After nine months of aimlessly spinning in my mother’s womb, I was born via C-section, with my head in the wrong place and the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. I find it curious that the doctors realized I couldn’t be born naturally, but not that I was a girl. They swore to my mother that I would be a boy, and if it hadn’t been for a prophetic dream in which she saw me just as I am, my parents would have painted the nursery blue.
When I finally came into the world, my name hadn’t been decided yet. It took them hours to agree on one, and the one they picked intrigues me: it lives somewhere between common and rare. Everyone knows it, but almost nobody has it. You never see it on souvenirs, and Coca-Cola doesn’t think there are enough of us to warrant featuring us on their cans.
As a kid, I grew like a weed: I was always the tallest in class until puberty hit at eleven, leaving me at 1.66 meters tall. Which is above average, but sometimes I wonder if being taller would change how I feel about my body. I struggle a lot with my weight: some days I’m okay with my curves, others I wish I were thinner. But I tend to eat when I’m anxious, and my metabolism doesn’t help. I just hope someday I can accept myself, or at least manage to stick to a routine. Whatever comes first.
What I do like are my quirks. When I’m alone, I make noises with my mouth or say random words. I don’t talk to myself, but I do talk to my dog. I like to think he understands me better than he lets on, and sometimes pretends to be dumb on purpose. I don’t mind. I love that he lets me cover him up when we sleep on the same bed, and that he seemingly refuses to look good in photos.
Workwise, I’m not doing as well as I’d like. Even though I’ve been been employed for a good part of the last ten years, I’ve never really worked on something that excites me. It’s always been just to pay bills. Meanwhile, I studied, and as soon as I graduated, I signed up for a scriptwriting course because I realized late that what I’d done so far didn’t fill me. I’ve always been a producer, and being a producer is a pretty safe role: you help others make their ideas real. If it fails, it’s not your fault. I used to be scared of something being mine and failing, but now I’m more scared of never sharing my ideas.
Creativity hits me at the worst times: in the shower, driving, trying to sleep. Always when I can’t write anything down. Sometimes I try to repeat the idea in my head until I get to paper or a computer, but my memory sucks. I wonder how many good stories I’ve lost that way.
Relationships are complicated for me; Not making friends, but forging deeper connections. My last (and longest) relationship lasted four years, and although it was nice and comfortable, that comfort ultimately led us to split. I still wonder if I did the right thing when I decided to end it.
My relationship with language is also strange. I’m bilingual, but sometimes I feel like I’ve betrayed Spanish because I think in English and I struggle to remember words in my native language. My mom laughs at that. I blame myself for not reading more. It’s something I’m trying to change, but it takes time. And on top of that, I decided to study Japanese.
Sometimes, new interests excite me, and then they fade away after a while. Some have stuck with me since I was a kid, others not so much. Some become a part of me. Others simply disappear. Many stay in a primitive stage, because I don’t dig deeper into them. I tell myself I don’t have the time. Maybe that’s true. Perhaps it’s an excuse.
And now that I’m facing a possible end, I realize how hard it is for me to sum myself up. I never know what to leave out because I want to tell it all, even the things I barely remember. And even though I cut and edit and convince myself it’s better like this, I always end up feeling like I missed something.