It was tomorrow, and a new day should always bring new hope, especially in an exciting tumultuous foreign land. My little family had been reunited, but why was I the one still waking up all hours of the night to breast-feed? Why was I the one who was burdened by responsibility, while everyone surrounding me was engulfed by my baby's novelty like a new toy?
Nothing was working out as I had imagined. My dreams of being a happy family, living on a farm on the top of a mountain were disappearing with every shriek of my child, and every exclamation that she wanted to suck my tits. I became more desolate and isolated than I had been while living in the US.
I could not believe that my dreams were not coming true! I had arrived. I was with the father of my child and an adoring family. Why was I being so ungrateful? Finally, I figured out that it must have been something in my control that was not functioning properly. Maybe I just needed to let go and give my baby to the adoring family. Maybe I should go and live like I used to, without responsibilities and burdens. Deciding to go out to the clubs and party it up with the Venezuelans was my only reprieve.
All or nothing. Since I felt like this baby was draining me of my life, I quickly rationalized that living without responsibilities for brief periods of time would provide me a glimpse of what my life was like before the pregnancy.
I could party and keep going until the next day. In fact, I did; on numerous occasions. The hangovers were never pretty and every morning, I swore off drinking. My apologies were sincere, every morning after. It worked for a while. Drunkness for me means that I have no responsibility to others, even if they are my newborn daughter. I become selfish, self-centered, and a complete ass-hole. The "new friends" I met never called me nor cared about my emotional struggles. So, in order to gain attention, I broke bottles, started fights, threw around the prized possessions of others, and walked the streets of violent areas in a drunken stupor.
That'll show them how much my life sucks. Pity me.
Nobody cared.
When the baby's father and his family spoke, I chose not to listen nor participate in conversation. Spanish is hard with a hangover. They could have been saying really nice things which would have switched my mood-meter from irritable discontent to happy, joyous and free; as I imagined in my mountain-top-farm-living-fantasy.
I had to quit partying like an 18 year old (18 is the legal age to drink down there). So I had to do a 180 degree turn. My drinking and partying had replaced my maternal responsibilities as the reason I was unhappy in Venezuela. So I searched for people who didn't drink, and I found them. They were familiar with places in the US (like Akron) and they grew to love me and tolerate my poor Spanish.
We went out for coffee and to the theater once or twice. It was a decent distraction.
One night we went to watch some professional dancers from across South America perform Argentine Tango. It was an amazing evening and I fell in love with professional dancing then and there. Tango has three different types, characterized by the posture of the dancers and the beautiful yet ungodly angles to which they contort their joints across their bodies. The end of the performance was beautiful, as an older, distinguished addressed the audience:
"Tango is a secret art of Latin America. Now you have seen and can appreciate it's beauty. The rest of the world may understand, but will never touch the soul of Latin American Tango as you have tonight."
Well spoken, kind sir...but your secret is out. What an amazing evening!
These people kept me sober for long enough to realize that I couldn't stay sober with the father of my child while living in Venezuela. He saw me as the same person he knew when he met me: a carefree, fearless risk-taker. He insisted that my stubbornness and self will could change my habits and poor behavior.
But things had changed. No longer a reckless pre-felon, I was a mother and struggling to find some sort of tranquility between the Andes Mountains. Partying did not give me sanity, yet neither did staying sober.
I was looking for tranquility as if it was a material thing that somebody should have delivered to me in a nicely wrapped gift box, because after all, I deserved it.
I was entitled to happiness. So, I changed the date of my return flight to wait for my package of tranquility to arrive in the mail. Tomorrow would be a better day. It had to be.
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