All the Other Colors Drowned

Chapter 4 - Tasks as difficult as keeping my nails done.

The Sunday that followed seemed like a blur. I didn't remember much, just Theo leaving and me feeling bad about having an anxiety attack. But there wasn't much I could do either. I was paralyzed, my whole body was shaking, I could barely speak. It had been a long time since I had a drowning nightmare, but this one had been incredibly worse.

As vivid as that fateful day was, I swore I could feel the oil burning me, pushing me down and clinging to me, making it impossible to overpower it. It didn't move easily like water. The oil seemed to be penetrating my pores and consuming every part of me, killing any oxygen molecules that might exist. There was no one to save me, and even if there was, they couldn't hear me because I couldn't scream. It was an unfair fight.

At the end of the day, when I was slightly more conscious, my mother carried me to the bathroom, took off my clothes and put me under the shower. I groaned and shivered more as I felt the extremely cold water hit my body. Despite the discomfort, it helped me break the chain of ruminating thoughts a little; One of the techniques to reduce a panic attack was grounding exercises. Sitting on a cold floor, receiving cold water on the face or head, holding ice cubes, things that took attention away from what was causing panic and brought it back to reality. Because obsessive and intrusive thoughts weren't real. They were simply thoughts.

As Holanda instructed me, I took deep breaths, paying attention to the sounds I heard and the freezing drops running down my face. It wasn't enough to completely calm me down, but at least I was able to free my bladder and pee for the first time in over fifteen hours. I was also able to dry off, put on clothes and go to the kitchen to eat something. I wasn't hungry, but she practically forced the food into my mouth. These were the years she spent as a nurse showing.

I felt bad when my mother did things like not paying attention to me, not caring about my hobbies, putting my work down, and barely appreciating anything I did, but she wasn't a bad person or a bad mother. She bought me the digital pad. She was never restrictive or especially controlling. She planned me, raised me, fed me, and cared for me with the same love she had for Sabrina.

She loved me, maybe she just didn't like me that much. She didn't like my musical taste, the clothes I wore, she didn't like my dreams and she didn't like my personality so much. I had only heard her praise others for my traits in which she had influence. Being polite honest. Never my creativity, never my sense of humor. And that's okay, I thought. We weren't that compatible, but she took care of me. She worried. To tell the truth, maybe all she'd done her entire life was worry.

The only woman among three brothers, my uncles Francisco, Ítalo and Isaías, and daughter of conservative parents, my grandparents Beth and Carlos, she never had support. She was never encouraged to study, much less graduate from two colleges and a postgraduate degree like she did. She had only taken that typing course because the school she went to had offered some places, and she was the first to sign up. Her mother was a housewife her whole life, and instructed Holanda to do the same, simply find a husband and settle down. But Holanda didn't want to live off others. That was the definition of hell.

She then started working as soon as she could, initially as a maid. And she was the best in the neighborhood. Everyone wanted to hire Holanda. When she had enough money, she left the city and went to Nursing School at a public college. She finished that, returned to Verbena and started working in the area. At thirty-five, she decided to study medicine. At forty-five, she was already working as a gynecologist, her true passion, and has been doing so to this day, at 53. This is in addition to having two daughters and a stable marriage. She got the best of both worlds. Without any support.

That was enough to drain anyone, but not my mom. She almost never took time off, she worked practically all day, not missing even when she was feeling ill. One day she woke up, she decided that she would conquer her life and followed it to the letter. And when I asked her what her biggest dream was, it was always the same answer. "To retire". It was sad, even. I didn't see myself living like that. And maybe that was why she thought I was lazy.