I don't know exactly when I started to lose myself.Maybe one quiet night,while I was washing dishes and listening to the news in the background.Or maybe the morning I looked in the mirror and realized I was just smiling out of habit.Maybe it was earlier than that.Maybe I lost myself since childhood,when I learned that I had to be good,to keep my knees together and my eyes down.I was a wife.A decent woman.A mother.A housewife.Always careful not to be "too much".Too desirous.Too alive.Too sincere.But inside me,there has always been a hunger.Not one for food,not one for things,but a hunger for touch,for looks that burn,for moments that break time in two.A hunger to be seen,touched,desired without shame.I lived my life divided between what I should and what I feel.Between the vows spoken at the altar and the body that demanded more than what it received.Not because I was not loved.But because that love did not know how to speak the language of my skin.This is not a story with heroes or heroines.It is not a justification,nor a tearful drama.It is,simply,a confession.A woman.A double life.A thirst.A search.The truth told in a whisper,in bed,in the mirror,in letters that were never sent.Maybe you will find yourself.Maybe you will rebel.Or maybe you will close the book and you will wonder if you have the courage to tell the truth.I tell it now.Without a mask. Without pity.This is my confession.And I write it not because I have to,but because there is nothing else left to do.