Overwhelm (Traces - 05/2024)

How am I? Overwhelmed, wanting to escape…

Where? When? How?

Then I started to play, writing the word overwhelm;

 O ver whelm overwhelm, the whole word encased within its initial letter, the “o.” I realized that the “lowercase cursive o” is closed; it encloses, squeezes, overwhelms, phagocytizes, corners, oppresses everything inside it, not letting it out, not permitting it; whatever remains inside the “o” remains imprisoned, like in a jail, at its mercy and in total captivity.

That's exactly how I feel. 

The oppression of overwhelm.

The jumbled words. Those that can't be let out, expelled, released, vomited?

Words that don't come out can't see the light; they stay inside, stuck, jammed, tangled, knotted, coiled, piled up, twisted, drowned, oppressed, squeezed, tangled, suffocated, squeezing, and choking.

The heart hurts.

The burden suffocates, oppresses, exhausts, clouds, and distorts reality.

The inside versus the outside. 

Words that aren't expelled, that aren't said, that aren't spoken, that aren't pronounced, that aren't verbalized, that aren't heard: they harm, suffocate, cloud, oppress, suffocate, depress, harass, overwhelm, punish, distress, and sicken.

They condemn and enslave.

And they also kill.

Overwhelm

Part II

My work "Overwhelm" (June 2024) stalled. I couldn't finish it or bring it to completion. I had almost everything, but almost everything was nothing. I was very aware of this and worried.

While I was going through this "stagnation process," I had a heart attack. I was rushed by ambulance to a specialized center in Buenos Aires. I traveled on the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, alone, isolated, and crying almost the entire trip. No one was listening to me. My only certainty was that I didn't want to die, that before I did, I had to talk, to let go of everything that had been hurting me so much and that had been accumulating inside me. The overwhelm I felt for so many months was no joke. It seems it made the decision for me and forced me to slow down and release what was stuck inside, what I couldn't let go of. I have to be honest and say that I hate being the way I am, but that's who I am. I keep it, keep it, and keep it, until one day I exploded (that good day was Friday, March 7, 2025). It had to come out somewhere. And it came out through my heart.

The body knows. The body speaks. The body heals.

After several unsuccessful attempts by the doctors to lower my tachycardia (first manual maneuvers, then a dose of some kind of ampoule, and then a stronger dose of another ampoule), they performed a procedure that required anesthesia. When I woke up, I started crying like crazy; the anguish eased with the crying. I asked the nurse if it was normal to cry after the anesthesia, and she said, "Cry, my daughter, cry." And I cried. And it eased. That strong pressure I felt in my chest gradually disappeared, and relief set in.

Once again, art blends with the body, entering within, merging with it, and together they embark on a mysterious, invisible, intrepid path.

The body knows. The body speaks. The body heals.

Liliana Sánchez

Pilar, Sunday, March 9, 2025