metagame
Vomiting traumas might be the solution to my problems.
Lately, I’ve been running on autopilot. I find peace and calm in doing the same things every day. I wake up, start with a skincare routine, make my coffee and drink it. Sometimes I eat something. I try not to think. I get lost in different apps that devour my time like an out-of-control Pac-Man. I search for ways to delay the aging that’s starting to show on my face. And even though everyone says I don’t look my age, the lines that are slowly drawing themselves across my face remind me that I’m running out of time.
I start working. I turn on the computer and leave a doc open so the chat won’t show me as inactive. Part of my job is to always be available, like a waitress watching closely to refill glasses when the wine runs low. I like my job. I’m good at it. But that doesn’t mean I need to sit in front of a computer for eight hours a day. It’s unrealistic to ask that of a human body.
I live alone. I don’t have a family. I don’t have kids. I don’t have a husband. I’m an adult woman who works and can do whatever she wants, even if this lifestyle is questioned from the outside and from within. Sometimes I feel like I’ve failed as a woman, as a human female who didn’t fulfill her role in society: being the emotional backbone of a family, raising children, and dying after her husband.
Every time I think about all the times I could’ve come close to that fantasy, I remind myself that those chances were always zero. I always chose the worst partners, not as a dig at them, but because I chose people who woke me up from my emotional numbness and forced me to face the things I didn’t want to see: my own blocks.
My mother is someone who doesn’t know how to be happy. My father is one of the most manipulative and selfish people I’ve ever met. And somehow, these two people decided to have children. Hence, the chaos that was my childhood. The lack of everything. And the overwhelming presence of everything that should have been absent. They’d constantly remind me how ungrateful I was to be in that house and to “receive so many blessings,” when all I could feel was pain and selfishness.
I feel sorry for my younger brother, deep sorrow, for being his own jailer. He lives with my mom and works with my dad, two things I could never endure.
I take magnesium, biotin, a capsule with mushroom powder, vitamin D, decaf coffee, lactose-free milk, sugar-free everything. I go to the gym at least eight times a month. I follow a routine I got from ChatGPT. I lift weights, do cardio, and go to yoga.
Both my grandmothers had a big impact on my life.
My maternal grandmother, in many ways, acted like a mother to me. She showed me how to fight in the world, how to raise my voice even when people stared. She was a 65-year-old woman who had already lived through everything. “Shame is stealing,” she used to say, while arguing with the vegetable vendor because the potatoes he sold her were trash. I try to defend myself as much as I can, even if I’m embarrassed to speak up or act accordingly.
Maria, my grandma on my mom’s side, used to sew pants. She always worked. Raised three kids. Married once. Widowed, as expected, and then spent her final years traveling, visiting relatives, going to countries I’d never heard of. She always came back with gifts, suitcases full of stuff. She was the first to ever buy me a bra. I was little. I had no boobs. That gift, for some strange reason, made me cry. I already knew being a woman wasn’t exactly a desirable thing.
My paternal grandmother was called Elena. She was a tango singer. At every family gathering, birthdays, Christmas, New Year’s, we’d all wait for the moment she’d hijack the mic and start singing. My dad would always run and hide out of embarrassment whenever she took the stage. I, confused, would copy his reaction, like I did with many other emotional cues growing up. Following my father’s reactions was how you stayed safe.
Elena wasn’t bad. She had a deep, sorrowful voice. In high notes, she had these heartbreaking bursts of emotion, but she never sang off-key. She could tell stories with her voice. My father inherited her artistic talent but never once thanked her for it while she was alive.
I like playing online games, strategy games, board games. I have a profile on a site called boardgamearena.com. One of the games I love is called Solstis. The goal is to capture more cards than your opponent by igniting different flames until you reach the top of the board. If you match four cards, forming a group, you can choose animal spirits with different powers that help you score more points. I love beating French, Russian, and especially American players, because their style is more aggressive. The beauty of this game is that you can win without needing to destroy your opponent’s path.
Lately, I’ve been running on autopilot. I find peace and calm in doing the same things every day. I wake up, start with a skincare routine, make my coffee and drink it. Sometimes I eat something. I try not to think. I get lost in different apps that devour my time like an out-of-control Pac-Man. I search for ways to delay the aging that’s starting to show on my face. And even though everyone says I don’t look my age, the lines that are slowly drawing themselves across my face remind me that I’m running out of time.
I start working. I turn on the computer and leave a doc open so the chat won’t show me as inactive. Part of my job is to always be available, like a waitress watching closely to refill glasses when the wine runs low. I like my job. I’m good at it. But that doesn’t mean I need to sit in front of a computer for eight hours a day. It’s unrealistic to ask that of a human body.
I live alone. I don’t have a family. I don’t have kids. I don’t have a husband. I’m an adult woman who works and can do whatever she wants, even if this lifestyle is questioned from the outside and from within. Sometimes I feel like I’ve failed as a woman, as a human female who didn’t fulfill her role in society: being the emotional backbone of a family, raising children, and dying after her husband.
Every time I think about all the times I could’ve come close to that fantasy, I remind myself that those chances were always zero. I always chose the worst partners, not as a dig at them, but because I chose people who woke me up from my emotional numbness and forced me to face the things I didn’t want to see: my own blocks.
My mother is someone who doesn’t know how to be happy. My father is one of the most manipulative and selfish people I’ve ever met. And somehow, these two people decided to have children. Hence, the chaos that was my childhood. The lack of everything. And the overwhelming presence of everything that should have been absent. They’d constantly remind me how ungrateful I was to be in that house and to “receive so many blessings,” when all I could feel was pain and selfishness.
I feel sorry for my younger brother, deep sorrow, for being his own jailer. He lives with my mom and works with my dad, two things I could never endure.
I take magnesium, biotin, a capsule with mushroom powder, vitamin D, decaf coffee, lactose-free milk, sugar-free everything. I go to the gym at least eight times a month. I follow a routine I got from ChatGPT. I lift weights, do cardio, and go to yoga.
Both my grandmothers had a big impact on my life.
My maternal grandmother, in many ways, acted like a mother to me. She showed me how to fight in the world, how to raise my voice even when people stared. She was a 65-year-old woman who had already lived through everything. “Shame is stealing,” she used to say, while arguing with the vegetable vendor because the potatoes he sold her were trash. I try to defend myself as much as I can, even if I’m embarrassed to speak up or act accordingly.
Maria, my grandma on my mom’s side, used to sew pants. She always worked. Raised three kids. Married once. Widowed, as expected, and then spent her final years traveling, visiting relatives, going to countries I’d never heard of. She always came back with gifts, suitcases full of stuff. She was the first to ever buy me a bra. I was little. I had no boobs. That gift, for some strange reason, made me cry. I already knew being a woman wasn’t exactly a desirable thing.
My paternal grandmother was called Elena. She was a tango singer. At every family gathering, birthdays, Christmas, New Year’s, we’d all wait for the moment she’d hijack the mic and start singing. My dad would always run and hide out of embarrassment whenever she took the stage. I, confused, would copy his reaction, like I did with many other emotional cues growing up. Following my father’s reactions was how you stayed safe.
Elena wasn’t bad. She had a deep, sorrowful voice. In high notes, she had these heartbreaking bursts of emotion, but she never sang off-key. She could tell stories with her voice. My father inherited her artistic talent but never once thanked her for it while she was alive.
I like playing online games, strategy games, board games. I have a profile on a site called boardgamearena.com. One of the games I love is called Solstis. The goal is to capture more cards than your opponent by igniting different flames until you reach the top of the board. If you match four cards, forming a group, you can choose animal spirits with different powers that help you score more points. I love beating French, Russian, and especially American players, because their style is more aggressive. The beauty of this game is that you can win without needing to destroy your opponent’s path.
You can just play your own game inside of a game if you like.
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