Today I cried. I didn't want to cry but I did. I came home, with my left foot hurting and a head full of sad thoughts, to hungry cats and dirty dishes in the sink. My brain doesn't like crying. It makes me feel weak and whiny. My heart feels differently. It doesn't care about being weak or whiny. It just wants a way to vent the pent up hurt, frustration and anger its been experiencing for the past two weeks.
September 17, would have been my father's birthday. He died November 24, 2006, the day after Thanksgiving. We weren't always close. When I hit puberty we both suffered some major growing pains. However, when I left for college the distance helped us to heal. We'd done too much damage to each other to be best buds but we were closer than we'd been in years. There are moments he's missed out on that I wish he'd been around for. He loved to travel, something I inherited, and he would have liked to hear about my trips to France, Germany, Switzerland, and Spain. He only managed to get a High school diploma and although he was able to brag about me getting a Bachelor's, he would have enjoyed bragging about how I'd not only gotten a B.A but as an M.A. and one day I'd get a PhD.
I think about my Latino side and how much my dad wanted me to embrace it. I didn't look as dark as the kids in school and they picked on me relentlessly. They spoke in Spanish about me to each other and laughed when I didn't understand what insults they were flinging at me. I didn't want to be Mexican American. I pushed that side of me away, hating the music, the food, the language, and the customs. And now that I'm older and wiser I realize how stupid I was being and how much I hurt myself trying to hurt someone I loved.
I spent so much time denying one side of me that now, as I attempt to reunite my halves, I feel at times as if I'm not enough. I'm not Latina enough, I'm only half. I'm not white enough, I'm only half. I have no authority to speak on Latino matters or to guide other Latinos. It makes me feel like an impostor and I hate myself.
I hate my white skin, light hair, and fat body. I hate that I seemed to have dropped a clothing size but the scale says I've gained ten fucking pounds. And I know that it's probably muscle from working out the past two months but the number on the scale has me freaking out. And I hate that people keep trying to tell me that it's muscle weight but if I want to keep losing weight I should try this, this, and that. When really I don't want to lose weight I just want to be healthier and believe that the NUMBER DOESN'T FUCKING MATTER!!!! I want to believe that my body is beautiful even if it's rounder, larger, and shorter than what's on TV and in movies and magazines.
Yesterday, I saw this video and for a few moments, I felt better.
But today, standing at the sink my hands in the warm soapy water, my foot and heart aching I burst into tears and cried.
Some will say that writing this blog is my way of trying to get sympathy and maybe that's true. But, really I want you to know that you're not alone. I know how you feel because I have these moments, too. And even though we might not like it, even though we might feel weak and whiny sometimes it's good to cry it out.
No comments:
Post a Comment