The Bern Books - 1st Installment

Im at the hospital in Bern, Im waiting at the check-in window because one hour ago I was at work cutting a sweet potato with a shitty knife and I sliced my thumb open, nail included. During the shift my colleague asks me three times where am I, he realizes that I'm not there while being so. Tomorrow another colleague reminds me that I'm an idiot when he tells me the same thing my mom used to tell me growing up: José Miguel, siempre que cortes hazlo con el cuchillo apuntando hacia afuera, nunca hacia ti. I wont learn this lesson. I finished my mis en place for tomorrow because my boss doesn’t think much of me -or his unsharp knives for that matter- and run to the city's emergency room where they freak out a bit too much, but care about the wound I inflicted upon myself enough to send me elsewhere, somewhere where other people will deal with it, real doctors that are used to seeing blood, doctors that can keep our shit together. Im used to blood and Im used to hospitals, I've lived in them; I've been in and out of love around and inside of them; I've bled in every room they have had available; I've been scared in them, I am scared of them; I've been alive and dead in them; so please, mister, change that face with which you look at me while you hold my hand, this place is my home. This is where my wounds breathe, where my wounds thrive. Don't get me wrong, I don’t like it here anymore, Im here because running into each other was unavoidable and getting this encounter out of our way is necessary. The calmed lady at the check-in window asks me questions in German that I can answer because I understand basic day-to-day German and I'm an expert in day-and-night Hospital. She is being patient with my broken language and, been it for more than a decade, I am the dreamed of patient. She writes down my info and realizes that I wont be having any visitors just after she asks if I want to write down the name of my visitor. The same happens for the emergency contact person, I don't have one, Im alone in this city and it really feels that way sometimes, specially today, when I need to have a contact person so the hospital can have someone care for me if necessary, I have had people in my life as a patient before, but not anymore. Never thought about that and being me I should have. The check-in window lady sees the reason why I don't have anyone she can give me to when shit hits the fan, and in her eyes mirror I see it as well: I am a foreigner, An Ausländer, Un extranjero. This poor lady is trying to appear cool, calmed and collected, me too. We fail marvelously at it, it’s a beautiful scene.

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Last night I could finally complete a proper eight hour sleep without waking up to pee or think, I'm fully awake and dressed up at eight because I need to go to the pharmacy to change the bands in my hand. K offered to do it, but she’s asleep and I need a professional of care, someone that deals with injuries on a daily basis, and since the cashier at the pharmacy also offered herself to help me yesterday, Im just going to pop-up at her workplace so I can get treated well, responsibly and without guilt, like I like it. I spent approximately eight hours in the hospital yesterday and it was a very triggering experience, during this time i did what -in my experience- comes easier at them: I read, I read a whole fucking lot, in fact, I almost finished a book that I had sort of started reading when I went in: “Play it as it lays” by Joan Didion, this book isn't at all an easy read, but it’s pretty amazing if one can grasp and fully enjoy the perverse entertainment hidden behind all misery. I have been having trouble focusing lately and been able to do so with this book in the waiting room makes me happy, even thought I'm far from being so, very far from it to be completely honest. Im also not sleeping much, not much more than two hours a night during the last week and half so getting some sleep yesterday was very much necesary. Sleep deprivation go hand in hand with stressful times and after a life packed with several traumatic experiences -that have traumas of their own- I tend to throw myself real fast into self destruction, a bit like Maria, the main character of Didion’s romance, a person we follow (with some remorse) in and out of a state of hyper vigilant self destruction.

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Two weeks later I'm in Barcelona, Im meeting friends that I have not seen in ages, one of my best friends ever is there and we have not met in more than five years. Last time we met (also in Barcelona) I had a heavy 6 months relapse that ended up bringing me to Bern to tattoo and to get clean by means necessary and since then I have connected this city to being healthy -honestly living here now has a lot to do with the decision to come here after that relapse. My friend is not a heavy drinker at all but I am and as an alcoholic[1]one has to be very aware of the subtleties of excitement, being emotionally overwhelmed can always be a trigger. I called him to say that Im in some deep inner self traveling shitat the moment and that we cant be around any alcohol or drugs, he tells me that he is very much aware and on top of it, it's been already talked about in our friend group and I have not anything to fear, everything’s gonna be safe and alcohol free. we had fun. I’m also in Barcelona to meet my therapist, we’ve been doing Skype sessions since I started consulting her and this trip is a great opportunity for us to meet and it also makes sense to have a real life session at this moment. I go to my session, I'm in the sauce talking and yapping and collapsing a bit here and there, lots of feelings flying around the room etc etc…at one moment Im trying to excuse myself -to sort of bring down the volume of the shitstorm a bit, just to not have a complete fucking melt down- I smirk and go like: “hey, fuck it, at least I ain't drinking right?”[2], but my therapist ain't having it, she steps in with the facts and tells me straight to my face that I have to stop clinging to my sobriety to feel better about everything that goes wrong and that will get worst in my personal life since its very clear for both of us that, wether I drink or not, I am a very precise and effective self destructive machine -I don't need to drink to self destruct. Her point is that I know I'd die if I drank, hence my approach to almost everything else that wont kill me is the same as my approach to alcohol when I was active: like I need it to destroy me. Anything starting at relationships and ending in let's say…books, I would go at it like Im crashing against it with everything I've got. I want to disappear, I want anything at hand to make me disappear completely. It sucks, I know. It sucks to make my shame a matter of public display, but what can I do if I don't really know anything else, if I don't have any other process to unshame myself into a happy living or anything that goes near it. For the first time in quite some time I've been crashed and ran over by life into submission.

I have no longer excuses, I have mirrors; I have no longer guilty parties, I have guilt.

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When I was first asked to write for this art blog the person in charge told me to write about my experience being an artist in Switzerland, but I decided to write about books because its always easier to talk about me thru that mirror. Today I write about myself without that mirror and a book just happens to be around. I cant talk about being an artist in Switzerland because I'm not an artist here, I'ma cook, I have two jobs as a cook and on my spare time I write and try to do some art[1]. Here in Switzerland I am first and foremost a foreigner and, after being a foreigner my entire life, I've become a professional at it. I must say I am liked as a foreigner, but being liked is not the same as being welcomed and one -as a foreigner- should never forget that. To be honest being a writtist in Switzerland is not an easy task, but I like and enjoy it a lot, it's something I look forward to continue doing.

[1]Non-active alcoholic. Been sober for almost 7 years already :)

[2] ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[3] a writtist if anyone asks, someone that writes and arts.

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