where do i begin, where do you end

this is a long letter. the initial idea got a little wrecked… but i promise you i (tried to) gear back towards hope :)

we got a new kitten. she is 2 months old and her fur is black, with white streaks. i like to joke and call them her ‘gray hairs’. her name is ‘sombra’, shadow in portuguese, but the name of our late cat stills echoes around the house. we say it, forgetting to call sombra by her name, sometimes when we’re angry, sometimes when we are drowning in love; it slips through our lips like an accent you can’t deny, can’t keep hidden. i like to think this is the love we have for her still, forever, leaking out. something in me breaks at this thought, and fills me with love.

sombra’s been teaching me a lot of stuff: how to find fun in everything, the importance of rest. she is so tiny, it’s hard to believe something so small is capable of life. she’s fiery, curious. i wish i could see the world through her eyes, a world where everything is new and you’re still tender, where you have yet to find out what your fears are, where everything feels like an adventure.

one thing i have always loved about cats is that no cat is the same, their personalities are part of their charm. they are territorial of their space, and defensive of it too. if you pet their bellies, know it won’t happen without consequences. you may place them in your lap to calm them down, but there is no garante it will work. if they are in a uncomfortable situation, they will meeeow their way out. you can shower them with love and they can, probably will, ignore you even harder. in a way, they know what they want, call it instinct or nature, the love of a cat feels particularly special because they have their lists of yes and nos, and if they love you, if they approach you, it means you were chosen.

i’ve always struggled understanding what boundaries were. i read them as rules, guidelines, walls. lately what has helped me is to focus instead on everything boundaries can be, instead of what they have to be or can’t be. what i thought once to be limiting, i see now as roads, pathways for those i love. learning what boundaries i would like to put, the boundaries that help life be less complicated, it doesn’t look so much as putting my defences up, it is a way to guide those who i love. not to this ‘best’ me, this ‘better’ version that doesn’t exist. but to me. to the person i want to be, to the person i am. my boundaries are not telling others what they can’t do, or telling them what they should do. this boundary is my way of telling you that i am here, and i want to be, and for that to happen these are my terms — but i am no dictator, no emperor, no ruler, no nothing. i am someone who loves you, and wants to be loved in return. i am standing here as what, who i am. and there are things i can bear, things i can take. and things i refuse to stand by, that i will avoid, that will stray us further away from each other, regardless of us liking it or not.

boundaries, so i hear, aren’t made out of rock, of dynamite. they don’t have to be static, they can be flexible. i believe people can change, and thus, boundaries too change over time, circumstances, between people. i have a difficult time coming to terms with that, the ephemerality of who we are. for some reason i am led to believe that we are to keep the same borderlines while simultaneously changing, growing, shrinking, blooming, drying, moving. there is a personality theory, the personal construct theory, that argues personality is an act, a result of the information all around us that we process. this is obviously an oversimplification — still, the implication that who i am is a moving, breathing thing, is a bit scary. i won’t stay the same, how wonderful. i won’t stay the same, how terrifying. everything is what i make it out to be.

i’m not afraid of aging per say, at least not mine. by this time next week, i’ll be 24. at the start of this month, i felt this… uncontainable happiness at the thought of turning another page. i thought to myself, this won’t be a birthday where i cry — it’s a year yes, year no tradition at this point. i have grown professionally, and i feel my sense of self shifting shapes as well. some fears are now old fears. some patterns are weakening as i build new ones atop of them.

Nikita Chan (@nikitachanart on instagram)

but i am not the only one getting older. in portuguese we say that when you grow older, you go back to being a child. it’s stark how in 5 years i can pinpoint certain changes that are irremediable, that time took and can’t return, will never give back. time is a ruthless thief. the lesson is old: we don’t always appreciate what we have until we don’t have it anymore. there is a lot of noise that blocks out what’s important, sometimes i am even grateful for things like work, for worry, and the way that life hangs on a standstill, held by the gravity of mundanity. how on certain days where you feel particularly heavy, they become bliss: distractions, escapes.

i was called whore the other day by my father. it doesn't sound like much in english, there is a filth, a violence to the word in portuguese that i can't translate to you. it is the filthiest name you can call to a woman. in my mind, not even bitch has so much spite. perhaps it’s all the intimacy that comes from it being my mother tongue. there was a whole argument behind, which started with a question i posed about the cat and how were we supposed to feed her after two visits to the vet with contrary opinions from doctors. like a car without brakes, everything got out of my hand so fast. i don’t wish to bore you with the details, and i promise you that not sharing them isn’t my way to have you stick to my side.

truth is, i am stubborn, and i can be very difficult. i know. i’m no saint and this time, it’s not that i tried to be one, but i tried to stop the fight from getting worse. before he called me a whore, he sent my mother to hell, spoke of my alcoholic grandpa as an insult, the rage in his words shook my core enough to understand that the argument wasn’t really about the cat, that this was something much bigger than it, though i still don’t know what it was about. i tried not to let it get worse. i tried, and perhaps that is why it hurt so much, the way that it all ended. i can’t blame myself this time, because i gave up the fight, and in my naivety thought that letting him get the last word would be enough, that it was what he wanted. when i chose to shut up, that is when he called me a whore. he pointed at me and told my mom to look at her whore daughter. he repeated that i was a whore. i believe it did it more than 3 times, not that i counted.

my father is a difficult person. arguments with him often end in attempts to get validation from us, proof that he is right. it has happened before, and i have fallen for it. i have replied multiple times to his attempts to rally others up, to twist our words for his benefit; i have tried to over explain, to stand my ground, to be nice, approachable and docile to not tempt his ego. i wasn't always nice, but i never called him names that can be classified as curse words. i have accused him of many things, of being selfish and cruel, of being hateful and prejudiced and controlling, things that were all true to some degree, but i never called him those other words.

my first reaction was disgust. how ugly. how little of a man must you be to use that word against your daughter? i said as such and left to my room. i didn’t cry. there were more screams on the other side of the door, i think they came from both, him and my mom, but i disassociated after leaving. i stood, hand to my chest, focused on my breathing for what felt like eternity. i didn't think, didn't speak, i breathed in, breathed out. when i started to regain consciousness, the fear settled in. i was scared for my mom. has this happened more times when i wasn't home? has he hurt her? i started to think about how i’ll leave her with him in this house where i wont be there... to what? protect her? what protection? the fear had nowhere to go, it was the shackling sensation of impotence.

i had somehow offended him. you ought to be careful when speaking to, with him. for a long time now it has been clear that his outbursts are ways to exert power over us, to reassure himself that he is right and we are wrong. that if it is a him vs the world matter, he stays on top. falacies leaked out from his mouth, he would jump between claims in a way that only in his brain would make sense. he claimed to be the only one that cared for the cat for example, when the inevitable truth is that i was asking because i too cared.

for a writer, i struggle to find a precise way to describe how i feel, acknowledging that i am being verbally abused by a person that loves me. i find that hanging on to the truth of the words is crucial. they can't drown in the sea of memory. i can't let them, i won't let them. to forget isn't to forgive, but i never want to look at his face and see him as the man he was before. he doesn't deserve clemency. he doesn't deserve to have me as before. i avoid speaking to him, mostly i reply when i am asked. he hasn’t apologised, and i don’t think he will. that’s not really the way it works in our house.

my relationship with my mom and brother has become kind of estranged as a bonus. history gives me the idea that i should just get over it. here any issue, problem, any fight is nothing but a blister that appears, fills up, and dries out. that’s how family does it. i should get over this, put down my pride, act as if nothing happened. this is what normalcy looks like. it’s what everyone does. it’s what i have done in the past. what’s one more? what does it matter anyway? what is the point even? give it time and you’ll see, you’re making a big deal out of nothing. all this vindication as an act of protection is futile pride. it'll fade away in two weeks, it always does.

i too have wondered about this… isn’t it unusual, even counterproductive of me to want to cut communication? to shut him off from my life? it’s extreme, it’s a move aligned with black and white thinking and i have battled for so long against that. is this what it is? pride? this wasteland with nothing but bones, this tune with no melody. my birthday is approaching, why am i being so difficult to everyone else around me and making it so much harder for everyone to have a good time? should i not root for forgiveness?

my silence is one of the few ways i have to hold, to feel any power over this. my silence is defiance. to build a wall over my thoughts, my experiences, my dreams, my fears. you don't get to treat me badly and view me fully anymore. i won’t let it. that is a boundary i found out, through the worst way but at least it’s now been discovered.

to the voice within me that whispers this is pride i say fuck you. if it was pride, i would bite back. if it was pride, winning would matter and all i feel is an immense loss regardless of how that could've ended. if i was to be prideful, i wouldn't feel so much shame writing about this, making sure that this experience is documented outside of my head, for all time, for others to see and judge. if i was to be prideful, these experiences would fill me with strength, and the truth is that i have lost appetite, that i avoid being in the same room as him because i am scared. what else is a man that loves me capable of doing? what else will he do to my mother? what other names will he spit at our faces? when will the words turn to a slap, a closed fist? when will i get kicked out for saying something out of line, for not saying anything at all?

you may find this very paranoid. it was a terrifying moment, to see that whatever construct i had of my father cracking. i can’t have it back, you can’t un-know something. i don’t know him, not an ‘anymore’. i don’t know him as i thought i did. any empathy i could extend i may be too weak to. i don’t want to go back, i don’t want to move on from this. the silence that stretches between us is never quiet, the memory of what he called me echoes, the rage with how he said it, the insistence. the father i had ended that day, something that can’t be mended broke, and i’m now figuring out the man before me, what sort of relationship can happen.

and how can i properly say that i recognize i am not the whore he says i am… and still…. i have to remind myself that this isn’t normal. i have to remind myself that someone that loves you wouldn’t do this. right? i’m not crazy, i’m not crazy. i’m not, right? as you grow, the world grows with you, or your awareness of it does. your roots expand, come to the surface, you notice the patterns that raised you, that hold you up, and you notice even the ones you might’ve chosen without much mind to, the ones you want to let go of. does my family see this as normal? unavoidable? would they settle this is if it came from anybody else? are all families like ours?

it’s becoming so embarrassingly obvious now, how this has marked me, not just this specific instance but… everything.. my entire life... how am i able to feel secure in love if i believe that someone that loves you can, will call you a whore? is love stronger because someone lets go of their aggression for you, or if they loved you despise it? should love and aggression stand in the same garden at all? human attachment can be so perverse. someone that loves you can hurt you — hell, those that love you will hurt you, but does that mean that it will be on purpose? and does that matter? does the hurt not come with regret, with an apology, with change? because the love i have doesn’t come with anything else, and that doesn’t feel… right.

all this has built in me a very insecure love, an insecure way of loving. when you are gone, i will think of you. i will picture small moments of joy at your return, imagine the ways i’d tease you, the ways you’d laugh. when you are here, i won’t always pay attention to you, because what is known has no mystery and mystery is interesting. if i know you, you’ll get to know me too, but know i’m not too keen on letting others in as much as i like to brute force my way through others. if you seem strange or away, i will remind you that i am here, that you can use me if if you want, i won’t get angry if you do — strangely i get offended if you don’t. i miss you easily. if you aren’t vulnerable with me, i’ll believe you don’t want me as a friend. i want the goods without having to pay. the more i let you in, the closer you get, the easier it will be to hurt me, the higher the chances you won’t like what you see. who knows if you won’t call me a whore at some point after we’ve grown too close?

all my life i have been called sensitive as an insult. years ago when i wanted to encourage tough conversations to happen, i would often repeat “i’m not as fragile as you think i am”. and i’m not. what i love the most in me might be my resilience. i will always get back up. could take days, weeks, months… i am the weed you can’t kill.

in a recent interview, lucy dacus was asked ‘what’s the value of a love song to you?’, this was her answer:

it's interesting because i love a lot of love songs but i was re-listening to an old playlist that i made and so many of them are like "don't leave me", "love me forever", "prove to me that you're mine"; they're very ownership based and fear based. "if you don't love me i'll die", you know, weird threats...or, "if you don't love me i won't love you" and im just, that's not how it works. things do change. and love lingers where you wish it wouldn't and love leaves places you wish it would stay and sometimes you can point to reasons and other times you can't. i think part of why heartbreak is so heart-breaking is like, you feel rejected, you feel unwanted, you feel lonely all of the sudden... but realising that love comes from more places than romance… you will love again. there is not one soulmate per person. embracing temporality, i think it makes love richer. and i think it makes life easier to bear.

i’ve rejected the idea of soulmates, which before i dreamt about. if there is any romance it is in the choice, in the mistake you make and regret and make your hope, your mission to prove that won’t happen again. the love is in the choice. the love is in the choice. these words are my prayer.

as i wrote the notes for this letter on my phone one day after that event, a little girl on the sidewalk outside the parked bus was making bubbles. my soul, my eyes that felt heavy, in that moment.. i smiled. i smiled. and this realisation came: god. i want to live. i want to live. this only hurts so much because i want to live. it hurts because this isn't the life i want. it hurts because i can’t turn back time and ever see him in the same way. it hurts because i don’t really want to do that, even if i could. it hurts because it’s changing, and i am scared, but… i want to change.

after what happened, i took some time to go over the things he said. his distorted conclusions, his defensiveness, how, in its own twisted way, it made sense to him. i wondered if i don’t do the same, or something similar, with other people in my life, if i too don’t build these narratives around them. i do this a lot.. mirror, reflect. i wonder what’s on the other side, when i feel exasperated at a mistake someone did at work, i catch myself wondering if the person on the other side ever felt exasperated by an error on my end. the thought that i think the same way as him terrified me. i don’t want to love the way he taught me, the way i learned from him anymore.

what i often see as tragedy and torture has been a pickaxe. i hammer it at the rocks and make a crack, find the light again and again. i always do.

boundaries are built in a place of change. they are uncomfortable. i’m learning they’re not as easy as they can sound, and the fact that it isn’t easy doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be put. places like the internet, with its infinite scroll and invasive access to everyone, make this this journey bumpier; the family dynamics that brought me here cause friction, the uncertainty of tomorrow, if it isn’t a road that will lead to a dead end… today, my boundaries are hopes at finding, creating peace, at discovering where do others end and where do i begin.

and this reminds me of my favourite poem, which will be a fitting way to end all this: tomorrow is a place by sanna wani.

We meet at a coffee shop. So much time has passed and who is time? Who is waiting by the windowsill? We make plans to go to a museum but we go to a bookshop instead. We’re leaning in, learning how to talk to each other again. I say, I’m obsessed with my grief and she says, I’m always in mourning. She laughs and it’s an extension of her body. She laughs and it moves the whole room. I say, My home is an extension of my body and she says, Most days are better with a long walk. The world moves without us—so we tend to a garden, a graveyard, a pot on the windowsill. Death is a comfort because it says, Transform but don’t hurry. There is a tenderness to growing older and we are listening for it. Steadier ways to move through the world and we are learning them. A way to touch your own body. A touch that says, Dig deeper. There, in the ground, there is our memory. I am near enough my roots. Time is my friend. Tomorrow is a place we are together.

i hope this letter wasn’t too heavy. i’m excited about turning 24, and about all the mornings i’ll have waking up to sombra calling. thank you for reading delicate, and i hope the frost that can still be felt in may wasn’t so harsh that you couldn’t feel some warmth.