Testimonios de una Queerceañera

Poetry, memory, and Spanglish resistance.
Memory is our enemy sometimes.
Because it’s so fractured, no le podemos confiar and yet it burns.

Anyone healing from childhood abuse and trauma will tell you that they often question if what they remember really happened. Trauma doesn’t store memories like a timeline. It stores them like fire. Instead of neat stories, we get fragmentos: ardor, ruido, olores, flashes. The brain tries to protect us by breaking the memory apart, pero la piel se lo queda para que no se olvide la llaga.

There’s a physiological reason for all this. Different parts of the brain develop at different times, and trauma interrupts that process. The frontal lobe takes a major hit. The prefrontal cortex — the part that helps us think clearly, make decisions, and not do stupid shit — loses connection and efficiency. The frontal cortex, in charge of regulating memory, emotions, and behavior, struggles to grow and stay online during overwhelming stress.

What we remember isn’t always clear pero se siente real.

Healing asks us to work with memory that’s borrosa, scattered, o escondida.
That’s why I write. No siempre escribo tan solo para recordar, but to listen for the shape de la verdad en lo que aún arde. I write stories, testimonios, poetry, and random shit that pops into mi mente porque tengo que hacerlo. Sometimes the words make sense. Muy a menudo, they’re empapadas de dolor, miedo, and joy. And with the joy comes frustration — hasta la agonía — trying to weave the words into sentences que se aferran entre sí.

Mis recuerdos son como wisps of smoke… nublados para mi cerebro lógico. Acepto que cuando los comparto, no son un archivo histórico. Son testimonios borrosos, ardientes, y míos.

Este es mi camino, even when it doesn’t make sense.