I’ve never been sure how to explain what happened that night in Valdivia.
It wasn’t planned, and it wasn’t a cry for help. It was something else — a point where everything I’d been holding together simply came undone.

“The pills couldn’t hide or overcome the pain of that moment when I lost the last bit of sanity — before going to Valdivia. With my arrival in Rancagua, those memories became even stronger. I want the days to go by quickly, to see if one of them helps me forget everything and start again.”

I withdrew all the money I had left and took a bus that traveled twelve hours south.
When I arrived, I bought alcohol and started walking, without direction, through a city I didn’t know. I remember the rain, the silence, and how even my reflection in the glass no longer looked like me.

“I bought alcohol and wandered around the city like a vagabond. I didn’t know what I was looking for — maybe peace, maybe the end of everything. When the police found me, they told me I’d been reported missing since the night before. I spoke to my mom the next day.”

(That part of my story was once written between the pages of Las Multi-Etapas — a book I never finished, maybe because the story hasn’t finished either.)

Valdivia was the beginning of my vanishing, not just from the world, but from myself.
It wasn’t about escaping home — it was about escaping my own mind, the noise, the contradictions, the constant desire to disappear and be reborn somewhere else.

That night marked the beginning of a long journey — one that eventually brought me here, to Canada.
Since then, I’ve never truly had stability again. But I’ve learned to live within that movement, to write from it, to share it.

This space is where I’ll tell you the rest of what happened — the aftermath, the rebirth, and the strange continuity of a life rebuilt piece by piece.