Sometimes, the silence that inhabits our exterior contrasts with our deafening. I always heard that our spirit communicates with our body in a physical way, that any cure that was not sought for something that tore our core is externalized in some illness. There are those who choose to seek a cure for this amidst millionaire chemicals in the form of compressed dust or bitter droplets in droppers, but it is useless when the diagnosis does not go beyond modern and traditional medicine.
Finding a specialist for what we psychosomatize is no easy task. Well, for gastritis we visit the gastro, but for what we don’t know what it is, not every psychologist is suitable. We still refuse to talk about the importance of self-knowledge, of the therapies that welcome our emotional, because many people still think this is for the crazy ones. And with that, we fail to discover the real path to the most important diagnosis of our lives.
I have noticed a strange sore in my throat, when the pain transcends the physical and is installed in the back of our head, talking to us. I feel the scratching of my silence when I shouldn’t have chosen to abstain, screaming, going crazy close to my ears. I struggle, hoping to make myself heard. My feet frozen in this hot winter are the clearest reference of my inertia. They are frozen, petrified in an empty sculpture that will not let me leave the scene. With my knees tired and sore from impact, I feel unable to try to get out of quicksand that embraces me slowly. My hands go limp, lazy even to write – something that I did with such great pleasure and clarity, but today it resembles a birth of Siamese quintuplets. It hurts.
Thinking hurts, building emotional health hurts, expressing it hurts even more. Maybe that’s why my feet have frozen, maybe that’s why this hypothermia is my body’s choice to stay alive, trying to wake me up. When I close my eyes, I feel my eyelids sting. I have avoided blinking, so as not to lose any sign of hope, no warning of danger or simply because the dark scares me now. Although momentary. I feel that natural volunteering also no longer makes sense to continue to be one. Sometimes I find myself breathless, but calm and without panting. Behold, I notice that, suddenly, I forgot to keep breathing and I need to do the mechanical movements again. It is confusing, because if we stop breathing it is because we no longer want to live, but if we decide to breathe again it is because we want to live.
The contradiction found a home in me. I feel like a rare case, which will be discovered by Discovery Chanel and exposed as a sensationalist documentary of the wonders of medicine. It doesn’t take milliseconds before the contradiction finds me again, raising the flag of arrogance because I can’t be that important. What is the medical specialty of the contradiction?
To those who tell me to seek the hospice, I invite you to look inside and understand if the madness I report is only mine, and if your madness does not manifest itself in symptoms that are different from mine, but that are also there. If the answer is “no” to any question, I strongly recommend looking for someone to check any disorders, like a psychopathy… maybe?
Being a human being lately is full, it’s empty, it’s difficult. It is feeling, it is ignoring, it is collecting sorrows and happiness in the same box. I scream for help inside my emptiness, where the sound does not proliferate and the light has no oxygen to illuminate. But I know that if I stop, I never leave here, so I continue. And one day, even if we are feeling sick, we will get there.