El blog de Érika

Original post: Nov 14, 2024

I have stopped going to therapy with my psychologist. To be honest, I did not really know how to start this piece, but since I have talked about my process several times before, it seemed like a good place to begin. The last session was almost two months ago, when I was getting ready for a trip and, for reasons that could fill another post entirely, I was hit with a pre-trip existential panic that required urgent intervention—before Delta banned me for running out mid-boarding, screaming that there was someone only I could see in the back of the plane. Although, if I am being completely honest, it was not the fear of flying that brought me back to my therapist; it was something different and complicated to explain (for now).

I mention therapist because I remember how we always joked about how I could turn my traumas into TED Talks or stand-up comedy routines. She thought it was hilarious that I could find humor in the darkest events of my life—which, to be clear, is different from finding the positive aspect. No, sir. One thing is one thing, and another thing is another. I do not see the bright side of anything. Ever.

Well, okay—sometimes. Especially after that trip and the many good things that happened this year. But while we were talking about that—or rather, while she was admiring my ability to turn misery into humor—I told her I was starting to feel increasingly introverted, like I was locking myself inside my own head. It was not about “you need to get out and meet people,” or “take an outdoor class,” or “sign up for pottery.” No, this was more like “get out of the house, you’re growing roots like a tree.” I defended myself by saying home was my happy place because I work in a restaurant and spend all day, every day, talking to people—it is exhausting. Even more so when English is not your native language and you are not only bilingual 24/7 but charismatically bilingual, because you are the manager.

That is when I realized that my daily interactions and normal work performance had nothing to do with that hole in the ground I have been digging for my head—to stick it in and live there so no one would bother me. “You need to go out, you need to meet people,” repeated the therapist, my friends, even my mother (who does not like people either). But I have been so lonely and isolated that even she wants me to socialize. And yet—I like being alone. I like my house, the pictures on my wall, my cat’s scolding me… I like that solitude. I like it… do I?

A few days ago, a friend invited me to a party at her house. After carefully evaluating every excuse to decline, I realized I had already said no so many times that she would stop talking to me—and I really like her. She is one of the few real friends I have, and I know her intentions are good. I got to her place, and as soon as I heard the music from the entrance, my heart tried to leap out of my mouth. Music meant dancing; dancing meant people; people meant I would have to say hello—because I’m introverted, not rude—and the people around her, do not ask me why, always have such a cool vibe that it is impossible to dislike them. Of course, I was already there, so I had to go in. I avoided eye contact, gave a generic greeting, and hurried straight to the kitchen, where my friend was waiting. My hands were sweating, my clothes felt uncomfortable (not in a sensual way, unfortunately), I couldn’t focus my eyes, and I greeted whoever greeted me with some sort of half-wave even I didn’t understand—like my blood sugar had dropped, like I was in a lucid dream, like I was about to ask her for a clonazepam to calm the anxiety.

And of course, since there was no way to ignore my presence—which I would’ve preferred, by the way, especially since I’d chosen to wear a bright yellow coat down to my knees, very clever of me—my friend started introducing me to her guests as “the famous Erika, the writer.” The floor beneath me began to tremble, and I laughed awkwardly, as if someone had opened the bathroom door while I was changing. I know—it is very poetic to say that when I write, I bare my soul, and that stepping into the writer’s skin is when I am most myself. That is beautiful, and true, to an extent. But in that moment, I did not know what to do, or even who I was. I just stared at them blankly, and they stared back, expecting a normal reaction from a functional adult—someone they’d heard about and assumed was a regular human being with regulated motor and cognitive skills, not this bundle of anxiety who hadn’t been to a party in over a year and doesn’t interact with anyone outside of work. Which, if we are honest, is more like a mask—a character I wear to earn a paycheck and afford food.

Then, one of my friend’s friends realized I was the person everyone had been talking about. And despite my temporary inability to form coherent sentences or act like a socially competent person, he was kind. He said something that’s been echoing in my mind ever since—something that found a cozy spot in my head, the same corner where my best friend’s faith in me lives, or the memory of the chicken stew another friend made for me when she came to visit. The place where all my reasons to keep going live. He said, “They’re going to be so happy to know you exist.”

He was talking, of course, about a group that brings together Latin American writers and promotes their work through events and gatherings (I’m still trying to understand what it is all about). But it was the phrase itself that pierced me between my chest and my back: someone is, or will be, happy that I exist. When I am not even sure if I am happy to exist. I mean—we have already talked about the fear of dying, the reasons to live, the anxiety, and the uncertainty about what we are doing with our lives. Thinking that someone out there is happy simply because you exist is such a beautiful, underrated idea that it gave me enough motivation to sit down and write this piece.

A few days later, I talked to my friend and told her about the weird reactions my body had that night. She said she noticed, but that what mattered was that I had verbalized it—that I was okay, and that those people genuinely wanted to meet me.

There is still a lot of work to do. I still love my house, but I know those four walls can be demanding. I want to learn more about that project, and it would be amazing to go back to that time when I used to read my work aloud in auditoriums without feeling shame or panic. I’ll talk to my therapist, go to more parties, and who knows—maybe one day you will see me on a stage, either giving a TED Talk about how to live your best life like a coach, or laughing at my traumas in a stand-up show.

 The second one, yes—that is the most likely.