Of monsters and misplaced parts.

maybe someday someone can make sense of this. maybe, one day, someone does find all these... pieces, lying all around, and maybe they understand something. Maybe they understand that I AM sad. I am sad. I am depressed. And that there is nothing that I can actually do about it, that there's nothing anyone can do about it. And why should it be bad? wrong? why should I not cut myself? What is so, truly, wrong with being broken? With not being happy, and satisfied, and eager? Why is it wrong?! Would I choose to be happy if I could? I honestly don't think I would, because I just don't care enough for it to make the change. I don't want my sadness to go away. It's not turmoil anymore. It's just silence. It's quiet. I don't want to be happy, for I don't think I've earned it. I have done nothing with myself. I wish for nothing. I have no passion. What would I do with happiness? I wouldn't know what to do with it. It is hitting me straight in the face. I have a wonderful person in my life, she loves me and cares for me, she knows I'm broken and, although she doesn't understand it, she doesn't really believe in it, she is still here. She still wants me to be with her. Yes, she hates my depression, but she yells at me, she wants to get me out of the darkness, and I think that's really sweet and nice of her. Dedicated. And brave. I could kill myself. I could. When I'm really low all I do is think about the reasons why I'm not supposed to kill myself. You know, the usual: my poor parents, my sweet girlfriend, my cat, it's selfish. That's what everyone says. Those are the reasons I can't let go of this... this "life". But then they do wonder why I'm so eagerless to do things. "How can you not want to study? Or work? You have to do something. It's not normal"

I know.

I am finally realizing that this will never really go away. I haven't really thought about it before, but I am now in this point in life where your visions of your future self start including living settlements and money incomes, whereas before it was just you learning something new or going to know this or that place or drawing or just school. And I noticed, I'm the depressed one. I'm either gonna get pills, or kill myself. At some point. I mean, c'mon, how much longer can I respect that "my poor parents, my sweet girlfriend, my cat, it's selfish" mantra? Everyone knows repeating a word for too long makes you forget its meaning. But you know... I realized... it hit me when I decided I do not want to give birth because I don't want to spread this depression gene. I don't. I actually believe I could be a great mother, but it SCARES me to give birth to someone and give them my sadness. That is NOT fair. My pain is my pain only. No one  should ever suffer from it. It is only mine, my fault only, it is embarrassing and it is forbidden, it is private and it is R E A L. And it hurts. It burns and aches slowly, and I can smell it coming, creeping. I can hear its low and slowly increasing screech. I can feel the pieces of my self-mirrors that it shatters, slowly, from the bottom to the upper surface. And if I am lucky, I can let it break through me. I can let it be its full potential. And break me. Tore me down. Because I learnt it is always better to let it get away with it. Hiding it, fighting it, only shatters more pieces inside and they hurt and cut over and over and over and over until I am nothing but cuts and pure uncomfortable, seething and screeching pain. And I could get away with that before, but now? Now I think  that when that bomb goes off, it would, quite literally, kill me. I would die. I would do whatever I could to die. I would kill myself to stop hurting. There would be no coming back from that bomb. So, really the healthiest thing I can do is let it hurt slowly but surely until it goes away.

It is real. It is real. The pain is real. I am not overreacting. It is real. It is real. It is real. It is real. It is real. It's heavy and it's a disgusting melted-oil-like heavy. It is hot, but paralyzing. It is exasperating. It is a monster. If you look at it, it is scary. If you look at it, thou. Everything can be ignored. And then it's just quiet. You can hear and feel scratches, but it is quiet. Quiet like when there is a huge hunter nearby and all the little animals run away for their lives kind of quiet. Or like when you're in your room with your windows closed and you can hear the storm outside like it's far away, and it can't touch you. But if you don't look at it you don't think about how REALLY deadly it is. You can think it is far away. It WILL go away. It is not forever. You think. And you hear your small broken pieces falling to the void. But it is not forever. This feeling. It is just something from the outside that got you down. You'll get up again. The monster will leave. You scream to yourself over the feeling of your broken pieces falling to the dark void. You know they are not coming back. You know it. And in a moment of exhaustion you'll admit it. You'll open your eyes and you'll know those pieces will  be never going back to where they belong. You don't even remember if they even got a place where they belonged, maybe you just put them in the wrong place before and--

Oh... Who cares anymore?

---------------------------------------------

Inglés otra vez. Parezco incapaz de encontrar las palabras para decirme en castellano. Sólo escribir esta oración me suena falsa. Tal vez, pueda escribir mi doctorado sobre las razones por la que me encuentro imposibilitada en hablar en mi lengua materna. Y citar a Derrida hasta el cansancio.
Ay, qué intelectual, Victoria. Deberías dar tus finales.

" “Soy monolingüe.” Mi monolingüismo mora en mí y lo llamo mi morada; lo siento como tal, permanezco en él y lo habito. Me habita. El monolingüismo en el que respiro, incluso, es para mí el elemento. No un elemento natural, no la transparencia del éter, sino un medio absoluto. Insuperable, indiscutible: no puedo recusarlo más que al atestiguar su omnipresencia en mí. Me habrá precedido desde siempre. Soy yo. Ese monolingüismo, para mí, soy yo. Eso no quiere decir, sobre todo no quiere decir -no vayas a creerlo-, que soy una figura alegórica de este animal o esta verdad, el monolingüismo. Pero fuera de él yo no sería yo mismo. Me constituye, me dicta hasta la ipsidad de todo, me prescribe, también, una soledad monacal, como si estuviera comprometido por unos votos anteriores incluso a que aprendiese a hablar. Ese solipsismo inagotable soy yo antes que yo. Permanentemente."

Ahora bien, nunca esta lengua, la única que estoy condenado así a hablar, en tanto me sea posible hablar, en la vida, en la muerte, esta única lengua, ves, nunca será la mía. Nunca lo fue, en verdad.

[...]

(...)Lo que digo, el que digo, ese yo [je] del que hablo, en una palabra, es alguien -según me acuerdo, poco más o menos- a quien le fue interdicto el acceso a toda lengua no francesa de Argelia (árabe dialectal o literario, berebere, etcétera). Pero ese mismo yo [je] es además alguien a quien también le fue interdicto el acceso al francés. De otra manera, aparentemente indirecta y perversa. De otra manera, es cierto, pero igualmente interdicto. Mediante una interdicción que, por eso mismo, prohibía el acceso a las identificaciones que permiten la autobiografía sosegada, las “memorias” en el sentido clásico.

¿En qué lengua escribir memorias, cuando no hubo lengua materna autorizada? ¿Cómo decir un “yo me acuerdo” que valga cuando hay que inventar la lengua y el yo [je], inventarlos al mismo tiempo, más allá de ese despliegue, ese desencadenamiento de la amnesia que desató la doble interdicción?

(...)

Si, por ejemplo, sueño con escribir una anamnesis de lo que me permitió identificarme o decirme yo [je] a partir de un fondo de amnesia y afasia, sé al mismo tiempo que no podré hacerlo a menos que me abra un camino imposible, que abandone la ruta, me evada, me aleje repentinamente de mí mismo, invente una lengua lo bastante otra para no dejarse ya reapropiar en las normas, el cuerpo, la ley de la lengua dada, ni por la mediación de todos esos esquemas normativos que son los programas de una gramática, un léxico, una semántica, una retórica, géneros de discurso o de formas literarias, estereotipos o clichés culturales (los más autoritarios siguen siendo los mecanismos de la reproductibilidad vanguardista, la regeneración infatigable del superyó literario). La improvisación de alguna inauguralidad es sin duda lo imposible mismo. La reapropiación siempre se produce. Como sigue siendo inevitable, la aporía induce entonces un lenguaje imposible, ilegible, inadmisible. Una traducción intraducible.(...)

¿Cómo tener en cuenta esta lógica? ¿Cómo sostener esa cuenta o ese logos? Aunque a menudo me haya valido de la expresión “la lengua dada” para hablar de una monolengua disponible, el francés por ejemplo, no hay lengua dada, o más bien, hay lengua, hay donación de lengua (es gibt die Sprache), pero una lengua no es. No es dada. No existe.

(...)

Cada vez que abro la boca, cada vez que hablo o escribo, prometo. Quiéralo o no: aquí hay que disociar la fatal precipitación de la promesa de los valores de voluntad, intención o querer decir que están razonablemente vinculados a ella. Lo performativo de esta promesa no es un speech act entre otros. Está implicado por cualquier otro performativo; y la promesa anuncia la unicidad de una lengua venidera. Es el “es preciso que haya una lengua” [que sobreentiende necesariamente: “porque no existe” o “porque falta”], “prometo una lengua”, “una lengua es prometida” que a la vez precede toda lengua, llama a toda palabra y pertenece ya a cada lengua lo mismo que a cada palabra. "

Derrida, Jaques. El monolingûismo del otro (http://www.jacquesderrida.com.ar/textos/monolinguismo.htm)

sexi Derrida  ---> (guiñoguiño)

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