediately started wondering: what kind of pieces do they usually make? What sort of people do they design for?

And then, the very next second, I sighed inside and thought:

Why am I still thinking about this?

Can I please, slowly, let this person and his whole life move into the past?

Let it go, okay?

When we got home, I felt completely wiped out and deeply sad.

I didn’t really want to be alone with my sadness.

Lately I’ve still been a bit resistant to meditating.

My recent meditations haven’t felt very “smooth”, they often end in tears, or with my chest feeling tight and heavy.

(I know I shouldn’t start developing aversion towards my own meditation practice, but that’s honestly what’s happening.)

I called Mike, who is a very close and dear friend of mine. I suddenly realised we’ve already known each other for two years.

My therapist Wendy had reminded me, “It’s wonderful to have friends, but your communication with yourself is also very important.”

And I thought, right now I just don’t want to talk to myself anymore, I’ve been talking to myself for so long these past one and a half months.

I said to Mike, “I’m still really sad. I don’t know why, but after all this time, this sadness is still so strong.”

He said, “Of course it hurts. You two had so much love, so many memories, so much intimacy, and such deep future plans. And it actually hasn’t been that long since you separated. It’s normal.”

When I heard that, I started crying. Not a big loud sobbing, but a steady, quiet kind of crying.

On the other end he said, “It’s okay.”

I kept crying without making a sound, as if I was just letting the tears slowly carry something out of me.

Then came the nightmare.

In the dream, Beans wasn’t really rejecting me, but he wasn’t really coming towards me either. He was warm and cold, back and forth.

I felt very unsettled.

I was in agony.

I told him in the dream that it was really hurting me, that I felt very distressed.

He had this look of not caring at all, as if his face was saying, “Why are you being so dramatic?”

In the dream, he stood me up.

I told him I felt disrespected, unloved, uncared for. I was hoping he could man up, face himself, face me.

Then suddenly his face twisted.

It was as if some force had distorted his features; he became frightening, unfamiliar. He started shouting at me. I looked at him and felt my heart breaking, piece by piece, inside the dream.

In the dream I cried and said to him,“Why are you doing this? Why can’t you take responsibility? I’m willing to admit the parts that are my fault, but why do you have to be so vicious and cruel? You forgot we had plans, why are you blaming me and yelling at me? The way you’re treating me is really painful and disappointing.”

In the dream he said to me,“You’re hurting? Then hurt. I really don’t care. You’re an adult, if you don’t want to be in pain, then do something about it yourself. To be honest, your pain doesn’t matter to me. Even if you died, I wouldn’t really care that much.”

And then I woke up.

To me, Beans really is a very beautiful, very gentle, very sensitive person.

I remember the softness in his eyes.

I remember the way he opened his heart and let his vulnerability show, that careful but genuine kind of baring himself.

I remember the strength of his shoulders and arms.

I remember the sense of connection when our bodies were together.

I remember clinging to his back or curling up in his arms like a little koala, and how his eyes would curve when he smiled, the kind of smile that made my whole heart relax.

I also remember the way he expressed love, a little goofy, but so sincerely awkward, like his whole body was saying, “I really do love you.”

I remember so many of his beautiful sides, and the version of him that always tried to support me.

I remember him, and I remember “us”.

I remember how we used to laugh together without holding anything back, laughing like there was no one else in the world but the two of us, laughing so purely we felt like two kids.

And at the same time, I also very clearly remember the other side.

I remember the moments when he wasn’t considerate, when he wasn’t loving.

I remember the times he lied to me, and how that left me feeling so unsafe.

I remember how he would blame me or the people around him for his own behaviour.

I remember that attitude of, “I know this makes you uncomfortable, but I’m going to do it cuz I don’t care enough.”

I remember how he didn’t want to express his negative emotions, he would hold everything in, suppress it, until it all exploded at once.

I also remember how, when he lost his temper, he used this “I’m doing all of this for you” tone, standing on a high moral ground, twisting things into a kind of emotional burden, as if he were some noble giver and I should be grateful instead of hurt.

All of this, both my mind and my heart remember very deeply.

I think, because it really did hurt so much, my subconscious is working very hard to help me process that pain. Maybe that’s why I have dreams like this.

In the dream, it takes what truly happened and magnifies it, exaggerates it, replaying it for me. Maybe my subconscious is trying to help me clear some of those wounded parts out of my brain and my body, little by little.

I know everyone has flaws. I do, he does, everyone in this world does.

Still, when I wake up from a dream like that, I have to spend some time just breathing deeply before I have enough strength to begin the day.

Sometimes I find myself asking: What are my dreams trying to tell me?

But beneath that question, there’s an even deeper one:

Who am I?

Under all these emotions, thoughts, dreams, and sensory experiences, who am I really?

I think I am someone sensitive, full of love, curiosity, and creativity.

I love nature.

I love feeling things, and I love observing.

I love looking for the beauty into everyday, tiny moments.

I love making connections, with people, with nature, with the world, and I love adventure.

I am also someone who has been hurt, who loves to dream, who often feels anxious and carries a lot of fear. I doubt myself more often than I’d like to admit, sometimes feeling “too much” and “not enough” at the same time. I can be controlling with myself, pushing my heart and body beyond their limits, saying yes when I mean no, and only later realising I’ve crossed my own boundaries. Some days I wake up with a heaviness in my chest for no clear reason, carrying old memories in my body like little ghosts that visit at night. But I am trying to look at these wounds with more honesty and tenderness now, to listen to them instead of hiding them, and to slowly learn how to hold all these parts of me in a softer, more healing way.

Beyond that, who am I?

I’m still slowly exploring.

My therapist Keith told me that my subconscious is actually doing something very powerful right now, it’s slowly waking up. And that I’ve also been very committed to healing myself. That in itself is already a very good path; he says I am on the right track.

At the same time, he reminds me not to let my need to be loved blind me, to the point that I can’t see the true nature of things.

Not to keep running away from myself, run away from your true self, and not to look only outward for love, but to practice loving myself from within love.

Not to cling desperately to external forms of love, but to slowly grow a kind of love that flows from the inside out.

He said that when that inner love becomes more stable, I won’t always feel so scared, or so lonely and empty. I’ll start to experience a kind of joy that is more real, more steady.

He said, “These are powerful dreams. Keep dreaming, Shikin. Keep dreaming.”

I’m not completely sure I understand everything he means, or where exactly he’s trying to lead me.

But I have a faint sense that he might be reminding me of this:

When I am too afraid of losing love, I become more likely to ignore my own being, to ignore the question of “Who am I?”.

Maybe these dreams, these tears, these evenings lying in the yard watching Ry paint while Sigur Rós plays in the background, are all part of how I am slowly learning:

learning how to stay with myself, learning how to stay in the present, learning not to define myself only by “am I loved?”.

Early in the morning, a little after seven, Emma knocked on my door. We had agreed to get up early and see if there was anywhere nearby selling fish.

We wanted to wrap the fish in banana leaves, add different spices, lemon, and chilli, and grill a fragrant, tender fish for lunch.

I slowly sat up, closed my eyes, and took a few deep breaths, gently setting the leftover images from the dream back down where they came from.

Then, I got ready to begin my day.