lately i’ve been feeling like i have given up completely. and it’s not really about killing myself anymore, not really; it’s more about realizing that what i thought was for me maybe isn’t for me. it’s a very overwhelming thought because i already think there isn’t much for me in the first place. i like a decent amount of things, but i honestly don’t feel like i’m smart enough for half of them, or that it’s definitely, definitely way too late. it always feels like it’s too late. i know that, also. but i graduated high school four years ago, and six years ago i started the path i chose, which is art. i chose drawing. i can’t really go back now. it felt like that four years ago as well. not even if i wanted to, because honest to god i don’t even know how to divide anymore. but also, honestly, i don’t like biology or geology or astronomy as much; i just wish i did. a lot of things would be easier. this is besides the point.
i don’t think animation is my thing. not entirely. i don’t regret my degree, because i know, deep down—or maybe not even deep down, just surface-level is enough for me to see it—that it is, but i mean more like i don’t know if i want to have this as my job. i’m so insecure all the time. i don’t see a future where this constant (and horribly necessary) comparison will end. i know it will feel less pressuring if i keep going, and i land my gigs, and i will know that, objectively, i’m good at my craft. but i also know myself, and i will continuously compare myself. it’s just something that is rooted in me at this point. i can try to ignore it, but i will always end up doing it. i have to remind myself to be kinder to myself in order to get the loop to stop. i can pause it, but i can’t quit it. on the other hand, the industry is in shambles (it’s impossible to land a job in the first place; i don’t live in la, which sounds ridiculous, but it is ridiculous; the horrible working conditions; and, more importantly, i absolutely despise freelancing). i feel like i can never relax. i am always on edge. and even if we remove all this: let’s say i stop comparing myself, let’s say i stop struggling with looking for gigs like my teachers, let’s say i have a stable income (it honestly feels like a delirious fantasy), the suffering i go through while working is inhumane to me. i will always feel mixed about doing art because the feeling of comparison is so tied to the experience i can’t even enjoy it properly. i hate it as much as i love it. it consumes me. so i’ve been thinking: maybe it isn’t worth it to go through all that just so i can go and say, what—“hey, i worked on this, i did that,” and, if i’m lucky, see my name in the credits. but at the same time, i know there is no other feeling like it. it’s the reward. it’s a whole marching band inside of you kind of satisfaction. so it’s a mixed bag, and i don’t know what to do with it. i also want a laid-back, more relaxed lifestyle, where maybe i’m just a teacher. i am a very academic person. all my life i’ve thought of the things i’d do if i was a teacher. it’d be an honor for me to be a teacher. a lot of teachers in my life have made my life so much less miserable. but there is this itch inside of me that is begging me to be something, to do something huge. i guess that’s what every 20-year-old goes through. and i really want this feeling to go away, because at the same time i know i am not huge. i am small, and i like that too. i like being small and just doing my own thing. i think i always wished i could do both, like spider-man?
everything is so scary. i feel like i am so ready, but i am also not, and will never be, ready. i realized it’s not really normal to wish that someday i’m going to go to bed and then wake up as a 30-year-old man with hopefully a stable job and a stable income. i realized not everyone wants to skip their twenties altogether. i realized not everyone wants to sleep their life away.
i stopped buying those weed pens because i got paranoid about them. i don’t know what’s in them, and i don’t want to go to the hospital with an overdose of a substance that i don’t even know what it is. mostly because it would be very embarrassing.
talking about embarrassing, i was very ashamed about what happened with a hinge person i was seeing, because it honestly was really embarrassing. buuut what did i expect… i signed up for a job at the humiliation factory lol. anyways, it was going really well, like absurdly well, talking every day sort of thing. and we were t4t. and i was really excited. i honestly never stopped acting “differently”; like, i kept acting interested. i do admit i felt like i wasn’t fully myself, though. i was very out of it that entire month. i wasn’t smoking; i was insanely depressed. i was dizzy every day and anxiety was bubbling all the time. talking to him made me feel manic in a bad way. but regardless, i am very shy and insecure, so i felt like i acted like this stupid-ass bottom help. but if anything, i kept telling him that he was so cute, so nice, that i really liked talking with him. then he started ghosting me, then he ate me out, then he ghosted me even more, and finally told me it wasn’t working for him. as i said, it honestly stopped working for me too, because i didn’t even want him eating me out. i wanted to take things slow, and he told me he did too (but that’s not his problem; i have a huge issue with saying no to things). i felt like that night was some sort of test that i didn’t pass, and all we did was watch a movie, i cooked him dinner, and then he ate me out. he didn’t even want to stay the night. i felt ridiculous back then, but he kept telling me it was fine and that he enjoyed it. what a fucking pussy and what a fucking liar. and that’s where i think what he did wasn’t fair. you don’t eat a guy out and assure his insecure ass that he was good and that it was good and then ghost him. so yeah. i understand that maybe i wasn’t his type after all, whatever the fuck, but i don’t think one just simply does shit like that. i don’t think i deserved that. i was really trying to open myself up. but honestly, i was also kind of forcing myself to like him, so whatever. i think dating apps aren’t for me; i always feel like i’m forcing the connection. i’m super picky about everything, including friends, and even more with possible partners. i don’t think i’m ever logging back in unless i’m desperately horny. oops.
all in all, i don't feel like i'm confused about wether i can or can't do art. i am exhausted at what it's turned into. and i've been exhausted. i honestly never wanted to admit it. ever since i've started i've been tired of it. at first it was simply the comparisson issue, but now it's the pressure and the instability. it completly hijacked something i loved. i don't know if this means that i chose wrong. i really think that i didn't, because i have so much love for it sometimes i can't even hold it properly.
i do want a quieter life because i am tired of bleeding for validation. teaching makes me feel like i am meaningful in a slower and steadier way. my self-worth doesn't get slaughtered everyday. because i am that dramtic. i am vincent van gogh dramatic. i will gauge my eyes out. i want to hurt the hands i work with. and it's ridiculous because i'm probably drawing final fantasy fanart. siiiiighs.
15.01.26
happy new year by the way.
madrid is a gorgeous city. i love that i love it here. its streets really do bring me genuine joy, no matter the weather, no matter how crowded (even though, yes, i avoid gran vía and callao like it’s the plague). but i do love to stroll around, on my own or with someone, take in the beautiful buildings and the architecture and horribly priced stores, and find small cool ones.
i love the way it sounds: ambulance sirens and motorcycles and all. i love the metro, it makes me feel cosmopolitan, and i love how diverse it is. el mercado de las maravillas is kind of like my little corner where i can pretend i never migrated and that i’m not an immigrant, and i’m in south america again, because i’m surrounded by people who look and speak like me. i still feel like i don’t belong in spain but i don’t belong back home either. it’s weird. i don’t mind it that much though. well, more like i don’t really think about it. it makes me feel small. maybe because i am…
i gotta stop starting sentences with “i”.
back when i was a freshman in college, about two years ago, my madrilenian friend asked me “do you think madrid is madrid because of its people or do you think it just is?” i honestly didn’t have an answer for her because i didn’t really like madrid back then. it took a while for me to love it. i felt so alienated from it. like the city hated me. like it did not want me there. but slowly it faded away, and now i feel everything but that. like i am right where i am supposed to be? or like it’s telling me welcome welcome welcome and it’s yours the same way it’s theirs.
in any case, i might have an answer now; i think madrid just is. it has a haunting but tragically fascist history, which still prevails today. but the way the city speaks to me, the way i feel it breathe… it thankfully owns no ideology. not even mine. it’s not its fault the people here suck ass. que les follen a los fachas pero nunca te folles a un facha.
i think madrid has been blessed with incredible minds and writers and so many amazing artists. the culture is rich here. it has fought, it still fights. i hope someday madrid does get back to what it used to be, and i hope all fascists die. but as i said, something i can’t name prevails. or maybe i just want to protect it.
my mom told me that we might be able to visit venezuela soon. i don’t know if it’s true or not but i really hope we can. i will see my house after eleven years. my house. mine, mine, my home. like actually ours. i’ve been dreaming of my house ever since i left. i don’t remember what sheets i had on my bed when i left. i want to see it again, and rediscover it, but at the same time i just kind of somehow remember where everything is. like vividly. so i am a bit scared to see how much it has changed. i don’t want it to change.
cuando todavía estaba en la eso, recuerdo sorprenderme. estaba sentado en mi cama, creo que todavía compartía habitación con mi hermano. mis padres estaban fuera en el salón, les escuchaba todavía, moviendo platos o hablando. no recuerdo que me hubiera peleado particularmente con ellos antes de preguntarme qué es lo que tanto odiaba sobre mí mismo. no entendía por qué desde tan pequeño me he sentido así, más chiquito que el resto. la altura no ayuda.
siempre he sentido que todo el mundo sabe más que yo, o que mi voz no merece ser más alta que la de las demás. le hacía favores a todo el mundo. a día de hoy hago favores y la gente no sabe que les estoy haciendo favores. eso me hace malo?
pero en ese momento quise pensar que a lo mejor era desagradecido. a lo mejor un poco egoísta. mi madre me decía mucho que era egoísta (tenía 10 años). ahora tengo veinte y siento que todo esto ya se me sale por los poros. como lodo. pegajoso, mugriento y sucio. muy sucio.
escuché a mi padre decir mi nombre en la terraza desde mi habitación y casi hice una cara porque me da asco cómo suena. odio dejar mi olor en mis cosas. odio pensar que la gente piense en mí. y aborrezco el hecho de que pueda tener tanto rencor. no lo puedo sujetar con ambas manos.
no sé qué hacer con tanto odio. no sé dónde ponerlo. y al mismo tiempo ya se ha asentado dentro de mí y no paga hipoteca.
me escondo del espejo y me cuesta hacer cosas por mí mismo. las hago porque las he hecho toda mi vida, pero no me siento lo suficientemente valioso ni como para oler bien, ni para vestir bien, ni para tener higiene. valgo menos que eso. mucho menos.
todo esto me distrae. me cuesta más hablar, ya que no siento que mis palabras sean mucho más que balbuceos, y me cuesta más pensar, ya que siento que mis monólogos no son más que berrinches y toda epifanía una tontería. seguro que alguien lo ha pensado ya antes. seguro que alguien lo ha dicho mejor.
mi padre el otro día me dijo que le molestó que le dijeran que el objetivo de la vida era “salir de su zona de confort”, justo porque él había trabajado toda su vida para conseguirla. que ahora solo le quedaba protegerla. a lo mejor tiene razón.
02.09.25
i'm so detached from the way everyone perceives me. i don’t recognize myself in the vision others have of me.
i don’t like the way everyone perceives me. or the way i feel about the perception i think people have of me
i don’t know if the real me is me or a distortion i have of myself— because i also think of myself cruelly. i feel small all the time, i feel like my voice is too high and my side profile is weird looking. like a frog.
i feel like im impersonating. who am i dressing for?
i feel like sometimes people don’t take me too seriously and i think it’s because i look like a child (i should start working out) maybe it’s my height or the fact i can’t grow a full beard yet
or maybe it’s just the way i am, i don’t really know, it does frustrate me but i also can’t seem to stop acting the way i do, and build a newer version of myself, one that is more calm, because i feel myself getting calmer
i hate social media and i hate non physical interaction. i hate being stressed about how to look cool but doing it noneffortlessly. there’s an effort in that. i should stop worrying about all this
in 5 months im going to look at all the pictures i took for myself (because maybe i am a little cool) but never posted and think “ah. why did i think so little of me? i was so cool” because maybe i am
all people want to hear trans people talk about is trans regret, but i’ve never seen anyone talk about trans guilt, so is it just me? is it too taboo? is it wrong to think that i was never “born” trans? that i am just happier and more myself this way? that besides all the pain, all the horrors, i still find comfort in my identity, joy in the way i express it.
while all of this is true to me everyday, the whole experience of transgenderism all too mundane, i know that i will never find peace in gender. gender is the antithesis of familiarity and comfort.
i don’t feel like a woman, and i am my own version of a man; a version that maybe is only mine. i do feel out of the box, like i can never find the right box to check, “male” “other” “prefer not to disclose” i just want to leave them all blank. gender is such an abstract, shapeless concept to me it doesn't even have a face, it doesn't have legs or arms, how can i possibly name it?
i am stuck at being perceived as too masculine to be a woman but too feminine to be perceived fully as a man. then again, the question opens itself: what is a man? to that i don't have the energy to reply. the same way i do not know why being treated as a man brings me happiness, or how when i looked at my chest after getting top surgery it felt so natural i felt like i had always looked like that. there were no tears, no overwhelming joy, just unfiltered familiarity. something i never felt i truly had before that day. so, no, i don't really know why this happens, because all i can think about is a question mark and all i can feel in my brain is pure static.
i feel like i owe an apology to my mother, to my aunts, my grandmothers, my girl cousins for “leaving” them. i can’t look at them for too long because i start thinking about everything i’m missing. i’m sad i can’t do makeup, that i can’t play dress up, i can’t be princess and i can’t wear dresses without the urge of exploding, and without the eyes and stares of everyone because i am not a woman, inherently feminine, elegant, with makeup on, but a man on a dress. a man with makeup. i am not a man. all i want to be, is to “be”. i just am. i am.
on christmas eve, my grandmother gifted me a purse. it kind of broke my heart. i've had top surgery, i can grow a beard (sort of), i have been on testosteron for 5 years, out for 7 (seven!). my dad didn't really speak after that, also taking offense. i said thank you and went to my room to put it there. my mom came in (she never knocks) and told me that she can keep the purse, that i don't have to use it. i said okay. i told her i didn't understand why this happened, and that i felt that nobody in my family thinks of me as a man. not even her. she said "me? not even me? or your dad? your brother?" i told her i didn't know. she held me and she hugged me and she told me "i see you as a man. as my boy. my beautiful, beautiful boy". i have never known peace like that.
but i still can’t really look at my dad, like, really look. i can't hold my brothers, boy cousins and my uncles gaze and feel like i belong, because i will never be truly treated like them. the awkward manly hugs, the pat on the back, the high fives. they don’t know how to greet me. i know they don’t see me as a woman anymore, they kind of can't,but also not fully as a man, because how could i be? but also not neither. i am just their son, their nephew, their cousin to them, or more “leowhousedtobe[beep]” and it’s going to be like that forever. no matter how buff i get, how long my beard is. they've proven me that. i am not talking about my mother.
being trans is all i think about and it’s the last thing i think about when i have to describe myself. it's the last thing i guess that goes through people's minds when they think of me, but i have a feeling that if you were to ask them who i was, it’s everyone’s first thought.