This was my response to prompt #26 : How has your life changed in the past year
it’s been one of the best years of my life
2022 blessed me with more joy and growth than I could have dreamed of I changed my narrative from a woman full of anger and resentment to a woman full of contentment and an appreciation for everything Unexpected and pleasant surprises filled up my year swimming for the first time to Taylor Swift music concerts that brought on catharsis a spontaneous trip to my homeland where I found a stable sense of identity and my accidental bangs in that beauty salon in Lima I also learned to place my solitude as a priority for my recovery journey It was the year when I stopped chasing love and unabashedly started chasing my dreams, conquering my fears, and learning to love the woman in the mirror It’s been one of the best fucking years of my life when I finally learned the meaning of gratitude and healthy love
La navidad se escucha con los parchis cantando navidad, navidad navidad se ve como el árbol lleno de muchos adornos coleccionados hace más de 30 años el nacimiento cusqueño con las estatuas de la virgen, josé y el bebe jesús cristo que tienen más de 33 años navidad se saborea con un polla peruano sazonado con especies únicas con un chocolate y panettone siempre en la mesa navidad se siente con la felicidad pasando tiempo con tus seres más queridos que te llenan con amor y calor familiar la navidad se huele en el perfume imari de Mami La navidad siempre será una de las tradiciones más bonitas e amorosas en mi familia
I wrote this in 2008 in my creative writing class. I actually hated that class because I didn’t fit in. It’s a long story for a blog post at a later time.
I don’t want to be a style ,a genre a multicultural read with scattered Spanish in my text that is interpreted as Chica or Latina lit -NO!- I refuse to be a mere category Or a trend or a fad When there is a much bigger message Than the stereotypes people want to imply
Fue el destino cruel hacerte cruzar la línea Entre amor y odio Fuistes una desperdicia de tiempo Nunca sabras lo bueno que pudimos ser tu amor era solo una pantalla de humo Hasta pensaba que teníamos Para siempre Quería creer que tu eras un amor verdadero pero tu eras otro “lo que sea” Y yo fui otra falda No hay nada más que decir es tiempo de olvidar todo lo que fuimos o pudimos ser
Nunca sabrás del dolor Que sentí por tu abandono nunca veras las lagrimas que llore por ti nunca descubrirás como me llenaste con agonía
Porque soy demasiado orgullosa para admitir que fui una babosa Por que tengo demasiada dignidad para estar llena de miseria por tu culpa Por tengo demasiado respeto Para convertirme en un desastre
Lo siento por ti piensas que has ganado pero serás otra mujer usada crees que te ama pero es una de sus mentiras piensas que el es tu príncipe azul pero tu dignidad parara en el suelo tienes un canalla y mentiroso a tu lado que te dejará con un mal sabor en tu boca no digo esto porque te tengo envidia es una advertencia para que no acabes como mi otra de sus muchas mujeres que el trate como una muñeca de trapo
Escribi este poema en el 2008 cuando estaba enfadada con mi esposo por que el no me daba mi lugar en frente de su familia. Su familia de el eran racistas conmigo.
I wrote this in 2007 when I transferred to a 4 year University. It was a rough experience.
me with my friends in 2007
I feel small in this enormous and elitist world it doesn’t seem like I will ever fit It only seems like a perfect fit for my younger, blonder, whiter, and younger counterparts Older, hispanic, and poor is not acceptable here. Should I even try ? When I’m destined for failure on this institution’s steps Failure on the steps is what I feel here- a place where my browner, poorer self feels like an outcast, an undesirable- by the eyes of prejudice
I wrote this poem in December of 2016 after my almost love affair with death on December 5th. It’s strange how aside from my journal entries from that month, I hardly remember that month. I just remember feeling so broken inside and like a failure after that happened that it was so hard to get up every morning. I do know that writing saved me during that time because I started journaling way more consistently. I would learn years later after being diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder that up to 10 percent of people with BPD die by suicide. Five years later, I’m glad that I had people by my side that prevented me from becoming one in ten. I’m glad that afterwards, I was able to slowly come back from thiseven if I was mostly depressed the year after and it was a fight to get up every single day.
For more information about the high risk of BPD and Suicide, here is a link from Psychology Today with info about it:
Life on the BPD 