02/08/22:

Grandma Ysabel's, 2:18am EST/11:18pm PST

Well. I think Stephanie might've had a point. Right off the bat, it was a conversation about Dad, and how she wanted to call to let him know I was safe, despite me saying multiple times: WE. DON'T. TALK. She was saying over and over that she felt obligated, and she tried to make Uncle Dirk call, but not even he wanted to, and that's his brother.

Also, the water shuts off at a certain time sometimes-- ah, country living! How I don't miss you!-- and I can't shower. 24 hours, three states, and two countries, in these sweats, and I can't shower. Oh my god. And there's no AC. I'm sweaty, despite an opened window, and stinky.

It's 2am here, but only 11pm Vegas. I miss my room and Tomato. I miss having to turn a space heater on because it's so cold.

Good night (I hope)!

Don Carhuas, a random restaurant in Huachipa, 4:53pm EST/1:53pm PST

I confess, my toxic trait of finding alcohol does me no credit in a foreign country. And I'm fairly sure this "tourist" restaurant milks the prices hardcore, but the American dollar goes so far that who is even counting? And they're nice enough, helping me with the Wi-Fi, which might mitigate any wrath I potentially experience, upon my return, if it's not soon enough. Undoubtedly, I will. If the housekeeper and gardener were worried, I shudder to think about what my actual family will do.

It's so stupid. I wanted to tell Uncle Dirk about my work on our walk, but the housekeeper's daughter wanted to come-- fine-- but she talked the whole time-- um, okay-- and honestly, there was no room for me to ask his advice, which really rankled me. So afterwards, I hid in my room, and then outside.

A while later, I hear the car, but assume it's the housekeeper or her husband, running an errand. Surely someone would ask me if I wanted to go somewhere, right?

Everyone-- except the aforementioned housekeeper & gardener-- was gone.

So, okay. I'll take my own walk. Nothing has killed me yet, and I'm savvy enough that nothing will.

I walked, and I walked, and I stumbled upon this place, advertising super cheap drinks. And I wanted one. I wanted a drink so badly. I wanted a White Claw, if I'm honest, because they don't fuck me up that badly unless I drink them fast and a lot. No, that's kind of a lie. I knew I should want a White Claw, but what I really wanted was shots. I wanted a shot so bad, the warmth trailing down my throat to settle in my belly, fingers fuzzy, feeling no pain. Didn't think it'd look good to get drunk in the house, via stealing my grandma's liquor. No, such a better look to vaguely disappear and get trashed instead. I think.

I am currently on my first Pisco Sour, the national drink of Peru. I'm not sure what it's most similar to: vodka or tequila, but damn are they strong and delicious. This drink is so delicious that I took a chance on another: Maracuya Sour. I like the alcohol and I like Maracuya. What could go wrong? Other than the weird guy staring at me from the corner, watching me drink. That could go wrong.

But I have to drink these fairly quickly; I don't have a choice. The sun is setting, and I don't think I'm that stupid. Yet.

Give me a few more days of my BPD mood swings chasing me down, and I will be. For God's sake. Novelty didn't wear off this fast before. I must be even more fucked up than I thought. No wonder.

Earlier today, Uncle Dirk asked what happened to my wrist in the middle of a conversation, and it was like a record scratch. It was so jarring that I forgot my sentence, made a new one on the spot, and pretended he hadn't spoken.

What he doesn't know is that I wish my wrist looked worse. Drunk or self-harming or both, because doesn't drinking to cope kinda qualify as a self harm thing? That's me, born classy. Fuck, dude.

I'd like to erase my existence, but. Somehow everyone gets upset at that, and nothing else. The human lives but does the human live well? Get fucked.

I guess I don't know everything, and neither does anyone else. How could they? I wake up in cold sweats with some noises; how can people know that? I viciously want my pain to be their fault, so I don't have to feel it.

It turns out people are right when they say that you can run from your problems, but you bring yourself with you. I ran and I thought it would be far enough, but it never will be.

Time to chug & head back. :)

Grandma's House, 8:33pm EST/5:33pm PST

Turns out I'm just kind of dramatic. Who knew, right? Good thing I got back before everyone else, so no one would know and judge me. I play a sober person pretty well.

Grandma asked how my nap was, and I felt a pang of guilt, but she's old and I don't know her, so really, who counts those lies? I lie to everyone around me, without guilt, but I'll feel guilty about this. Suuuuure.

The lack of novelty is fine now. That's the only perk of BPD. Anything that bothers me will stop bothering me relatively quickly. Anyway, tomorrow, Uncle Dirk, Jenny and I are going to explore the catacombs, and eat ceviche. You know, your basic tourist activities.

The day after that, I'm going to Chicama Beach, but I'll be back that 14th, and want more things to do. So I have good stories and don't feel lonely as much.

Once I get back, I'll have 8 days to have fun. So here's a list of my plans thus far:

Markets and paragliding.

I didn't say it was a long list.

I made that list for two reasons:

1) I perceived and felt dissatisfaction

2) It would be remiss of me not to explore while I'm here, right?

And I feel positive again. BPD is such a trip, let me tell you. At least no one's going to read this-- here; I'll post it on my blog-- but me. My episode can be between me and my therapist. And my entire private Snapchat story, of course. They know everything.

Anyway, I'm reenthused-- is that a word?-- and can only really worry about money. Good news is I get paid while I'm here-- it won't be much, but it's something; I had already taken the money out for my hotel a while ago, and the dollar goes far. I'll take my hot girl pills and eat the free breakfast, and that's it. I won't be as spendy there, as I am here.

My tax refund will go to my credit cards, I think. Maybe my cavity. I hope it's a good size. I don't want to delay getting my finances together.

Actually, I might change the order of that. I love my teeth more.

When did I turn into my dad??

At least I don't ask anyone for money. I like that about myself. Grandma is constantly suggesting that I just use Uncle Dirk as my ATM, and it's so motherfucking icky. "What's an uncle for?" Sure, but like. No. That's you, not me. That's super fucked up to say, too, especially in front of the person. I want to earn my souvenirs, my trips. Otherwise, I'm just stealing.

Let's see what this year looks like first. That's a worry for another Jackie. Don't be spendy in Chicama, and everything will be okay.

Maybe one more trip to the ATM, max, but that's only $119 dollars, which isn't bad, and it turns into 450 soles, which is good. Let's see how the week plays out too.

Good night 💓

I took a lot of pictures on this day: me, Uncle Dirk, Jenny, my drinks, pictures of me as a kid from when we looked at old pictures. Have a photo dump!