Quibdó, 12 January 2017

My dear friend: like everyone else, I have a father. He’s young – fifty-four years old – to have such a grown-up daughter. He’s studied and worked hard. A self-made man, he did all he could to get an education and develop an impeccable CV: he’s been the mayor of Bahía Solano and the government secretary and treasury secretary in the Department of Chocó, as well as managing the Chocó Liquor Company and heading up major production initiatives in the region. I’ve always admired him a lot for his career.

When I was born, my dad was twenty and studying for a degree in public administration in Bogotá. I stayed with his parents, my grandma Belisa (the person I love most in the world, from whom I inherited my character and a lot of my physical appearance) and my granddad Toñera (Manuel Antonio Vidal). My grandma was a baker and my granddad was a driver for the Technological University of Chocó.

Because of the situation, I don’t think there was time for my dad to get used to the idea of having a daughter. My mum was even younger and still at school, so she came to Quibdó to study while I was with my grandparents.

My grandparents became my mum and dad, and their other nine children were my brothers and sisters. My grandparents’ house in Bahía Solano was paradise. The smell of bread, the custom of collecting eggs from the henhouse each morning, the afternoons on the beach playing with my uncles and aunts. What I didn’t know was that all the while, I was growing apart from my biological parents.

Later on, once I was at university in Medellín, having spent several years in Quibdó and in Cali with my biological mother, and several more with my aunt Ludys (my mum’s older sister, who became my second mother after my grandma, or perhaps my third, if I count the one who gave birth to me and loves me so much, whose name is Celia), I experienced a profound sadness, anxiety and insomnia, which led to, or rather explained, a very serious depression. I was taken to see a psychoanalyst, several psychologists and, for a long time, an excellent psychiatrist.

It was a difficult time, with plenty of tears and painful conversations – because our words had touched a nerve in my soul. The process always focuses a lot on a person’s relationship with their parents, and my case was no exception.

I grew a lot. I learned. But most of all I tried to weave a new way of relating to my father that hurt as little as possible. My father has a very strong character and isn’t always easy to get on with. There had come a time when I decided not to speak to him any longer because I found our conversations so painful. At twenty-two, I resolved not to accept any more financial help from him. Although that made my life very complicated in terms of supporting myself, because my mum had no way of giving me the money that my dad always had without fail, it took an emotional weight off my shoulders. From that point on, I got used to making things happen by myself. It was a lot of effort. I was always looking for work and although that meant all-nighters, early mornings and a gruelling schedule of classes, I felt strong and able to do it, and as I made progress with the things I wanted to achieve, I felt stronger and more capable still.

With my therapists’ help I felt I was healing my wounds, and one day I decided to speak to my dad again. I approached it in a way that would allow me to have a healthy relationship with him, and that’s how things have been ever since. It’s a relationship I manage like a juggler: I know just what to say and what not to say, I never ask for anything, I never seek support. Depending on my dad’s moods we might spend a nice afternoon together, or we might go a long time with no more than a ‘Hi, how’s it going?’

With my mother, it’s different. She’s a very sweet woman, and she also became a Christian some twenty years ago. We love each other and talk regularly, but we obviously keep a bit of distance; we don’t have a big commitment to each other. Still, we’re affectionate and try to spend a few days together each year.

My strongest family ties are with my grandmother Belisa, my uncles and aunts on both sides, and my cousins Yajaira and Idier, who are like a sister and brother to me, as are Elkin, Pacho, Willinton, Belisa and Diego, my parents’ younger siblings. This has given me a broad network of affection, which also includes my thirty-eight other first cousins and my biological brother and sister, the children of my father.

One of my reasons, which weren’t always fully conscious, for coming back to Chocó, was to be close, closer, to my family. I’ve always said it was to be close to my grandma, and I’ve managed that.

This proximity to my dad has made me more adept at managing my relationship with him. That’s what I used to think, what I want to think. Only there are times, like now, when my heart gets tied up in knots.

My dad has a flat here in Quibdó, just five blocks from where I live. And he comes to the city fairly regularly. He arrives in Quibdó and doesn’t send a message to tell me he’s here. Twice now I’ve run into him in the street, and then I act surprised and happy. But both times I already knew he was here and that for some reason he’d chosen not to tell me. And then I swallow the pain and tell myself again that it doesn’t matter. Now that I’m working on this project, which is so important to my life, and find myself down certain alleyways where I need some support, some encouragement, an alternative plan, a bit of money, it breaks my heart to know that I can’t turn to my dad. Not because he isn’t there, but because he wouldn’t say yes.

Last weekend we ran into difficulties while we were out in my uncle’s car. My uncle didn’t answer when I phoned him. Then I phoned my dad, and his response was cold. It was clear he wasn’t going to help. I quickly pretended I’d just wanted to see if he was in Bahía Solano and could go and find my uncle. He said he wasn’t – he was in Quibdó. The same old story. He’d been here almost a week. It’s New Year. But only for that reason, only because he wanted to make absolutely clear that he couldn’t help, did he tell me he was in town. And I got no message afterwards checking how I was or if I’d solved the problem. Nothing.

This week my husband passed him in the street. A polite wave and that was it!

All those times, I found a solution. I usually do. I don’t get stuck. I have my husband’s unconditional support. And luckily I have plenty of friends here. Luckily I’ve learnt to always look for solutions, ever since I was very young. But there are days when my heart plays dirty tricks on me, or my head does; days when I’m more vulnerable and have to deal with the pain, and then I cry a lot, like now, while I’m writing to you.

After so many years working in politics in Chocó, fortunately without any trouble from the regulators – which is unusual here – my dad knows the city, knows the region and usually has numbers in his bank accounts that give him financial peace of mind. But most of the time I can’t even ask him to have lunch with me; he chooses to make it that way by keeping his presence in the city from me.

Again, I don’t know why I’m writing all this to you. Maybe I needed to write it. To get it off my chest. Maybe I needed to cry a little, or a lot. You don’t know what you’ve got yourself into by opening this door. I feel calmer now. In a few minutes I’ll probably have forgotten all this. Everything’s sorting itself out.

There’s been a lot of female power in my life. Sometimes I feel I’ve really missed that paternal affection, that male presence. I often remember my grandad. Everyone says he loved me more than anyone. I feel as if, in losing him, I lost my true father. That was many years ago now. But affection and pain aren’t measured in years.

Hugs, my dear friend. Lots of hugs.

So you see, there’s also a wounded Velia, full of tears. And one that gets up again quickly. Life demands it of me.

Veliamar