Tenth Letter: The One Where I Talk About Writing
I want to talk about writing.
But, I finally got back into Cuervo’s place about three weeks ago and knew, immediately, that things wouldn’t be the same.
I have the ability to predict the future, but only in ways that are essentially unhelpful. I can predict something is going to happen before someone else even knows they’re going to do it. It could be the result of having an abusive father who was generally unpredictable. It could be the result of being raised generically-femaleTM. Or a wonderful mezclalito de los dos.
Most of the time though, it's usually preceding a time-range of 30 minutes to an hour. I know if a friend is going to bring something up. I can feel it in her as if her arms, her neck, her back are mine. I can see the conversation unfold like rhetoric in my head. I can hear the words we’ll say; our laughter. But only in detached glimpses. And never in any helpful or specific way. I just get to sit back and watch until it happens.
So, on my last night at the Hostel Andaina with my Norwegian friend, as I was developing a respiratory infection, I had a feeling I had counted too much on comfort and stability with Cuervo. I knew I had been so focused on being normal again, on having a consistent place to write, to sleep, a kitchen to myself, a place to rot, a familiar body to cuddle with our familiar jokes, that I had forgotten about him. I had forgotten about our language barrier. I had forgotten his grief.
While I had been partying in Centro and Puerto Escondido (more like Puerto Gentrificado), he had been at the forefront of coordinating everything around the death of a family member, and organizing the entire funeral, then had rapidly moved to putting together a vacation for him, his mom, and his cousin. By the time the month of February had all but passed and we were finally going to settle down again, I knew something was gonna fuck me up. I could sense it. Then, like clockwork, he sent a mensaje picante.
The first day back to “normal,” I trudged up to his apartment near Iglesia Nuestra Señora…de la Soledad, and I felt the tension building like the sweat in my new gloriously heavy Gen-Z jeans from Zoy. I was running a fever on and off and hacking up green shit from my lungs. Behind my equally ridiculous Gen-Z rectangle sunglasses, I was running scenarios in my head. The next day, we sat down to hash it out and I watched as my suspicions materialized into real life. He was admitting his fears that I was going to take advantage of him, and I felt like I wanted to cry: I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I promise I want to talk about writing. But I also want you to know it gives me peace to be able to count on how quickly things change. How they never turn out quite as I need or expect–even simple things, like coming home. I feel like I’m always on the precipice of having exactly what I need, and just as I see it coming over the horizon–so sure it’s mine–life comes up behind me like a f*ck in the butt (not in a good way; some people like that, so I feel the need to specify). It used to rile me up for a whole season–months. I was always at the whim of my emotions and my quality of life and my outlook suffered needlessly (stupidly, really). But now I know I can count on things never quite going my way, and I mean it in the most neutral sense possible. This is why Buddhists don’t believe in the concept of happiness. Or, at least, they don’t bet on it. Instead, they trade presence and peace and curiosity for happiness. Logically, it’s just more sustainable.
As my eyes welled with tears, trying to get Cuervo to apologize for his spicy text (and realizing he initially didn’t want to), I couldn’t even fully buy my own emotions because I had known for weeks that things would be different. I had hoped that as soon as we saw each other that first time in a month, we would fling ourselves into each other’s arms. I was hoping that maybe I could feel safe enough to say the words “I love you,” with someone again. I was hoping that I wouldn’t be right. That I hadn’t predicted the future.
I want to tell you about what I’ve been f*cking writing, but I gotta back up.
Only five days before this, we had our first actual and briefest reunion, and it was less than ideal. We were running late heading out to an IUD appointment and Cuervo hadn’t eaten anything. It was a hot day in the Zocalo and I could tell, as soon as he walked up, that something was off. In that moment, his lips were dry and his hug was cold. We both tasted like the flu. His mouth went for Spanish and then he retracted. He had spent a month with his family, speaking his native tongue, so I felt his disappointment in having to speak English as it came rising up from the bioelectricity of his skin. We failed to hail a cab through DiDi, since apparently the Taxi Cartel has a major monopoly on the Zocalo. He finally snagged one, but asked me to hang behind while he sorted out the price. I meant to pay for it all. I meant for this to be as smooth as possible. I thought I had it handled, he just had to show up and hold my hand (and possibly scrape me off the ground if I had a panic attack). Instead, we were sweltering in the middle of the cacophony of the Zocalo, and I was standing around aimlessly, feeling useless and stupid as he haggled with a taxi driver.
As he finalized the price, and opened the backdoor to the cab, I popped an Ativan. 💊
Nobody expects a romantic reunion to take place in a cab on the way to the p*ssy doctor. Cuervo was polite and rigid. And I did what all (most) cis-females do when they feel awkward and at-fault: I tried to make conversation. I tried to be demure. I tried to talk to him with a mix of Spanish and English, to show I had acquired some more linguistic skills while he was gone. (Big girl. 💅💅💅) But his coldness subdued me like a wet blanket. There was something he wasn’t telling me and I could feel it hardening my skin to acrylic like a Barbie.
We got to the p*ssy doctor, and the front desk receptionist wanted to practice her English with me. I wanted to practice my Spanish. (And that’s how I prefer it–my language exchange. Language-consent. As a non-binary pansexual, that is my language.) 🫰
Side-note.
I want to tell you about the anthology I’ve been working on, but here’s one thing to know:
Cuervo is a Virgo ♍️. I’m an Aries ♈️. Aries is always perceived to be pushy and naive and impulsive. But sprinkle a little Scorpio in my Pluto and really the naivety is mostly an act. And nothing pisses me off more than someone believing I can’t do anything for myself. Virgos eat this shit up, because they want someone to help. They want to be self-sacrificing and they want you to know it. They want to know their shit and do their part. Or whatever. (Since my dive into astrology, I’ve waned from believing anyone is really an asshole anymore and it’s given me so much peace. I can chalk our differences up to their star alignment and, now, I sleep sooooo good at night).
Anyway, we’re at the p*ssy doctor, and I’m waiting (sweating) in the lobby next to Cuervo for the possible (and painful) insertion of my p*ssy chip. I popped another Ativan. 💊💊
I want to tell you that I’m so excited to self-publish a book for the first time. But, since we’re already this far in the story, I feel like I should reveal a little something about myself:
I was sexually abused by my biological father for ?years? My memory of it is a little shaky. And maybe one day I’ll dive into it deeper. And because it was so subtle and not what you’re imagining at all, it’s hardly worth mentioning. Right now.
For all you Discord and r/Writing people who can’t handle sh*t, consider that your content warning. 💁♂️
Anyway.
I’m filling out medical history papers and consent forms entirely in Spanish, with Cuervo reading and translating over my shoulder (I know what an apellido is), when I suddenly get called back.
Cuervo goes, “I can’t come with you.”
😨
And that’s when my heart starts splashing. I panic. I know enough Spanish that when I’m at a drag show in a hostel rooftop at 9pm suddenly talking to a ‘queño gay boi, I can get the gist. Hardly enough to know whether or not the doctor is gonna shove a copper chip up my vag when I specifically asked for la plata. Also, how do I tell her I’m going to faint when all I know is, “me siento mal? Tengo náuseas.”
I trudged slowly to the nurse calling me. She looked like a cheerleader with a bow in her hair and sparkly eyeshadow that matched her purple scrubs. Because of my pride, I didn’t look back at Cuervo. I just told her I didn't speak a lot of Spanish. She laughed softly and told me (in Spanish) that it wasn’t a problem. The doctor spoke English.
I followed her into the doctor’s personal office and immediately noticed a tiny water feature trickling with the force of a leisurely pee on her desk. No doubt to calm people like me. It wasn’t working. My palms were sweating. The next thing I noticed was how beautiful she was. Her skin was completely flawless and her outfit was sharp. Complete with polished nails and sharp-cut glasses.
“I don’t think anyone has ever come to me,” she said, “and mentioned how copper reacts to their skin. I don’t think any one of my clients has ever brought that up before.”
Oaxacans, to be sure, are blunt and up-front. But their flavor of emotional intelligence is hard to pin down; it’s very layered. I didn’t know whether or not I should take this as a compliment. When she asked me to go to the bathroom and put on a gown, she very quickly added:
“Please, do not urinate.”
I think she said this because she knows most white people here are on automatic pilot. And unless otherwise obviously stated, they’re just going to do what they perceive to be the next most rational thing. Or maybe she sensed the rapid rate at which my anxious bladder was filling. But I’m glad she said something because I was definitely going to pee and probably walk back out naked.
The Ativan was cushy in my system by the time I tried to lock the door behind me. After getting the gown on, which was decorated in high-femme aesthetic (like everything else in the room), I tried to escape the bathroom. I turned off the light first, and then deep in the .10 milligrams of benzodiazepine,
I wrestled earnestly with the door’s lock. When it wouldn’t give, I resorted to jerking it a bit. I heard her hearing my struggle and imagined what it would look like if she actually had to help save me from the bathroom. (A dangerously accurate prediction and possibility.) I very briefly had the glimpse of a parallel universe where the cheerleader nurse walked back in at the cacophony to see the doctor wildly wrestling the door in her elegance and heard me warbling broken and muffled Spanish from the other side.
Then, as I sensed her body deciding whether or not she would need to get this high gringa free, the door loosened and I smoothly made my way out and sat down once again in front of her desk. I searched into my purse on the floor for nothing in particular like I was looking for a transitional phrase in a sentence. Then she motioned me to the pink chair/gyn-horse/stirrup apparatus-thing which sat open under a light–LED like the eye of god. 👼
For men (or other partners) who can’t follow us into this office, I’ll just tell you it looks like a torture chair. But squishier. Next to it is usually a rolling tray of devices curated specifically for the event. In my case, it was just some tools for an ultrasound and imaging jelly. First, she made conversation about my tattoos while she pressed her fingertips into the perimeter of my breasts, looking for tumors. After ensuring I was lump-free, she folded down my underwear over the protrusion of my stomach and slathered on the jelly. Usually, it’s warm. This time it wasn’t. From a screen in a corner, she tried to show me my guts and each unique crevice of my womb. I looked up at the ceiling above the monitor instead and muttered assurances that I was following along.
I had a perfect bill of health.
But because I was not on my period, and because I started to cry and tell her about my history with sexual abuse, she decided that day was not the day to do the application of the IUD. I won’t go into the specifics.
She told me to contact her on the first day of my next period and then, like an adopted shelter-dog, she proceeded to show me the rooms where they would do the placement next time. I followed her along, cautiously sniffing it out. She even encouraged me to look at the bathroom. She told me to talk to my uterus (already tried) and to mentally prepare myself. But to be safe, she assured me that she and her team would also stick me with some good pain-killers before the placement.
I left the appointment to find Cuervo nowhere in sight. I paid at the front desk for the consultation and then called him. He was outside getting plantain chips.
Now I gotta fast-forward.
Really, I promise I wanted to come here and talk about writing; about what I’ve been trying to do for the past month. Because, that’s why you’re probably here. (Maybe.) Amidst all the above, I’ve been navigating the process of self-publishing. I’ve been working on beta-reading and proofreading a horror anthology. During this process, I’ve received a mixture of encouraging and spicy feedback.
I feel like the writing community is so tricky (like any community really). It’s a mix of all ages and all backgrounds. It’s filled with people who genuinely want to help and build a network. It’s also filled with people who are shitty and have some seriously deep-seated power issues.
I’m somewhere in between.
I wish I was writing this series to warn you of the keyboard warriors and control fanatics who get-off with their admin roles on Discord and Reddit. This whole time, I was hoping to tell you about all the old people on critique websites that don’t understand modern story-telling. And I really wanted to warn prospective writers about ALL THE F*CKING RULES. Like, it’s really important to just assume that content warnings are required no matter where you go, and that, as someone who does not write anything remotely appropriate, I’m kind of a whiny bitch about them. I’m also someone who gets anxiety attacks if I read even the slightest revealing content about medical issues and pregnancy. (Unless I wrote the content.)
My contradictions are endless.
But this is what I’m gonna tell you instead.
A couple nights ago, Cuervo and I were quiet at dinner. He was eating his tortilla and beans and soy meat loudly (one day, I’ll have the emotional real-estate to tell him to close his mouth), and I was too sober. I had had enough of the dinner-time quiet and was out of topics (or energy) when I finally said,
“I don’t think I want the IUD.” I said it in Spanish first. Then English.
He stopped eating, but not out of shock. He was just listening to me. In an even-tempered and sweet way, he looked at me from behind his glasses and said (with his very soft and sexy accent), “That’s okay.”
It wasn’t permission, just comfort. The comfort I felt the first time we went out to brunch after having sex. Or the comfort I feel when I come back to bed from a midnight pee and he wraps himself around me, warm and sleepy. “You don’t have to get it.”
My body loosened.
He then returned to his mastication and I bit through quiet tears into my cold tortilla, unbelievably relieved.
Mom, if you’re reading this…
This shit’s funny until it’s not and then back again. I dig it.