Letter from a little pink cage

When I meet a friend, I should only ask them to give me the pleasure of spending some good time together. Maybe to talk about something that only they can understand, considering everything we have been through.

I often manage to do this, but sometimes I can’t. And often it happens that people run away. I think they’re afraid of the truth they might share. Sharing their truth with me, means showing me that they are fragile. 

Everyone is fragile in some way. Everyone needs to share that fragility without the fear of being judged. But everyone is scared of that judgment.

A woman I’ve known for a short time has read what I wrote about my life. She didn’t know English and has done everything she could to read a little more. She told me that she loved it.  I didn’t ask her to do the same with me. I didn’t want her to tell me her story if she wasn’t ready. She wanted it for a brief moment in the morning, but after that moment of truth, she disappeared.

I haven’t seen her since she told me that things weren’t okay for her either. Last time I met her, she looked at me and with a bitter smile said, “Everything’s fine; it’s always fine…”. I understand why she hasn’t shown up again. Admitting that everything isn’t okay is hard.

Tonight we will have friends over. With them, I won’t have any problem joking around. Everything will be okay once again tonight. He doesn’t have a job, she isn’t feeling well, but everything will be fine. He gets ahead thanks to antidepressants, and I’ve already seen her cry. Everything’s okay. We’ll spend time together like I do watching a new Netflix movie. Time passes, without leaving a trace. I know I can’t ask for more than that.

Unfortunately, sometimes I can’t do it. There are people with whom I just can’t. So, I train myself to avoid meeting them. One month. Then two months. Then even three. I wouldn’t be able to keep up that pace if it were physical training. But being stoic and giving up is something I've been trained for by my father. I can do it.

I try to turn off the desire to see someone because I’m afraid. Afraid of not being able to accept hearing that everything is fine. Afraid of asking questions that I shouldn’t have asked.

When I do ask them, I often feel like I'm trying to get as close as possible to something that remains distant. Thinking I'm moving toward it, while really just circling around it.

These days my friend wrote to me that she’s been unwell. I imagine this isn’t the first time she felt pain since we met. Perhaps what’s changed is that she told me about it.

It doesn’t make me feel good to know that she’s been unwell and that it could happen again. But I'm glad to know that she did it. And I thank her for that. It’s just like a present. Maybe I’m wrong. But it may be a way to know that she trusts me.

And perhaps, I think I was wrong when I asked her if she wanted my help or if I should write to her to ask how she was doing. I may have made the mistake of getting too close. Maybe I should have stayed put and waited for her to take the next steps.

I think so, because she hasn’t told me about those difficult moments she sometimes experiences anymore. I don’t know.

By my side, it’s difficult. My life and my limits have made me almost immobile. But it has always been hard to accept that I could just wait around. And I don’t know the reason why she felt bad. How she faces her pain. Or if she was alone.

And it’s not just that. From a distance, my life may seem okay. The farther someone is from me and my daily life, the more they imagine I live as I would like to. The truth is the opposite. I only live what I can because of my condition, my mental and physical problems.

During the summer, I can’t breathe due to my lung issues and the consequences of the surgery. During the winter, I can’t walk around because of my head and the pain. Every day, I struggle with the feeling that reality is far from me. I do everything I can to live the best life possible, but it’s hard. And it’s hard every day. 

The consequence of that is a life closed in a little pink cage like a bird. I know I can fly. But I look around my empty room and I see I can’t fly out.

I recently read in a book that one of the characters, who is in a wheelchair, lives through the lives of others. The same is true for me. The lives of others are the landscapes I explore.

Maybe it’s this desire for exploration that drives me to keep asking questions. The masks people wear are just a small brochure about a place. But when I arrive, I want more. The images I saw in the brochure aren’t enough. I want to know what’s really there, to see places that no one wants to show because they are dirty or hidden.

Hidden places are the truth. What brochures don’t tell you. And I like when I feel that the images I saw are far from the truth I want to see. I’m not there for a selfie. I’m not there for an image I can find on IG. I want what people don’t.