Can you get used to have your heart broken? That’s what I would like to say when people assume that, since I’ve moved so much, it’s easy for me to move from one country to another. When I live in a place, I have a love relationship with that place. Having lived in six different countries is like having had six different partners that I loved, with whom I had experiences together and had lots of dreams together. When that relationship is broken, that is, when I move, there’s always a period of mourning and adaptation to my new reality. I wish there was a name for that period, when you don’t feel you actually live anywhere, when you are suspended between two worlds, with nothing beneath you. I wish I could say that I live there, in that emptiness.
Every time I move it feels a little bit like dying, because the life that I used to have is over. A little friend of my daughter, five years old at the time, expressed her sadness in her own words (she had just moved from France to Chile): “Mom, where is my life in Paris?” Well, it’s nowhere, it doesn’t exist anymore. What do you call something that has ceased to exist? Even when we try to hide it, moving from one city to another, or moving from one country to another, there always comes a time of mourning. I’ve healed many times in the past, so I know I will heal this time too. But it’s a process that I cannot speed up (believe me, I’ve tried, and I’ve failed miserably). So, can you get used to have your heart broken? No. You just know, that “this, too, will pass” and that one day (probably in a year or so) you’ll wake up and realize, amazed, that you’d made the crossover without realizing it.
That emptiness is actually filled with flammable gases: sounds, sights or smells that don’t have any meaning for other people, can cause an explosion inside me. The other day, watching a soccer game of Copa América, tears came out of my eyes, not because of the Venezuelan team, but because of the sight of the Andes mountains covered in snow; that mariachi song that suddenly played when I turned on my parents’ car; or the Facebook message of my friend and neighbor in Panama City; or the many places that I’ve visited here in Caracas, that make me nostalgic, but at the same time inadequate (I mean, old) that are telling me that I should be a fifteen, or a twenty-year-old to belong to them.
Living over a crevasse is not comfortable (you’d think!) so the first instinct is to try to cross over as fast as you can. On top of it, a lot of the people that are already on the other side (or that have never left that other side) don’t get what´s the matter with you, why don’t you jump once and for all. This is why: because if you don’t do it right, you might fall. So please, if you are around our family, or any other family that has just moved from another city or country, be patient. It takes time. And … go watch that awesome Pixar movie, Inside Out to get a glimpse of what goes on inside our heads.
Until the next post…