But then again, no.

I wish I was a sculptor because

Simply memorizing the outline of your shoulders isn’t enough.

Being a painter wouldn’t suffice because how could I ever replicate

All the different specks of color hidden within your eyes?

If I was gifted at songwriting I’d spill my guts and broken heart into an album

But there can only be one Amy Winehouse.

Interpretive dance, filmmaking, photography –

I’d master every artform if it meant you’d understand.

I could dedicate this century’s greatest novella to you but even that would never do;

You’d just leave it in your half-unpacked suitcase, partially flipped through.

Happiest new year.

My mother called me at 12:06AM to wish me a happy new year. She said she was proud of my accomplishments – getting a promotion at work, buying a condo, and doing so much on my own. I wonder if she knew that I really needed to hear that because the end-of-year season is always tough for me. I tend to pine over what I don’t have versus what I do have and I am always filled with the sense that I didn’t do or enjoy enough the past year. An unshakeable feeling of loneliness settles in at the realization that another year has gone by in which I didn’t quite find the space and place into which I fit. Where am I supposed to be and what is it that I am meant to do and with whom? Is this the year that I wake up in the middle of the night with the inspiration – the spark – for my book? Is this the year I find love that makes me feel valued and safe to be myself? Is this the year I learn to manage my disorganized and scattered brain? Is this the year I finally learn to love my body and self? Will I unlearn insecurity and doubt and learn to feel enough? I dread the notion that, once again, I will ring in 2025 with this decades-old insatiability and uncertainty.

That’s a long list and a lot of work to ask of myself and the universe but hopefully. In the meanwhile, I have set a resolution which I think is manageable: learn to roller skate. It doesn’t aim too high nor does it aim too low but I think it’ll do for now.

Tin.

I clicked on my notifications this morning after ignoring them for a while and read: Happy Anniversary with WordPress.com! You registered on WordPress.com 10 years ago.

My immediate thought was damn, 10 years of writing bullshit but as I reflect now, I remember a bit more context. Let me paint the picture: It was exhausting to wash my hair, so I didn’t. I stopped listening to music, reading, and writing. My mother had to spoon feed me soup and my sister Gigi called therapists to get me help. I cried myself to sleep, had dreams that constantly reminded me of what ailed me, and I could feel a heavy ache in my chest before I even opened my eyes. Major depression had completely engulfed me and all anyone could do was watch as I turned to gray. I started to feel like a burden. And, most dangerously, I was beginning to grow tired of living that way.

My sister Alex was getting married in Miami and nothing sounded more excruciating to me than having to get my weak 105lb body (just a month earlier I had been 135lbs) on a plane and join in others’ happiness when I wanted nothing more than to fade away. My mom, being deathly afraid of small spaces and flying, forced me to make a pact: get on the plane and she would, too.

I will never forget the stoicism my mother showed as she walked onto that plane. I was, therefore, indebted to do the same. During our trip, I could no longer ignore the chirping of the birds or the heat of the sun by the rooftop pool. I had to engage with other people and my forced laughs turned into real ones. I was served a bowl of frijoles that I simply couldn’t resist. My uncle and cousins drove down to take us to the beach and I got sunburnt and laughed and dug my toes deep into the sand. Everything felt so real and overwhelming in a way it hadn’t in a while.

So, on August 24, 2013, a few weeks after our return, I created an account and wrote this blog’s first post. Coincidentally, my second post, titled “Bye!” recounts my trip to Miami and the massive amounts of good it did for me. This blog has been just one piece of many that have contributed to returning me from gray to color, time and time again. So no, it hasn’t been 10 years of writing bullshit. It’s been so much more than that.

I just read that it’s customary to gift couples something of tin on their 10-year anniversary. So you owe me and jahksofhearts a little something. Thanks in advance.

Hache.

Sometime in my early 20’s, I went with the girlies to a house party. When I say house party, I mean a gaggle of potheads sitting around a speaker with too much bass. We found ourselves in the trap as old as time – a sausage party. Someone (probably me cause I’m nosy as fuck) asked one of the guys his name. He laughed and, in his very Paisa accent, said no one could ever guess. It was different and therefore difficult to guess. We asked for a clue; he said it started “con una hache.”

After a few moments, I said, “Aha, yo se. Hernán.”

Hernán nearly vomited himself. In disbelief, he began asking me how I knew him and accused me of having ulterior motives and all this weird shit. For the rest of the night, he stared at me suspiciously with his dark eyes and grew quiet despite my assurance that I’d never known or heard of him a day in my life.

I didn’t mean to ruin his night. Or to quickly figure out his “guess my name” game. There just aren’t too many Colombian names that begin with the letter H. Hugo. Humberto. Hector. Those are all pretty common, however. So I figured it might just be Hernán.

All I did was use deductive reasoning. I fucking guessed. And sometimes, it is what it is. There isn’t always rhyme or reason or meaning. There’s no trickery or malice. No profound significance or cosmic shift. Some things are what they are, at face value. We spend so much time trying to assign value to every thing and moment and word and inflection and smell and mixing of color that we get lost in bullshit and ruin a perfectly good night. It’s taken me a long time to figure out this little nugget and, in case you haven’t realized it, let me share it: Not everything is about you.

So go out there, Hernáns of the world, and enjoy your weed and shitty speaker and just be.

Thriving.

Hi, friends. I am checking in, as there hasn’t been much action here since the new year. We always say, “wow, this year is flying by” but this year, I fucking mean it. 2023 has been busy but in a productive, laughter-filled, character-building type of way.

For starters, I bought a condo. Yes, baby Jax has left the nest. I had been waiting around to “do the math” to see if it would be a wise move but if I kept doing that then I would be waiting forever. So, I did it. It was the first place I looked at, accompanied by my sister/real estate agent (visit Buy & Sell with Gricel for all your real estate needs!) and nephew and we all liked it immediately. I signed in April and I’ve been chillin ever since. If you have any easy and cheap recipes please send them my way, as I no longer have unlimited access to arepas de choclo for breakfast, sancocho for lunch, chicken wings and fries for dinner or arroz con leche for desert. I’m fucking hungry. Come visit me (aka bring me food).

Work has been busy, so I haven’t had much time to learn how to cook. Also, if I’m honest, I don’t feel inspired to cook. Call me a feminist or call me lazy, I just don’t wanna. I’d rather focus my energy on work. No matter what, work can be stressful and a place where you constantly need to reflect on your interpersonal/organization/management skills, but I am part of a team of badasses who are doing innovative and meaningful work so it’s a lot of fun. I was just in Middletown for the week on a staff retreat and in a few weeks I’m off to HOTLANTA for a conference.

Travel has sadly been slow until last week, when I did my yearly trip to NJ to see my favorite person ever, my cousin Nancy. Someone asked me what I do doing these trips. Ummm, COUSIN STUFF! The best kind of stuff! There’s nothing quite like the recharge that time gives me. I will be in Maine soon for a Stephen King tour (nerd alert!) and then Toronto with my sister and nephew. After that, who knows but I am willing to become a sugar baby to get flown to Europe for free.

I lied, actually. I’m not interested in wrinkly ball sacks. I feel independent as fuck lately and I like it. While many of these goals are slow-moving and a bit behind the curve, I like being able to say that I am meeting them at my own pace and on my own terms. I used to watch my sisters and cousins and characters on TV and be envious of how they’d reached that seemingly unattainable intersection in life, where you truly begin adulthood and live for you. I think I’m getting there and you couldn’t tell me a damn thing even if you tried, biiiiiiiiiitch!

P.S. If you’re into supporting small businesses (as we all should be!) and investing, please consider investing in the Thrive Tribe Cafe! Co-owned by my longtime friend Andres, it’s a delicious, holistic, and kickass café in Barrington that is looking to expand to Providence. They’re great people with a big dream and deserve the support. Check out their campaign here.

Happy new year, bitch.

We eat our grapes and hug our loved ones and take shots and proclaim “2023, it’s a new me!” and in the same breath commit the same mistakes as before. We once again lend ourselves to situations, decisions, relationships, and behaviors that had us wanting 2022 to be over and done with. Make that shit make sense, man.

I had over 2 weeks off from work and I reveled in every second of it. I danced, pampered myself with massages and a mani/pedi, ate whatever I wanted, almost got crushed in NYC, and I laughed and laughed and laughed so much my belly ached. I am so lucky and grateful for that. I had every intention of starting off today, my first day back at work, with a renewed energy and optimism and vigor. 2023 wasn’t ready for me!

Lo and behold, I sit here today feeling like a deflated party balloon. I initially blamed the people that hurt my feelings. Then I blamed the universe. Then I blamed society’s expectations and burdens. I then got mad at my laptop for not starting fast enough. I kicked my travel tote bag cause I haven’t bothered to put it away yet. Anyone and everything except myself.

I fucked up. Yes, yes I did. I overestimated my ability to deal with certain situations. It’s back to the safety of my cocoon for now, to finish thinking and reflecting. My goal, albeit small, is to feel how I felt a week ago again and to start anew. Progress and healing are lifelong processes, and setbacks happen. They happen and we have to put on our big girl stockings and deal with them in healthy ways, not the old ways. The old way is soooo 2022.

Happy new year, bitch. You fucking got this.

Know me.

I know your favorite color. You don’t like to display your quirkiness and hate it when people think lowly of you. You drunkenly told me secrets as you played with my hair. I know your mother is a sensitive subject. Quitting? You’ve never heard of that. You hate being ignored more than anything else. Certain songs remind you of a certain ex. You’re insecure about not appearing successful enough. You would give your life for a friend, that’s how important friendship is to you. There’s an atrocious pair of sneakers you were fond of wearing and I’ll never forget your eyes when they met mine in the car outside of the corner store. Yet, knowing all of this, there isn’t another person on this earth I have felt farther away from. As I reflect, I realize I was content with getting the bare minimum and mistook those little nuggets of you with knowing you.

Funnier still, you don’t know me at all. You’d be the dummy contestant that’s in the red on Jeopardy and can’t go on to the final clue and gets a pity $1,000 consolation prize. That used to make me real upset, ya know, the fact that I was so willing to open up to you and thought that maybe, just maybe, if you got to know the real me you’d fall in love with me too. I wanted to get lost in your thoughts and feelings and successes and would have lost myself if you’d let me. It’s crazy how, back then, I foolishly thought that would have been enough.

As I sit here, trying to wrap this up before a night shower, “Purple Rain” comes on. How fitting. I never wanted to be your weekend lover. Like I was saying, I used to feel pissy and hurt about it. Today, I am thankful we didn’t get to truly know each other. Only wanted to see you underneath the purple rain. I have an inkling things managed to work out for the best. We can’t wholeheartedly love and know someone if they don’t do the same back properly, intentionally, and with care. We can’t – and shouldn’t – love and know someone unless we respect and care for ourselves first. You left me with that and it was the best and only gift you ever gave me. Purple rain, purple rain.

Proud.

“Oh, I’ve been proud of you since the day I met you.”

I tried to play it off and gave my therapist, Michele, a high-pitched “that was sweet” but the surge of emotion was too much. I felt hot tears go down my face and all of a sudden the office overlooking the east side of Providence felt too small. I don’t hear that very often, and to hear it from someone who played a part in saving my life was important.

I’ve been seeing Michele since 2013. Therapy is an integral & non-negotiable aspect of my life. I talk about it very casually and I sometimes think it makes people uncomfortable. Speaking anything mental health (trauma, psychotropic medications, self-harm, etc.) can make people uncomfortable. Or they think it’s annoying. “She just loves being emo,” someone might say. But what makes mental health any different from other aspects of our lives?

I work in non-profit. I am Colombian. I’ve had imposter syndrome. I have 3,000 first cousins. I get yearly physicals. I am a writer. I’ve had the same friends for 20 years. I can be judgmental. I’m a Virgo. I have a loud laugh. I also happen to have a long history with depression & anxiety.

All of those characteristics have influenced me and affect the way I think, behave and react. They’ve brought me to me, here on this couch, on a Sunday evening. Some have been good, others not so great. But in order to truly honor myself and my trajectory, I must honor all of my characteristics, not just the cute and charming ones. Not only do I honor my mental health, I respect the shit out of it.

The Jax that Michele met in 2013 was the shell of a person. I didn’t think there was anything to be proud of. I think of that Jax and the cloud she was living under. I felt so small and useless. But I was there because I wanted to get better. I wanted to learn about myself. I wanted to be a Jax that was untouchable.

And I did. So, yeah, what’s there not to be proud of?

9.7.22

I would be lying if I said that I didn’t think of the future often. I think about the short-term, like my haircut appointment tomorrow. I think about a quarter’s time from now: will I have finally gotten my shit together at work? Same goes for the long-term. Will I die alone and nobody notice for 2 weeks? Will I die an old lady surrounded by loved ones? Who am going to be ten years from now? I think of that a lot. I think of it when the edibles kick in & I am brushing my teeth & I am driving to Target & I peruse Zillow & I order food & I watch a movie & in my sleep. I mostly think about my house, my house with crisp wall colors, a cozy sunroom and interesting rugs. I think of my elegant office and perfectly-lined library. I imagine laughter & charcuterie boards & football games & cozy pajamas & not answering the door to surprise guests & busted boilers & sticker silhouettes on the wooden floor & “get down here right now, you’re gonna be late” at the top of my lungs & the biggest Christmas tree you’ve ever seen. It doesn’t have to have all of those things, really. Or those specific things, even. But I want it so badly I can see it. It feels like stability, independence, tidiness, joy, privacy, and sensuality. It’s kind of burdensome, thinking of a time and place that’s yet to happen. Or that may not happen.

I’d also be lying if I said that I didn’t think of the past often, too…

A letter.

When revisiting the post below, I got to the line “When you wanted to quit, your nephew Jonas kept you fighting” and couldn’t help but be overcome with tears. I remembered a very specific moment: I got home and immediately cried, now in my safe space. In the corner of the kitchen I told my mom about my day and how I was so tired of struggling. Jonas, who was around 12, was in the dining room and having his lunch. I hid my face in shame as to not worry him. A while later, he came to my room, and asked gently, “Jax, are you okay?” I knew then that I had to get better.

I am not saddened or ashamed by that moment, but I do think back to the progress and healing I have made. I have made progress from that moment in 2014 (the worst year of my life) and even more progress since I wrote “A Letter” in 2020, and I won’t lie – it makes me proud. I won’t hide that, ever. Can’t no one tell me nothin. But it makes me think of others who find themselves in this situation. I simply have this to share:

1. I would argue that the healing process can hurt even more than the pain or trauma. It’s arduous work and I will not downplay that truth.

2. It gets better. It really fucking does. My friend Richie said that the process of healing “teaches you to stand on your own” and that is the absolute truth. After you come up from rock bottom – as the only direction is up – the past feels like it was ages ago. You just see things differently. Is it always easy and perfect? No. You will always have to keep the negative in check and be willing to put up a fight. You’ll sometimes slip.

But if you trust me, I need you to also believe me. Keep fighting and raging. I promise the other side is like a sweet, chocolate-covered strawberry.

jahksofhearts

As part of my job, I sit in on the classes we offer to provide technical assistance support to anyone that might need it. A benefit to that is that I get to participate. During last night’s class, the instructor asked us to write a letter to our younger selves. I smiled, and the following is dedicated to 6-year-old me, short and in a cheetah print with a book I had no business reading at that age in hand.

—-

Hi, Jackie –

I’d sadly like to confirm that your suspicions are correct: life isn’t always easy. Or fair. Or delightful. I am writing from a time in which lots of things just don’t make sense. Everything feels out of whack and out of your control. And we know you hate feeling out of control. You’ve gone through some difficult times – mostly internal and self-imposed – that have brought…

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