Today I am the result of every fall and every step I decided to take, even while trembling. I didn't get here by luck or inertia, but because I had no choice but to face myself and learn to live without masks. My body bears that story etched in my memory: in the center of my chest is the time that almost slipped through my fingers, the boundary I learned not to cross, and the reminder that my life has value even when I didn't see it.
My tattoos aren't decoration. They are chapters. The falling sand is the hourglass I almost broke, the warning that I am not eternal and that every day counts. The gypsy amulet reminds me of my roots and my shadows, the tempting path that is always there and to which I must not return. The piece in the middle speaks of my chemistry, of the substances that now regulate me and keep me stable, not those that once destroyed me.
And then there is the future. That open space I am still learning to fill without fear, without impulses that drag me down, and without anesthetics that erase me. A future where I can live with BPD without hiding it and without resorting to anything illegal to try to support myself. A future that no longer scares me, because I know I can build it calmly, with hard work, and with truth.
I'm still in therapy, still learning, and still living honestly. It's not a perfect life, but it's real, conscious, and mine. And everything I do, I do looking ahead… for myself, and for Lobo, who is the compass that keeps me going even when everything is shaking.
