One By One

One by one and another by another

Since I started writing in these three blogs I have felt very well. What interests me is that in all of them I talk about myself. Of me, even of intimate things about me; and I wonder if that is right or wrong. I mean, I think I said a lot of embarrassing things or things that you only tell your best friends. I have, by God, incredible friends (I love them, guys = ), but I am willing to accept that my shyness does not allow me to develop even with them as I would like. I suppose, then, that writing about me in these blogs fulfills the function of sharing and sharing what I have not been able to share in real life. And then if there is something in common between the three blogs, that is what I am talking about. Even in which I try to have a scientific discourse, grounded and everything, I can not avoid getting in and putting an intimate data that nobody asked me; otherwise I can not write: I do not have so much creativity. And I know so much about myself, about my lack of creativity, that many and painful times I've asked myself if I really like to write or not is just a way to combat my supposed loneliness. But what does it matter, right? All the cycles that close leave you learnings. I learned to manage in one of them and to develop an invaluable (for me) interpersonal intelligence in another and put my first words of literary intentions in another one. Three cycles that have hurt me a lot. Three cycles that, after their corresponding reflections, make me the person that I am now and that I sometimes admire. Once, when I was not going to psychotherapy, that a teacher saw me in crisis, I tried to tell her why she was crying, and her conclusion was that I had my problems in fragments that I told some to someone, others to another and others to a third, etc., instead of seeking professional support that knew how to see all those fragments as a holistic and unique problem.

Fortunately I'm going to psychotherapy, and I think that as a result I have acquired more cohesion and, despite the dissimilar themes of blogs, I feel that I am genuine in all three. I empathize too much with Pizarnik when he hurts his "dispersion" in his readings. I remember that precisely when I stopped studying one of the reasons was that: I remember in the library being dismembered between a book pulling me for one part, another to another and a third to another side. I understand the outbreak; and of course it was another cycle that left me stronger.*