Editor’s note: Today’s column mentions self-harm.
With the arrival of December, memories also arrive – memories of family, with so many feelings that they are sometimes difficult to express. I would be lying to say that I always knew that Venezuela is a country full of magic, but its customs are etched in my memory, and one in particular: as soon as this month is over, when it’s barely midnight and January has only just begun, many take a suitcase and run as far as they can, seeing how far they can travel in the new year. What we didn’t know was that even those of us who did not run would leave the country, and we wouldn’t have a return date.
Since I was a child, I have always liked myths, legends, and fairy tales, even moreso when they are about ghosts, specters, midnight apparitions, and everything similar. Since I was in elementary school, I religiously bought a weekly children’s magazine, although eventually I would only read the Venezuelan legends section. Ever week, a new specter was added to my collection.
Snow fallen on hydrangeas [Gab-Rysia, Pixabay]
I think it was only during those minutes it took me to read that section that I felt enchanted by Venezuela. I never hid from anyone that I didn’t feel good there, that it was not my place, that I wanted to go far, far away – somewhere where I would fit better. It was difficult being the child reader, the one who analyzed stories and tales in literature classes but didn’t understand anything about sports. I hated class, and I hated going to school. I just wanted to come home to read about Egyptian, Greek, and Roman myths, and play something on the internet that had to do with magic.
High school was not much different. I kept reading, I was still lousy at sports, and the bullying got worse every year. Once I was completely alone in a classroom, surrounded by people my age, and no one ever spoke to me. On another occasion, a group of almost 10 guys surrounded me at my chair desk and hit me on the head. A couple of years later, the one who was my best friend turned his back on me.
What made me different became my armor. When I brought a ouija board I had made to the classroom, when I started to draw scars with a pen, when they saw me dressed in black on the streets, when I made drawings inspired by Tim Burton, or when I listened to Marilyn Manson during school masses, others began to fear me. This was my little revenge, to be left alone, but only because I wanted to. Only a few knew that I suffered from depression, anxiety, stress, and suicidal thoughts – and then everyone found out when I arrived with cuts on my hand.
I hit rock bottom more than once in college. Even though I had many friends, even though I was a good student, even though I studied in the mornings, worked part-time in the afternoons, studied English at night, did internships on weekends, and in my little free time I wrote for seven digital publications – not counting my books – I felt alone and lost.
I never needed to take a suitcase to tell the universe that I wanted to get away from there. When midnight came and a new year began, I only thought of hugging my parents, my family, and dreaming that the new year would be better. My father left us in 2013 after a fight with cancer. But life goes on, and I dedicated myself to being the professional my father always wanted me to be. I finished my studies, I kept my name on the internet, I dedicated myself to fighting for just causes, to educate as best as I could. I started and finished a master’s degree, and finally I got a publisher to publish one of my books.
It’s been over a year since I finally packed my suitcase. I did not do this because it was January 1, or as a vacation. In the middle of the early morning, with my heart in my throat, red eyes, and as many pieces of myself as could fit in a suitcase and a handbag, I got into a car with two companions and left the residence where I had lived since my birth, leaving behind an entire clan that I miss every night.
After a few days in Colombia in which I did not know what to think or what to expect, I boarded a plane that took me to Miami, in the United States. My cousins welcomed me there for a few months until it was time to move once more, this time to Utah, much further north, much further away. I’m living the first winter of my life as I write this article, reflecting on the turns that life takes, so many that I would never end if I counted them all, but I feel calm.
The sun setting on a snowy landscape [AlainAudet, Pixabay]
It has been three years since I published my first article for The Wild Hunt, three years since I first spoke about my ancestors, and when I look back I can only feel proud of that young boy who simply said “let’s see what happens” and sent an email dreaming of writing about Paganism. Three years have passed since I had the opportunity to explore the legends of Venezuela, the magic of its streets, and although I don’t like to look back, there’s a great part of me that stayed there.
Sometimes we don’t have to rush out at midnight to request a ride. In my case, like that of many Venezuelans who now live far from home, something bigger was needed, something stronger. Each story is different, each path is different from the others, and what matters are not those differences, or what made us leave. There are a lot of gaps, a lot of blank spaces in what I just told, mainly for privacy and because I don’t think it’s necessary to go into my personal reasons.
The important thing for me is that that child who read about Zeus and Aphrodite while the others played soccer, the adolescent who laughed at the fear of others, the university student desperate to show what he was capable of, and the young adult who dreamed during the day and cried at night: they are all finding peace.
Starting from scratch is not easy. It happened to my grandparents, my uncles, and my father. I am fortunate to have part of my family here when there are many who are alone, but I can’t stop thinking about the faces that I can only see on the phone, for now, the hugs and kisses that I miss, the memories that we don’t share. The only thing that motivates me is precisely that, the time I have spent away, and the hope that at some point we will meet again. Meanwhile, the suitcases are ready in case I have to move again, ready to be filled with equal amounts of clothes and dreams.
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