I’ve never been a good skier. I’ve never been able to go down moguls or jumps, for fear of wiping out or gaining too much momentum I can’t take back, leaving me with no option but to let it throw me into the snow. I’d do anything to find a different path. Any path that wouldn't allow my feet to linger too long upon the snow that I’d have to give in to its cold calling and break. Any path that allowed me to seek comfort in the cold lie that I was a good skier. Any path that inspired me to gain enough momentum to destroy the wall of ice lying between my mouth and my head and Just talk. Why can’t you just be vulnerable? I went along anyways, because risking my perfection shell for 6 rounds down the mountain is easier than admitting to my lack thereof. Guys I promise I’m actually not that bad. I fell down, denting the newly fallen snow with the imprint of my dignity.

I got back up, lifted back on top of the pillowy layer of powder floating beneath my skis. Down. Like a pin dropped down on the icy wall, as to poke a tiny silent hole. Up. Patched up by my cold laughter so loud as to ignore the inevitable cracking of the ‘unbreakable’ icy wall. Down. Up. 57 times until the 58th. Just before the 59th. Just before I could irreversibly break the wall of ice in my mind and be free from the prison of my thoughts. 57 times until the 58th. After 57 times of telling myself: as long as I could patch up what I dropped down with a smile, I could drop down as many times as I wanted. 57 times until the 58th. Until I decided, maybe this time I could gain more momentum and I’d be fine, because I was invincible. Because my wall never permanently cracked. Until I got scared - like I always do - of the barricade standing in my way, and decided to stop. Until I stopped too late.

Until I felt a gut-wrenching crack shooting through my knee; and the irreversible crack of the icy wall I was always so afraid of. A sudden curdle in my stomach, extending down to my messed up knee. A mental picture of 9 year old me, frantically running around looking at the mess I had made, the staggering crack I had made in the only thing protecting me from myself: my wall. A laugh - an accumulation of all the 57 smiles I had broken in an attempt to fix what was slowly breaking beneath my control. Because I knew that to let myself cry was like setting fire to the igloo I had spent 17 years building around my mind. The tears were swallowed, the funny pictures were taken and the laughs were dealt. Like cards in the wind, praying that this magic trick will impress enough people to conceal my pain and rebuild the unnerving hole in my mental wall. Marisol why are you so happy? It’s the adrenaline, trust me. The adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream like a code red, beeping and beeping, alerting me that this barrier had finally been broken, and if I didn’t down the tears there would be no way to patch it up.

Do I let my guard down for just a second, for just 4 people, or do I continue to live with the mangled, melting, pathetic block of ice standing in the path from my mind to my mouth? Maybe if it had been the 59th time, I’d have chosen the former. I chose the latter. I’m ok. And I was. And maybe soon that 59th time will come, where I will be free from the cold confinement of my mental wall. And maybe I’ll learn to be vulnerable. And for now, I’m ok, seriously.