We’re over 2 years out from separation now.
Getting close to 2 years in Mexico.
I came here hurt, angry, and perhaps most of all, desperately needing to seize control. Ironically, if nothing else Mexico City has definitely been a lesson in letting go of control. I came here to lick my wounds and to demonstrate that divorce didn’t mean my life wasn’t worthwhile, so dammit I was going to do something to show that it could still be worthwhile.
It feels weird now to think that these were the choices I presented myself. If not married, must move to Mexico cause in some fucked up way, I believe both of these make me valuable? I don’t even know. We can get into the clearly embedded idea of needing to perform ins eome way to have worth at some other juncture.
Regardless, I arrived in a gloriously fragile casing of anger, of empowerment through that anger, of a need to prove myself in some way. To whom or to what or for what purpose, I both didn’t and don’t know. But I was, and perhaps am, hungry.
It’s been an unfurling of sorts, almost a distance from life where I just observe, almost an out of body experience. I feel like I’m the parent watching a newborn, being like “oh I guess we don’t like that” or “Perhaps we weren’t ready for that particular adventure”. I didn’t cook for 6 or 7 months. I thought, dispassionately even, ‘ok, maybe I’m someone who doesn’t cook now’. I watched myself cry and cry and cry with humor and tenderness. I watched myself cry some more with frustration and ange. I’ve done things on my own that I just haven’t really before. And I worked very hard to give myself space to explore, to be curious, to try not to patch myself up with tattered shreds, but to go find fresh patterns and angles, to see what I become. Up with inner dialogue in the third person, which I read is a common response and coping tool for trauma, emotional regulation, and plurality, where distinct parts play specific roles. This tracks.
I want to give myself acknowlegement. This has been hard. I don’t often associate bravery with trudgery, but that is how this feels. It was brave to go outside and talk to someone in Spanish, it was brave to go to the hardware store, it was brave to allow myself space, to not allow feeling behind or wrong or disappointed in myself to make me retreat. To allow the space for those feelings.
There’s times when I think maybe I haven’t pushed hard enough. In many ways, I have fallen on things I know. I do cook again. I am trying to garden. I go to shows. I go on hikes. I do go see more art here and that’s very lovely. I do know how to live in a city now. I feel confident navigating here (ok, mostly). I am in grad school for a subject I’ve always wanted to engage in, to do work I’ve wanted to do for as long as I remember. These parts of me are not just still there, but are suddenly thriving. I don’t want to miss this opportunity to remake my life in the way I want it. I also don’t want to lose sight again of that this opportunity for disocvery always exists. There’s some rather famous quote attributed to Jefferson about a revolution every 20 years being good for the country and some part of me wants to take that and apply to my life, but maybe with greater frequency. How often should I shake things up? Maybe the better concept is what tools can I use to better embed curiosity in the day to day, into things I already “know”?
And I’ve started (shout out to therapists & Buddhism) to give myself grace. I still cry an ungodly amount, but frequently it’s noticing something small and beautiful whose existence moves me to tears. Frequently, it’s thinking about the insane love I have for this dog. I bought a ticket to Chile for Christmas and had a little cry at my emotions over getting to spend that holiday with Rebecca & Tori. Sometimes it’s inspired by giving myself compassion. By meaning “I did the best I could” rather than that feeling like an excuse for inadequate work. Meaning, I don’t have to be 100%. Or rather, I’m always 100%, but it’s for me, not always for the world around me. I don’t always have to give 100%. And I think this will leave me better when it grounds itself.
But it’s so delicate. I’m terrified of losing these pieces, that I would just allow them to be swept away again in service of something- a job, a relationship. Of ceding land. I think of myself as having all these parts that need to be fed by me, emotional well being, an ethos, community, a meaningful career, connectedness, confidence, hope, intimacy, aspiration-and in all of these I would be rather remiss not mention sexuality.
Mom, Dad, it’s not gonna get graphic, but you may leave the rollercoaster now, if you prefer.
This is newer, but feels the same, just another thing I’m unwrapping to see what’s changed, just another hunger to explore. What I want and how I want it to show up in the context of the rest of my life. The thing about having sex with just Mike for so long (and I suspect this is true for a lot of us) is that it stops being curious. Just like in the other parts of a relationship, you develop routines, tried and trues and only once in awhile do you venture into new turf. Only once and awhile do you really take the time to slow down and be sensual. And again, like every other part of a relationship, the whole thing builds with unresolved missteps, misunderstandings, misinterpretations, and two people’s insecurities touching.
Much like cooking, there was a genuine part of me that thought, well I guess we just don’t care about sex any more. And that aspect of my being took a bit longer to return to me and I am so grateful it did and I am so grateful to the people who helped me remember myself as a sexual being, from my dear friends sharing their own journeys to old friends exploring new territory to the magical technological advancements in the sex biz to my adventure in shibari in Spanish. And just the reminder that that kind of physical pleasure, of leaning into a little hedonism, a little humor, a healthy dose of exploration, and the sense of possibility has really helped me feel more complete as an independent person. Maybe on a sub level it felt like a part of me that belonged to him or had been stymied by him or where my confidence relied on him. While some changes on the road to “over it” have felt like trudging up hill battles and others have felt like the effort was greater than reward, this one felt more like smashing through a wall ala Kool-Aid Man. And then there’s Kool-Aid!
This last weekend, was Mariana’s birthday. She is a friend of Fran’s from her writer’s group and she’s Peruvian. We’ve been getting to know each other a bit better, and I really enjoy her. She’s very lovely, very creative human. And for her birthday she wanted to go to Las Estacas. It was a group formed largely from the writers’ club, Bina, Mila, Maya, Paige, Tay, Mariana, Monica, Moises, Gus, Fran and me, so a few Mexicans, an Indian, a Czech woman, a Polish woman, a few Americans and a Peruvian. I love that about my life here. Though I imagine it’s true of any destinationy city- New York, LA, etc. Mariana had arranged a van and driver rental, $2500 pesos for the day, which is like $150 US. We gathered early outside Mariana’s to embark on our trek south.
This is a… water park? Natural space? I don’t know. It sits about 2 hours south of Mexico into the state of Morelos. It’s always so incredible to me how quickly nature fills the void of the city. It was fantastic! (btws, I just did a very Mexico thing and left “city” off of Mexico in the sentence above. This is totally the norm if you’re from Mexico City and is met with same feeling us Washingtonians have when DC folks refer to the capital as Washington).
It’s a park, I assume private?, based around a spring and the river Tlaltizapan that forms from the spring. The grounds are incredible, you are met by a giant tropically tree and go through the turnstile in a landscaped garden with vines and trees and lush green life and water liles. It may be all the more magical coming from the comparative desert of Mexico City. Veins of the river run throughout the park, channeled into streams and pools. In the main river the water is quite deep and crystal clear. The river has a steady, but not violent, current which means you just float on down.
The park features a bunch of walk ways, a hotel, a glamping area, a few restaurants, a pool for adults, a pool for kids, scuba, snorkeling, paddleboard or raft rental and other nature adventures of sorts. But the main attraction is slow float down the river. If you start at one end and float all the way to the park boundary, it’s about 2 km and probably takes around 25 minutes.
We crossed the bridge and headed to the northern side to get as close to the “start” point as possible, although the whole thing has river access. While the river may be natural, the rest of the landscape is definitely built. There’s a wide stone walkway alongside the river, with swings to launch yourself from, lifeguard platforms which also serve as jump points and big grassy areas for picnics. We camped ourselves down and leapt in the refreshingly cold water.
Fran advised a floatie and I listened the first time down, but really it was quite unnecessary. And subsequent floats were made sans floatie. We had a picnic, we floated more. We wandered up to the mini waterfall, jumped from the platform above and floated down. It was so lovely.
At some point the water began to creep over the edge and it kept creeping and creeping, until eventually it spilled over on to the first tier of grass and we swiftly relocated to our second tier with vague concerns around having to find space on the third tier.
Around 4:30pm having mercifully not had rain dump down upon us, we packed up and back into the van to head to the city.
Getting back into Mexico City on a Sunday evening is one of the worst things ever. Our two hour journey south manipulated itself into 4 hours heading north. I think we all fell asleep at various points. I was however awake to learn that curva (kurva) means something like bitch or prostitute in Czech and Polish which gives no end of joy to those in the know when you see signs warning of “Curvas Peligrosas” – dangerous bitches.
Up next comes moving week. Between nearly a month of activation and figuring out my move, this is the culmination of a lot of exhaustion.
Tacos of the Week: Cyprez Tap Room
This exciting find is actually a brewpub near my new place. We tried tacos campechanos and a stout. ooo a stout. It was a good stout. They also had a red ale, a saison, a rice lager, a NW IPA, a hazy pale, a trippel with blackberry. It was a little slice of home for me.
But with tacos. These campechanos came with chicharron and avocado which is not the norm, but doesn’t feel too wildly different. Extra bonus for the pickled onion, wished there was more. In the US, I always wish there was more avocado. Here that need is sated, but I always wish for more pickled onion.
These were good, not epic. Definitely will go back and try other tacos and other food and most definitely other beers there.
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