My mother and I always lived alone. Every summer and Christmas we would go to Vienna. We liked to speak Spanish there and German when we were in Mexico, it was fun feeling that no one understood us. My mother made fun of Omama and made me her accomplice. Sometimes I would go to Spain to see my father. I remember he was depressed, his apartment untidy and he yelled at me frequently.

When I was fifteen I stopped speaking German. My mother and I used it only to fight now. My mother would tell me that I yelled because I was like my father. I stopped eating at the table with her and ate alone in my room. I was always dieting.

When Sarya was born, my sister, I was eighteen years old. My Mexican daughter, she calls her with pride. Her father is a clandestine Nicaraguan revolutionary. For years I knew him as Carlos. Then my mother told me his real name is Rafael. He comes to visit sometimes.

I registered at a photography school. Taking photographs became an obsession. My grandfather invited me to spend a year in Vienna. Then I left for Madrid. A sound, a smell would stop me on the street, immersing me in memories I didn’t know I had. I thought of living there, but something made me go back to Mexico. I went back to my mother’s house and began studying History.

I would take naked pictures of myself that I would paste in diet notebooks and I would write down everything I ate.

I believe it was then when I began to think that if I constructed a body for myself I would have an identity.