What are you hiding?

Facebook? Twitter? Instagram? Maybe Snapchat? Whichever their favourite app is, there’s a great percentage of people who use this kind of social networks. The reason? We could find an infinite number of reasons, though exposure might be the most general one. Nevertheless, the way of using them is the aspect I’m mostly interested in, and the one I will be developing. The range of social network users goes from expert to novice, from specialist to amateur, including three kinds of people.

Let’s begin with the most dedicated and professional user of social networks, the ‘travelling and being fit makes my life happy and perfect’ kind of person. This human must be very careful at the moment of choosing the life they’re going to show to the common people. Could it be a successful guy who surfs and travels around the world taking beautiful pictures of himself holding wild snakes and using traditional outfits? Or might it be a woman, all fit and tanned, who loves to sing and lives in a white place filled with tiny yellow lights that make it look comfy, and uploads videos of herself singing while drinking a cool cup of coffee, in her cool pajamas? Oh, but they do upload the most amazing graphic images their professional cameras allow them to. Hours, days, weeks is what it takes them to choose, edit and finally upload an image or video to the web. A bad quality image cannot be on their profiles. If the picture isn’t perfect, then they’re not perfect, and then where’s the point? They’re not average people, they don’t show flaws, they are per fect.

Hey, but there is a beautiful special place for people who have flaws! Yes, and they also get to have a nice name: the ‘neither too perfect, nor too ordinary’ ones. The equilibrium masters. These people are experts on knowing the right moment to upload a nice, edited picture. This doesn’t happen everyday, no… From time to time, a casual change of profile pic make the others think ‘Oh, well, look at this one! What a nice picture!’ but also ‘This is a normal person who just happens to be pretty’. This is only possible if they upload routine pictures now and then, showing their pets, family and some hobby. Probably some pictures of piles of papers and highlighters to show how stressed they are while studying… or a photo of the horrible weather they have to face till they get to work, without having slept that much… normal human stuff. But still, always being careful about looking good, yet casual.

However, the person who lacks balance between a nice picture and a bad one is part of the last group of social networks’ users. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the ‘I don’t get this but I use it anyway’ type of people. ‘Oh! This lasagna looks tasty… I’ll show my friends on facebook what I’ve cooked!’ and a blurry, dark picture is viciously uploaded for everyone to see a disgusting mixture of something and something else. Selfies? These are their favourites, specially if they’re taken from a low and too close angle... the uglier the better, that’s the rule. Selection does not exist in their lives: pictures are taken from the app itself, whichever the time, place or circumstance. For the ‘travelling and being fit makes my life happy and perfect’ team, these people are just spam. But before starting to judge them, let’s think it straight. These people are the most authentic and transparent users that the media has. They don’t care what people will think, they just show life the way it is, with flaws, not always nice, without filter.

So, some show this, some show that… all of them have this in common: they show fragments of their lives for people to see them. They want people to know the things they consider nicer, prettier, worthier showing. And there lies the reason for using these networks: people need to know what others think of them, and they need to be able to pick the part of themselves they like the most and make it the only face they show, to secretly believe they are, in a way, what they show, and not what they hide.

Blinding myself

I’m sitting on a stiff chair, Passenger’s voice as a background sound, trying to come up with an idea of a good introductory phrase. I want to draw the reader’s attention, to write something clever and engaging. It’s beginning to bother me, this pressure, this inconsistency, this being my fourth version of a paragraph. It always bothered me, actually… being insecure. Looking back, I can get a glimpse of a 13-year-old girl with an extremely vulnerable self-image. I had awkward hobbies, felt unappealing, and was very insecure about my image.

I remember myself sitting at the back of the classroom with my friends, hiding our books behind the desk and trying to read while the teacher talked: that was certainly a rush of adrenalin for us. We were all reading the same saga and were eager to come to school and share our opinions about what we had read on Twilight blogs. That was the time when I started to write novels; we all did, and we read each other’s with great enthusiasm. Although enjoying reading and writing wasn’t the only thing that made me a part of the nerd group: I also loved drawing. I had this friend, Coni, who shared my passion, and we would spend an entire ‘break time’ drawing on a special notebook she had. It was full of small drawings, quotes and whatever we wanted to put on it, and everybody could add something if they felt like it. We were very creative, too; we came up with amazing ideas of superheroes and their superpowers, cars, villains and so on; and of course, we drew all of those ideas.

Those hobbies I had were one of the million things that made me feel unappealing. I had a negative view of girls and boys going out together and thinking of nothing else than flirting; on the contrary, I was happy hanging out with my girl friends, gathering together to watch films and laugh ourselves to tears while eating chocolate. My primary school ‘crush’ had always been the same boy and I had tons of journals with his name on every page, but I never felt it like a real thing, because I thought it impossible for me to be with a handsome boy (or to be with a boy at all). So I lived with that certainty: that only beautiful girls and boys could find love; and those in the films, of course.

Why couldn’t I be one of the beautiful girls? That I asked myself my entire tweenhood and adolescence. I had been insecure about my looks since I was younger than 13, but it only appeared to increase within the years. Ever since I’d started to wear glasses, my life had changed. I remember entering school early in the morning without my glasses on (I didn’t like how they looked on me) and not being able to see a thing. Since I couldn’t find my friends on the playground, I would play dumb and head for the bathroom to stay there, safe, until the bell rang. There was no way I’d let them notice I couldn’t see without my glasses on. My friends would say ‘Hey, why didn’t you come with us? We were right there by the table’ and I would mildly answer ‘I just had to use the bathroom!’

That situation went on for a long time, and I eventually started using my glasses a bit more, although not as much as I needed to. I was completely used to guess the number of a bus by its colour, and to copy the homework from a classmate’s folder instead of from the blackboard. Sometimes I didn’t put them on to watch a film and I just tried to guess what the subtitles said. I had got used to being unable to see, because I was afraid of what others would think if I wore glasses.
Luckily I’m not that kind of person anymore and I can wear glasses and feel comfortable at the same time, although I still prefer contact lens. I look back and I would like to tell that girl to chill, to be herself and not to care so much about other people’s opinions. I lived my preadolescence hiding behind books and drawings, thinking about platonic love as the only possibility for me, and disguising the fact that I couldn’t see well, and it was exhausting. It is for that reason that I try to be more confident with every step I take.

Wuthering Heights without that many deaths

What if Catherine and Heathcliff had lived in the 21st Century? Many aspects of this tragic story wouldn’t be the same, but… specifically, what if modern medicine had existed in their lives? How many characters of Wuthering Heights died because of poor medicine? Because of unattended births?

Well, let’s place ourselves in the plot. In the first place, sweet little Hareton has a mother with him, which avoids a bit of Hindley’s violent manners towards him. Probably his addiction to alcohol can be omitted too, with his beloved Frances still alive.

So.. if we take Hindley’s anger and violence out of the novel, what we have left is a quiet, unbothered Heathcliff, with free access to Catherine’s heart. Linton and Isabella take a part of the story and try to conquer the children of the storm’s hearts. In their effort, they succeed in breaking the sweet couple for some time… Time in which both Linton and Cathy are born.  Of course, Isabella and Catherine have a magnificent experience delivering their babies and it takes them some days to recovery and be with their children and partners.

Cathy and Linton grow up with both their parents and a nice childhood. They know each other as cousins, but their close relationship ends up in a deep, unmanageable love. Heathcliff looks at the young couple and feels like he’s looking at a time mirror: it’s them, it’s him and Catherine playing together, hugging each other and swearing eternal love, hands held.

This leads to a man in love climbing a long wall to sneak into Catherine’s bedroom while her husband’s away. It’s just like Catherine’s dreams, a tight embrace followed by a sweet, tender kiss. Their hearts join together again, though never fully parted. They all live happily ever after and a story addressed to as tragic is not any more, thanks to 21st Century’s obstetricians.

Baby smell

Life… we all understand life when life itself pushes us into doing so. Moreover, most of the times it is somebody or something what makes us realize we had not quite understood life before their appearance. Actually, when you think about it, most people walk around normally not even imagining they might be someone’s ‘lifeline’.
What occurred to me was that I hadn’t a clue neither of what life path to follow nor how to choose it, until life stepped into my way to change it up a little. Sounds abstract: life. Well, in this case it isn’t. It was a brand new human being coming to my world that altered the current state of things.
He was a tiny soul stretching out inside my taut belly, probably trying to decide whether to stay there, comfy and warm, or to make the effort and go face the world. He was the size of a watermelon and was already teaching me to take risks, to be strong. As soon as he made his call to get out of my womb, he passed me the buck and I was barely on my own. My tired eyes met his swollen, innocent peepers and secretly told them that it was going to be all right, that no matter how challenging life turned, we were going to manage. Once in the room, the metallic smell of blood mixed with air freshener fragrance overshadowed the typically enchanting baby smell, even though I tried my best to keep it sheltered in my nose. What a delightful, pure smell.
Felipe would need my voice to fall asleep; would need my breasts to feed him; would need my arms to hold him; and my strength to remain strong. My hugs would give him safety, even though all I could feel was fear. However, it was a mutual support: He would chuckle the moment I wanted to cry; would kindly gaze at me when I needed peace. Felipe would need me when I had the need to be useful. I learned the importance of being able to rely on someone, to ask for help, or rescue.
My son grew older every day, and so did his tiny teeth, his sunny yellow hair and his chubby, pale legs. I got used to study at night and to play during the day. I brought back memories of playing on the ground and getting dirty, and also those of doing things just because they were fun, and made us laugh. It took me a while, nevertheless, to familiarize with the mother-role: at the beginning it was pure survival, and it began to get more natural within the months. My son and I grew older holding hands and discovering life together.

I remember the first time I bought him a ‘Kinder Surprise’. He tried to unfold it and instantly glanced at me asking for help. By the time we managed to unwrap it entirely, his eyes were already sparkling. He broke the egg into two and opened his eyes even wider when he discovered the yellow toy holder. I could barely hear the kids laughing and shouting in the square, for all I could pay attention to was Felipe’s genuine smile. His blissful happiness even made him lose a funny screech. His mind was into figuring out how to eat the whole chocolate and play with the toy at the very same time. I can even recall his sticky hand and face, all mixed with the dirt of the square bench. But it looked great along with his toothful smile and his shining blue eyes.

 Before Felipe was even real, I was a nineteen-year-old girl who was quitting university because she didn’t know what she wanted. I was an unexperienced girl who didn’t know a thing about real compromise, responsibility and challenges. I was submerged in a harmful relationship which kept me away of enjoying life. Maybe my ‘lifeline’ could have been someone else if time had allowed so, but it turned out to be a wonderful life-changing boy who came to stir my world and I’m sure others’ too.

Happy Birthday to you...

        What a pain in the neck, those “always be yourself” and “do never forget who you really are” sort of quotes. But we always listen to them though, because they sound so true… so much like the key to happiness. My question is: how could I possibly be happy about not forgetting something I haven’t even discovered yet? I guess that is how life works: we learn more about ourselves as we grow older and gain experience. Nevertheless, I do know what I am not: I am not the obliging, naïve and lying teenager I once was, and I thank the night of January 8, 2016 for that.

        It was his 20th birthday and we decided to go out with some friends; we were going to leave Felipe, who was 5 months old, under his grandma’s care. We didn’t go out much, not only because of the baby but also due to our usual arguments, which seemed to feed on alcohol and jealousy. Anyway, we needed a night for ourselves, away from the crying and baby vomit. We couldn’t have a fight on his birthday, after all.

        Already at the nightclub, I secretly felt surprised at how well we were getting on with each other. He joked with his friends, I went to the ladies room with mine, and then we hanged out together for a while. We went to different clubs and bars, until we arrived at the last one. It was a bald, old man who was just passing by who triggered Leo’s irrational jealous rage. The man had been leering at me (probably at every single girl at the club), and when my boyfriend went to ‘politely tell him to stop’, his eyes were saying come hit me so I can hit you back. Apparently the shaven-headed fellow caught the message right off the bat and attempted to break a glass bottle on Leo, who fortunately managed to dodge it. Less than 3 minutes passed till the security guys took Leo out of the club. That I didn’t know at the moment, so I wandered around for a while searching for him, inside the club. Those 10 minutes I spent in the club and not outside with him were enough reason for him to start

being mad at me.

        Along with the others, we went to the station to take the 4 a.m. train. I was really upset, partly because after having yelled at me, my boyfriend went on laughing and kidding. We didn’t talk to each other, not even in the taxi cab or when we arrived to his house. He walked ahead of me along the corridor and unlocked his door (he lived in a separate building, opposite to his grandparents’). I had to go knock his grandma’s door myself to fetch Felipe. ‘He slept like an angel, do not worry. Is he drunk? Are you okay?’ I faked a smile and told her everything was fine, before thanking her and kissing her goodnight. I went upstairs with my baby in my arms, completely asleep, and placed him on his buggy (the cradle stayed at my house).

        Leo was downstairs sitting on a chair, obviously waiting for me to go and start the talking. I did so, because I knew that ignoring him would be much worse, and because I always did what he expected. I always tried to make things easier; I always did whatever I could to calm things down: I was annoyingly obliging, as I said before.        

-What is it? -I asked. -What have I done this time?

        -So you don’t know?

        -I know that you’re angry; I just don’t see why it is my fault.

        The rational part of the conversation ended there. The following was just a series of insults and nonsense talking I was actually used to hear. I was standing next to the first step of the stairs, in case Felipe cried, and it was when he called me a ‘whore’ (because I must had enjoyed the fact that a bald man was staring at my ass) that I went straight upstairs and began taking my shoes off. He followed me. I looked at him with my tired, tearing eyes and noticed he was nervous, furious, drunk. He cursed me in any existing way and I started telling him how tired I was of him being like that, going mad at me over everything, criticizing every aspect of myself, no matter how hard I tried to be the girl he wanted me to be. I said I didn’t want to go on (I had said that before, so he didn’t take it seriously) and that he was a terrible boyfriend and father, among other negative aspects he had that made me ‘hate him’ and ‘cry every day’.  

        I don’t know how or when did it happen, but all of a sudden we were lying on the bed and he was grabbing me from the neck telling me to shut up. On my right, Felipe was waking up as a wrinkled hand took him out of the cradle, of the situation. I remember myself struggling to push him off me and then curling up to cry on the bed. I realized I had been deaf for those hourlike seconds when I gradually started hearing Leo’s voice telling his grandma that he didn’t mean to hurt me; that they were both overreacting. I stood up, I wiped my tears away and took Felipe back in my arms. ‘Sorry’ I whispered him. ‘Sorry for being so stupid.’ Claudia, the grandma, called me a cab and I silently started packing my belongings. I somehow managed to set Leo’s whining to ‘mute mode’ and I took off. I arrived home at 7 a.m. and told my mother I was going to explain it to her later, although I never told her the whole story.

        That was the last time I cried and suffered because of my boyfriend. From that night on, I have been trying to re-discover myself, to erase that personality I had carefully created and find the true one. No more being obliging, no more exposing Felipe to a harmful atmosphere, no more lying to my mother and behaving as if everything were fine. No more faking for me.