The scar

Ever since I quit my job, which was not even a week ago, I have been marathoning “My so-called life” yet again. Needless to say I was immediately transported to a parallel universe where emotions are very real and intense.

I remember watching Angela fall for the emotionally confused and not-that-bright (yet perfect) Jordan Catalano when I was 13 years old and having my life revolve around the live versions of that character I found along the way.

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Long pause after visual effect.

I remember vividly new year’s eve 1995 as I wore my pink skirt and wished myself a happy new year since I was sure that’d be the year I’d have my very first kiss. I was happy… excited and hopeful. I was a teenager with typical teenage girl dreams.

yeah, I was an idiot.

At one point I stopped wishing my Jordan Catalano on new year’s eve. Apparently, I wasn’t Angela Chase after all and my story would be different.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a romantic (That’s what my best friend has been telling me forever at least) but I did wish for it for years. It’s the power of the movies in your head.

When wait was really hurting I did what every reasonable emotional young adult would do: I got a tattoo to remind me of how much that moment hurt.

The tattoo was a scar with stitches and a little button shaped like a heart attached to it.

I vowed that I would never take those years for granted or forget about how much it hurt to wait for true love.

I know, it’s not world poverty or a terrible disease… but being loved mattered to me, for as shallow as it might sound compared to the terrible, terrible things we see every day on the news.

The tattoo came out ridiculous. The guy just couldn’t…anything. He should have been a janitor judging by his ability to draw. But it was there. That terrible thing on my arm.

Being life this ironic little thing, when we moved to Canada I had to get the tattoo surgically removed, for it was too visible for certain jobs and the result was a scar. A real one. Like the one I have inside.

Now, my husband asks me if I ever regret getting that ugly tattoo I had to remove and if I’m sorry I ended up with this huge scar on my right arm.

I always tell him that actually no, am not. I love it. It’s a big part of me. If it wasn’t for the scar, I’d be a different person and maybe he wouldn’t even love me.

I can’t breathe

I blog in my head from time to time as things happen. I just start formulating sentences in my head to describe them as if I was writing.

I enjoy writing. I enjoy talking to the little voices in my head and come to new conclusions about what’s going on inside there. It is a very confusing place, I tell you.

The reason why I need to do that is because 98% of the time, when something is bothering me, I have no idea what it is. I just don’t know myself that well. Or maybe I just don’t have enough time to figure it out. There’s always something.

Right now I guess I could say that the fact that we are living in a country I know nothing about, in a basement with barely any windows in a city I absolutely couldn’t stand from the moment I google-mapped it and the fact that my friend’s baby is sick are kind of the main things that are keeping my breaths short.

I just wish I could relax. Enjoy it a little bit. Enjoy the fact that I’m getting to be with my babies all day and take those long walks down the trail by the lake as the weather is allowing us to right now. I do not mean to take things for granted and I am oh-so-grateful for every small piece of life that is precisely at it’s right place right now. I’ve worked hard for this.

Maybe I will get a job I can stand, at some point, in one of the hundreds of cities in Canada I would love to call home. But maybe I won’t. And if I don’t I don’t wanna live a short-breathed life. I wanna take deep breaths and enjoy every dump we might find ourselves in as we live on Child Benefits just because I built this family and I got us out of Brazil. Just because we are together and we are fine…

That should be enough.

 

Another mother’s life.

Twenty years ago, back when life was simple, we had a group of friends called “the Hansonholics”. We exchanged e-mails every single day telling each other about all the teenage drama that was going on in our lives. The fact that we all found each other because of Hanson was our excuse for the name. Right there, alone in front of my computer I found the best friends I’d ever had in my life. One of them became my child’s godmother.

I remember those days when I think of Mai. How we could never have imagined her mission on this earth and what expected her in real life.

She got pregnant a couple months before I did. She made sure her son was living in contact with nature and wouldn’t eat the wrong things. In fact, she was quite energetic on the matter (annoying sometimes, even). She is the most caring person in the universe. She’ll help other mothers go through childbirth as she photographs and encourage them. She never saw it coming.

Gael, her son is going to be 3 years old this month. He’ll have a birthday party at the hospital as he was diagnosed with leukemia around 20 days ago.

He is 2 years old. Is this even fair?

I caught myself waking up in the middle of the night and crying at work thinking of Mai. She must be an angel of some sort. A source of power. A special someone.

The campaign for donations is so out of her hand that it leads me to believe in something bigger. That maybe, as she is this special person, it was in fact her mission to inspire people like that and help other moms in the future.

First thing she said when she heard about the campaign was “He doesn’t need anything other than blood at this point, but please, donate. There are so many people that need it and if you can help my son, I’m sure you can help others too”. Because that’s who she is.

I will be coming here again in a long, long time, after his long, long treatment to write about how he is ok and how this whole experience changed all of us.

His name is Gael Diniz Nascimento and the  bone marrow data is universal, as far as I understand. He won’t need it ’til next year.

I hope the God that I believe from time to time allows me or you to be a match.

This is them, by the way… 🙂

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yeah…

I know.

The day I quit my job

I remember reading something written by Alanis Morissette once. Not sure it was a song. It said “If you don’t like your job, quit it.” I thought that was the craziest thing I had ever read. You don’t just quit your job. You need it. No job is fun (well, no job I’ve had, at least) but it’s comforting to know that you’ll be able to provide to your family. So, quitting was never an option in my house.

But I’m not in my house anymore. I’m in a weird basement in a city I never wanted to live. I can’t just settle and hang in there for days, weeks and months until this becomes by life. I didn’t want to be there anymore.

A few weeks ago, I realized that place was killing me. And, every morning when I sat on my chair I felt this urge to scream. I thought that was something people just made up or a figure of speech. I needed to scream, cry, run away.

It was a combination of things that started to kill me slowly and I needed to be alive.

On Thursday I came home and told my husband how I felt. He looked at me and said “You’re not going back. You are quitting tomorrow.” There’s something about when my husband says things that makes them seem doable. Before his consent, I didn’t realize moving (yet again) was still an option and I would never think of quitting.

Right now I feel confused. I hate not having a plan. I’ve applied for a few jobs in cities we’ve visited and like and if I can’t find something I think I’d at least be interested in doing I’ll wait. Maybe my husband will work this time.

As irresponsible as it may sound… I needed it. Otherwise it could have taken me with it.

I think my concussion symptoms are gone. I missed writing.

Take care, guys.