Airports. The place I love to feel trapped the most. 

For some reason, today of all the most chaotic weekends to choose to travel, I am feeling quite at peace at the SLC airport. 

I’ve been doing a lot of writing over the last few weeks but not a lot of publishing. 

All my thoughts feel half baked, cunty and whiney.

I spent the last three weeks home in Utah and well. 

Let me not get ahead of myself. 

I slept in until 11am today. 

Wracked with nightmares of all those who have abandoned me. 

Inside my dreams, I’m always the victim. 

My baby sisters told me they never want to talk to me again.

I wake up, shake it off and tell myself to get the fuck over it. 

I was born alone and I’ll die alone. 

I’m okay with that. 

Being in Utah is hard on my nervous system. 

I’m reaching for everything that I possibly can to numb. 

I sit down at my laptop first thing to check work tasks off my list before I even get caffeine. 

It's a Sunday.

I use the same Keurig my mom has had since I was 15 to make myself a garbage cup of coffee. 

I dip my Trader Joes’ graham crackers into and eat those for breakfast as I turn the OC on on the big TV. 

These are all the tools I have to numb. 

I look out the landscape windows of my mom’s high rise condo and see this tiny city I come from. 

The resounding mantra continues in my head: I fucking hate it here.

I spent the whole day cleaning my moms house as I’ve been it’s sole occupier for the last week. 

I’m in a shit mood because I spent every single day of the last week alone. 

I feel like I texted everyone I knew that I was in town. 

But only a few followed through to see me. 

Being in Salt Lake City alone feels like a god damn waste of my time and a massive bitch slap to my soul. 

All this town represents is my outsiderness. 

The layers upon layers of never fitting in, no matter how hard I tried. 

My own family doesn’t even want me here. 

I can’t come back here anymore. 

I finish the laundry, have my final shower + skincare routine and make the last of my food for a late lunch. 

Then the ruminating hits. 

And the tears start to fall. 

I fucking hate it here.  

And yet, my brain is wrapped around this damn Tokyo girl and how much she hurt me. 

How much she fumbled the breakup. 

How much she tore me down through our 8 months of long distance. 

I start to fear that I’m never going to be the same. 

That she damaged me forever. 

All I want to do is text her and remind her how much I hate her. 

But that’s not the Buddhist thing to do. 

Meanwhile, the most beautiful fcuking girl I’ve ever laid eyes on is texting me all day, checking in, keeping me sane, letting me vent all my bullshit to her. 

She says she loves me. 

She says she’s always going to be there. 

And I don’t fucking believe her. 

It’s not her fault. 

How many people have told me this? 

And yet, I spent everyday of last week by myself. 

Only spending time with those who’ve paid me to be there. 

I break. 

I get out a glass of ice. 

Pour some gin since someone drank all my good scotch. 

And top it off with some tonic so I won’t drink too fast. 

It’s the episode where Alex and Marissa start to fall in love. 

The ONLY queer girl representation I had as a kid. 

Yet, this show could not have been a worse influence on me as a child. LOL! 

I get an update that my Uber is arriving. 

My hands are shaking. 

What the fuck is wrong with me. 

This town is not good for my nervous system. 

I knock back my cocktail, put it in the sink and say goodbye to my borrowed bachelor pad. 

My Uber driver seems more nervous than me. 

As we start driving, he pulls out google translate and starts speaking Spanish into it. 

My ears translate that he doesn’t speak any English and he’s sorry for it. 

I stop him. “Yo habla en español - todo bien amigo. De donde tu eres?” 

I always think it’s funny how fluid my second languages become once I’ve had a drink. 

And also, how quickly the energy of a space changes when there is no longer a language barrier. 

He seemed so relieved. It relieved my heart too. 

He told me he was here from Venezuela on a refugee visa. 

He knows zero English and only has one cousin here that he knows. 

I’ve never talked to anyone from Venezuela. His accent is different. It’s fun. 

He tells me my Spanish is great. I don’t believe him. 

He’s worried about the cold weather, but he knows he’s strong. 

We chatted the whole way to the airport.. 

And I felt much calmer. And so grateful for the way that knowing a few languages makes the world just feel like such a warmer, smaller place. 

I get to the airport and there’s just lines everywhere. 

The anxiety kicks back in. 

All my fear is in my bags being overweight. 

This trip, I’ve tried to bring my entire winter wardrobe back home to Mexico with me. 

I’m still shaking. 

I wonder if anyone can see how unwell I am. 

I hide my acne scarred face behind my bucket hat. 

Both of my suitcases are under 40 pounds. (50 pounds is the limit).

I’m so relieved I almost cry - a strong sign that I’m still in a cortisol binge. 

My flight is delayed two hours - leaving at 1:08am. 

I’m completely unbothered by this update.

I find a cozy chair in the airport to sit down and FaceTime the pretty girl. 

It feels fucked up to be still so pissed off about the Tokyo girl who was absolutely not the one for me while I’m falling for the Canada girl who actually be... no I can't go there. 

I feel something in my heart stopping me. 

It all ends in pain. She will hurt you too. 

I hear a grand piano start to play. 

I look up, and an old man with a Veteran cap on is playing. 

Mostly Americana. It’s gentle. It’s soothing. 

It keeps sending chills down my whole body. 

Almost paralyzing me into this wingback chair. 

The pretty girl says goodnight. 

I realize I must find food and water before my overnight flight. 

I write the old man a note thanking him for soothing my anxiety. 

It’s midnight now. 

I’m ready to be home. 

In my own bed. 

In the country where I feel like I belong. 

Even if I’m a gringa. 

Even if I’m a gentrifier. 

Even if I’ll never fully be accepted into Latino culture. 

It’s better than this place. 

This place that raised me to hate myself. 

Perhaps I don’t have to come back ever again. 

Maybe this will be my last trip. 

My dad. 

My exes. 

Utah. 

It all feels like that drug you have to quit. 

I can’t go back to them. 

I can’t go back to them. 

I can’t go back to them. 

Let’s see how long it takes for me to manifest a reason to return.