Uprooted From a Life With No Roots, Just Clouds

Chapter 2 - Rain.

Chapter 2

7 Ridiculously Distant Months Earlier

Rain. I have always admired this natural phenomenon for some unknown reason. Maybe it is the fact that although rain seems infinite, as if it magically poured out of the sky from some unknown source, it is actually just condensed water that has been used and re-used since the beginnings of the Earth, part of an endless an inescapable water cycle we are almost never conscious about. Maybe it is the fact that rain somehow makes everything seem clear and pure, as if it held power to cleanse anything with its touch, as it prides on the innocence of the Earth to heal its dry wounds. Maybe, and this is probably it, its the fact that there is something beautifully democratic about rain. Think about it, rain is inescapable, it taints anyone and anything that crosses its path indicriminatorily. It does no select were it falls upon and consumes in its overpowering moisture. Just like a nature, rain holds no account for humanity's barriers. We pose barriers ourselves. The wealthy reside in their stable and luxurious homes, untouched and unaffected by the commotion caused by rain, viewing it in distance. While others of more humble beginnings struggle as their houses collapse and their roofs give in, leaving the pathway for rain to overtake their atmosphere in a helpless battle to avoid it. They cannot escape rain as it floods their homes and drowns them in their sorrows. Rain is a reality to them, as it should be to everyone. This is the ever-changing power of rain, it has the ability to expose the differences that divide people into unnatural structures.

And maybe I am incessantly rambling, trying to appear to be philosophical and deep. Whatever.

So this is where it all starts, with me looking out my car window as we drove out of our hotel parking lot in Caracas, Venezuela in the pouring rain on this irrelevant August morning. With my family of five and I leaving to the airport of the place we had called "home" for the last 2 years of my life. In this hotel I also left my broken-hearted boyfriend- well now ex-boyfriend- alongside my grieving friends who I will most likely never see again.

As we all said our final goodbyes, I did not allow myself the benefit of releasing more than a few stray tears down my cheeks. All that filled our last moments together were empty promises of Skype dates and phone calls that subsided from coming after a month in my new life. But hey, who was I to judge when I was the one leaving them and had decided to let go of all that friendship we had, not even showing a flicker of emotion pass through my face as we drove away, not breaking my facade once as I stared outside into the pouring rain, letting these thoughts consume my mind.

I pushed all the sadness and vulnerability away, I hadn't realized it would hurt this bad this time, I was weak, and I let these people in and now here I was alone like I always was, wallowing in my self-pity. Alone again, stuck with the same four goddamn people that were always the only constant and stable thing in my life. My father, my mother, my middle-brother Frank, and my youngest brother Ignacio. I took a moment to observe them in this silent car ride out of the corner of my eye.

My father nurtured his stoical facade as usual, the only emotion I was sure that he was feeling was guilt as he replayed my siblings and I break down because of leaving once again. He knew we were like this and it was his fault, we all adapted to this lifestyle so that he could pursue his career. Maybe I am immature and selfish for thinking this because I know my father has worked his ass off so that he could give us the best life he could possibly provide, but at the same time i can't help but feel like "Fuck." All I wanted was to be able to stay just this once. To graduate with my very strange group of 14 friends, a group of amazingly weird people who I had unconsciously let in and who became like my second family to me. Who somehow knew me better than anyone else in my life and had come to accept my nerdy, yet crazed behavior, as well as my outspoken and quite overwhelming personality. But I couldn't do that because of him, my dad, he could have chosen to stay one more year in the job, his company would have happily obliged and I could have done it, I could have stayed and completed this era of my childhood fully. I knew he made the choice for us to leave on his own account because like everything else, he was bored. You see, my dad has ADHD, which basically means he can't stay still in one place and must constantly be occupied and stimulated, intellectually and physically. So when he focuses on his work, it's great, that is until he finishes it and no new challenges come to entertain him. So that's why we were moving, because he demanded his company for a change as he was done and bored with his objectives in Venezuela. So hell yeah I was pissed, he couldn't do that for me so I was so unbelievably angry. Oh, so damn angry that I was numb. Rage is a blinding and overpowering predator that feeds on its prey, our minds, and feasts off its sanity and rationality. I am first-hand expect on this phenomena, unfortunately.

Next to my father stood my mother. Oh mother. What teenage girl doesn't have unresolved issues with their maternal figure? It's part of our nature, at one point we must hate her so that we can mature, it's just a phase. Was it really? Right now, I was experiencing resentment and pity. She looked so disheveled, crying her little-heart out wondering Is this really worth it? or her classic I am such a horrible mother! It is all my fault my children are feeling this way! and crying even more. You see my mother is the queen of self-pity and self-culpability. She always has the trouble of the world in her shoulders. We tend to always blame our parents for our problems, and maybe it is justified in some cases. But to what extent is it really acceptable to do so? Even more so, what can i truly gain from blaming them for my imperfections? Genetics? Childhood trauma? Melodramatic disease? Maybe it is all of the above. But at this point in my history, I was just a full on resentful, culpability charging monster. anyhow, you see, my issues with my mother have been present, always the gaping hole in our relationship. it all comes down to expectations. I, just like my mother, am a perfectionist. Thus, I expect a lot of myself, and most importantly, I expect a lot form others. This conclusion took me roughly about 4 years of self-therapy to formulate. It is my biggest flaw. I personally believe that this conviction comes directly form relationship with my parents. My parents were always portrayed by themselves and others who knew them as the perfect couple. Furiously convicted and morally righteous, they held their catholic values at the core of their beings and imposed them on my sibling’s and my life. They married at the age of 23, my mother was a virgin until her wedding night, and my father had already managed to graduate with his college degree in business a year earlier than was required. They indulged themselves in numerous social projects throughout their adolescent years, they built houses for the poor in their summers, collected food and clothes for the less fortunate, and were the leaders of their spiritual group of young, socially conscious, and thoroughly dedicated teenagers, which was led by no other than their church and a priest. No pressure to be perfect just like them whatsoever (Note the sarcasm)

My little brothers, gotta love them. Frank was, as usual, blocking the work out with his beats, my little musically inclined, surf-loving, introverted brother. Ignacio was sobbing onto my mom's chest, letting out his inner child that we all knew was hiding behind his genius boy facade, let's just say he was really good a math. My chest constricted for a second. I, on the other hand, continued to look straight ahead. Nothing.

Gosh, I am so melodramatic. Who cares? I was angry, oh so very dangerously angry.

Thus, I decided I was no longer going to care for these people's emotions. I had held on for far too long. I never went through the typical teenage rebellion because I never had a chance to, I matured far too quickly in order to deal with the emotional instability and help my siblings with theirs. So this was it, I was no longer at peace, and I sure as hell was not going to hold back. Reckless, selfish, and irresponsible. But you know what, in the midst of my immaturity, I could not for the life of me give a damn.

We all went through the motions at the airport. This travel pattern had been embedded into our DNA, it was a part of us. Always efficient; go through the counter, our bags fit the weight maximum exactly pass through international police, shop tax-free at the duty free, all sit at the gate in perfect silence, waiting. Always waiting. Always moving, always traveling, I knew cities by their airports rather than the places themselves. Too many to remember them by, only one flimsy postcard collection I had acquired through my years of travel.

So we were off. Chile, here I come.....