Bitch-level today: off the charts.
And I am surprised by myself. Usually I am way kinder. But today, I can’t deal with any bullshit.
Simultaneous, I am laughing about myself because I am so aware of it.
I’ll have a drink and watch some stupid TV show now…
How’s your day so far?
Mom’s making pizza dough and rolling it out, throwing flour and all.
Girl one: what are you doing?
Mom: vegan steak
Girl one: okay
Girl one leaves the kitchen in search for girl two and boy.
Girl one, girl two, and boy are called for dinner 15 minutes later.
Girl two: what’s for dinner?
Girl one: vegan steak
Girl two: but that’s without meat and it smells like pizza
Girl one: mom said vegan steak
Girl two rolls her eyes and looks through the window of the oven
Girl two (happy voice): mom made pizza
Boy: our family is crazy. Mom I like it when you are crazy
Mom laughing, slicing pizza, and singing along to a song on the radio.
*Just the daily random madness at my house
Life’s a bitch, but it’s going to be okay.
My daughter had a nightmare about me dying. I tried to comfort her as best as I could, but there was a thought I couldn’t shake. I will die. Some day I will. And I cannot change it. And when she was finally asleep again, i felt guilty. So many times i thought about dying. I thought about ending my life. No – I will not kill myself, no need to worry. But I have these thoughts and I am aware that those are thoughts normal people don’t have. I cannot save my children from all the hurt that the world will inflict on them. It’s impossible. But I can try and not add to it. It pains me when my seven year old is bullied. It hurts that she didn’t want to tell me because she didn’t want to make me sad. It pains me when she tells me that she will come to me with everything that bothers her but that I can also come to her with the things that bother me.
Parenting is the best thing I do. It’s one of the few things I am sure of. But there is so much wrong with me that I worry that I will never be the parent they need or deserve. The world is crazy. And I am too.
And I am scared to share. I used to share a lot. But back then, people from my day to day life didn’t read anything I shared. And now I allowed some people in. And I feel ashamed and frightened to share who I really am. I hate this. And I want to scream “help”, but I can’t, and to be fair, I wouldn’t listen to anyone anyway. I need a hug from someone who isn’t a child. Who knew that being married also meant being lonely and longing for human connection.
There is a melody in Connor’s thoughts. There is poetry in his mind. Sitting on a bench in a park, he looks like a painting from a different era. Yes, Connor is art. His legs are stretched far from his body, his ankles crossed. A smile is tugging at his lips. From time to time, it is replaced with a frown. Deeply lost in the book, he doesn’t see the ball that is heading right his way. Lost in a world of giants that need to be defeated, and princes who, after slaying dragons, are allowed to marry the king’s daughter… BAM. The round leather collides with Connor’s head, he loses balance, and a laughable shriek escapes his mouth as the full impact of the ball pushes him off the bench. From up close, the grass that is now grazing his cheek has many different shades of green. An observation he stores away for further pondering at a later moment. Internally, Connor courses himself. People are gathering around him, some are pointing their phones in his direction. His cheeks heat with anger and embarrassment, but no tone leaves his lips. In his peripheral vision, he notices red shoes. Red is an angry color. Every color has an emotion for Connor.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” a voice laced with regret and concern whispers. It is followed by a gentle touch on his shoulder. Connor follows the outstretched arm with his eyes, touching a tender spot on his face with his hand. There will be a bruise on his face. Violet and swollen. He gasps when he sees the face of his helper. “It’s not the first time you hurt me. Please, hurt me again.” Brown eyes widen as they connect with Connor’s blue ones and register the words that were said. “It is you.” People are whispering to each other. They are aware of the connection between the two humans in front of them, but how, or why, or when, remains a mystery. Attention spans are reaching an end. Phones are put away. Heads are shaken, and backs are turned. “Connor, I…” Connor lowers his gaze and takes a deep breath. He flinches at the realization that there is still a physical connection between him and his assailant. He tenses at the realization that there is still an emotional connection between him and Thomas. Thomas, who had left him black and bruised before. “No,” Connor whispers to no one in particular, gets his feet back under him and flees the park. He will not be able to ever come back to his favorite spot again. It is soiled with memories. It is soiled with embarrassment. His only regret is that he left his book behind.
My tiredness is amplified in the mirror. Swollen eyes… Overflowing emotions…
I am a firm believer of “everything happens for a reason” and ” people walk parts of your journey with you for a reason”. Until now, I only applied it to me. This person entered my life for a reason, and this person left for a reason. The reasons (phew… Lots of reason here), the reasons aren’t always understandable at first. Most often, we only understand the lesson we learned in hindsight. We are learning from the memories and experiences we made.
I recently understood that this works both ways.
I struggled with the fact that a person is not an active part of my life anymore. It was (and partly it still is) hurting my most sensitive feelings. And I miss him. But the truth is, I don’t miss him. I miss the idea of him. I miss the knowledge that he was just a swipe on the screen away. And while I tried to come to terms with it, using my mantra (everything happens for a reason), I failed to understand that I am not a part of his life anymore either. And as much as I have learned and gained (and lost) from this experience, he learned and gained (and lost) an equal amount of things. Sure, his lessons are certainly different, but they are there.
That thought, honestly, it blew my mind. Of course, I began pulling myself down and insulting myself as egoistic and self-obsessed when I had some time to mull it over.
The fact remains that every coin has two sides. Everything we do has consequences. And sometimes, when we interact with someone, things happen for a reason. For us and them too.
The lesson I am taking from this is being even more considerate and kind. We all have our internal struggles. Most are hidden to the public eye.
xx
Cathy (2018)
Some days existing is hard. Breathing can become a struggle. Being is exhausting. Getting out of bed feels like an unachievable task.
Yesterday a good friend shared a thought with me, and it made total sense. It is about making ones bed in the morning. Here goes…
As I stated above, some days it is hard to find the strength to get out of bed. Making ones bed becomes an insurmountable task. I never bothered to make the beds. I never even considered it. Until we moved, 3 weeks ago. From the first day we lived in our new home, I made the beds. It felt like the right thing to do. Weird and out of character, and yet… The right thing to do. Now, the thought of my friend: if you make the beds, you have a first achievement of the day. Because it is a mundane task, but you did it. And if you had a bad day, you crawl into a made bed at night and you can fall asleep with the fact in mind that you got up that morning and did something. Making the bed was an achievement.
Now, for most people it doesn’t sound like a lot. If you are in a depression, the smallest things become your biggest achievements. A small task can be an insurmountable mountain. (I used the same words twice in two paragraphs, am I losing my mojo or am I just tired?)
It took me a while to admit to my situation. To address it. To ask for help. To speak about it. But it slowly dawns on me that there is no reason to hide the truth.
I am suffering from depression. And it is okay. I am going to be okay. (She said and hadn’t taken her medication in two weeks.)
I am going to undo my made bed, sleeping. Now… Remember, small things can have a huge meaning.
xx
Cathy
ButMusic… where to begin? It used to be my happy and safe place. That’s what favourite musicians and bands do. They make you feel safe. You see them live – 1-2-3 times, maybe even more. Safe. Always safe. Until you don’t feel comfortable anymore. Until you listen to that voice, you heard so many times whisper in your ears, becoming a distorted and uncomfortable torture. I never thought the day would come when music equals torture. When the soundtrack of your life, of your formative years, becomes the sound of your deepest sorrow.
Now, where did that come from? It comes from a dark place. A place I have been before and where I am headed to again. I was advised to not write and think for a while. I was advised to write it all out and not think for a while. Of course, I am headstrong, and I am doing what I want. What I need. I write and think. That’s what I do.
I thought it was a good idea to take this week off. I thought there would be wounds to nurse. I didn’t know they would feel like this. I don’t like to be ignored, rejected, invisible. But it seems that I am. I know that you see me right now. But that’s not what I mean. When we say that we aren’t seen, we have someone in mind who is supposed to see us. To hear our silent screams. When we reach out, it doesn’t matter who tries to catch us, if it is not the person we want us to catch, we are still falling. And falling. And falling.
The other day Nate Maingard (look him up if you don’t know him, great guy) wrote a blog post titled “The only thing missing in my life is me” and I thought, bloody hell, I know these feelings so much, I am kind of feeling them right now. If everything is perfect, why don’t I feel perfect? Why do I feel like a fraud? Why do I feel as if I am failing at life? Why do I feel as if I don’t belong? Why am I ruining this? Why am I ruining me? And then, I read this tweet:
You’ve made it through every bad day you’ve ever had :]
Please remember that ❤
— Aiden Hatfield (@AidenHatfield) November 22, 2017
And, Aiden is right, you know? He does great work with a clothing brand. He gives half of the proceeds he gets from In Music We Trust to a charity. Mind Charity. They care about mental illness in the UK. An important cause. So yes, he is right. No matter how dark it is and how blind I am… I made it through it all. And even if it looks as if I am not doing anything, I am not giving up.
And as I took a drag of my Luckies, I had to laugh. Out loud. Here I am. In my guest room. On the couch. Music in my ears. A book next to me. My phone close by in case someone wanted to reach me (and what do you know – of course, work calls while I am off…). There is an incense stick burning down… And I am doing what I am doing. I am being hard on myself. On top of that, I only smoke when I am not well, and it is self-sabotage, isn’t it? It’s like I know that it is destroying me and not good for me – and yet, I am doing it. But it is better than cutting my skin. Isn’t it? It’s been two weeks since I last felt the need to carve a memory into my skin. A memory that didn’t happen and that sits at my wrist now as a pink reminder that it didn’t happen. I have regrets, and I don’t have any regrets. There are reasons life happens the way it does. Maybe it wasn’t the right time for that memory to be made just yet.
A memory that was made last week was when I went to a concert of Anathema in Luxembourg. I went on my own. For the first time ever I went to a thing with a big crowd all by myself. It was scary as fuck to be there. At the same time, I was proud of myself for going. I mean, I am 34 and confident enough to take the space I need. I saw a good gig. I enjoyed myself, as much as I could. I stood in the back, between the mixing desk and a pillar. All without a drink. It was a clean experience. For a moment, I felt a complete lack of emotions. Scary for someone as emotional as me, right? I felt disconnected in a way. None of my favourite songs was played, maybe that was a reason too, but who am I to complain? These guys have played 50 shows, 11 in a row. And still, they are performing and doing what they do. And then they played The Beginning and the End – still not my most favourite song (again, who am I to complain about their setlist when a band plays for two hours straight?!), but it was the most amazing that night (for me). And as I left the venue with the crowd, I heard people talk. Some were disappointed and ripped everything apart – from the sound to the energy on stage, to the guitarist smoking without a care (and honestly, who fucking cares about that?! Let him smoke all he wants). Some were on that high you only get when you see the most amazing and brilliant music being played on stage. Me, I felt emotionless. I walked through the cold November rain and sat in my car for a while. I just sat there. And I waited. I can’t say what I was waiting for. But I watched the rain on my front window. I watched cars leaving the parking lot. And I was paralysed. My mind was totally blank. And I began to cry. Another good ten minutes passed before I finally was on my drive back home. I didn’t listen to Anathema then. I listened to Tim Buckley. Couldn’t have chosen anything more different… Goodbye and Hello.
Yes, memories were made that night. None of them was immortalised in a picture. It’s all in my head.
Being is hard. Existing is hard. Breathing feels like suffocating sometimes. It really does. But through it all – I am still there. I trust. I feel. I am. I will never be who I am not. I can only be me.
The cigarettes are smoked, the incense stick burned down. The phone rang twice. And music is still playing. The same music. No torture. No soundtrack of my deepest sorrow now. Just there. Pulling at all the right strings.
Thank you to everyone mentioned above. You matter to me. That’s all for now.
Cathy
… want a fantasy to come true?
… want a dream to come true?
What will you dream/fantasize about when all is said and done?
What happens if everything goes wrong?
What happened if everything turns out better than anticipated?
What if. . . ?
And what if we forget about those questions and just enjoy the moment? Will that be possible at all?
No doubts, no regrets, no grudges.
And that has to be enough.
Because, there is a difference between loving the idea (fantasy) of someone, and loving who they actually are – flaws and oddities included.
But at the same time, these flaws and oddities make someone who they are. No one is perfect.
Perfection doesn’t exist.
Here I stand frozen in motion. A stranger in my own light. In my own right. Unable to say what I shouldn’t think. For once, claiming my rights to really fall apart. I am coming undone at my seams. Crying, mourning my own self. And I am afraid to leave it all behind. But there aren’t many moons (and even less moans) left for me. We all will die, that is for sure. But I need more time. Just a little more. And as I slowly disintegrate from within, I wonder if I let the darkest of my soul take over and allowed it to win. I am too tired to fight. Too exhausted to stay. I just want to live a little while. Oh my heart… Just keep on beating for me.
Inhale through the nose
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Exhale through the mouth.
Repeat.
Before:
After:
Getting rid of the long hair was a big deal for me. 40cm (16inch) were cut. I always looked young. I look even younger now. Quite weird actually. This change of hairstyle happened spontaneously (on a whim) and after many years of being proud of my long hair.
While my kids aren’t fans of the short do (my daughter cried!!), I honestly love it and most people seem to like it too. (Or they are just being polite.)
I can’t really put into words how this feels. But I am happy 🙂
xoxo
Cathy
I forget how to make my legs work. I stumble, I fall. My knees are bruised from polite submission. I can’t get up. Lying in the dirt. Digging my own hole with broken fingernails. Filthy and discarded. Damaged goods. That’s me. A failure. Someone who gave up.
But that’s just a tiny part of me.
I am a fighter. Stronger than I admit or let on. Calculated. Cold. Empathetic. Affectionate. One doesn’t exclude this other. I pulled myself up without any help. All by myself. Damaged goods. That’s me. A success. Someone who never gave up.
But that too is just a tiny part of me.
I know so much about music and movies and actors… And if I don’t know, I do my research. All this useless information that is stuck inside my head.
Voices… I have voices in my head. No, I am not insane. But I talk to myself and create storylines in my head. I think about what to say and work the words over in my head until they make sense. And my stutter got worse again.
Quite emotional… I am rarely emotional. I cried when my grandma passed away last November. I cried when my son told me that I am a bad mother (and when he told me a week later that he didn’t mean the words he said). I cried when I felt abandoned. But I also cry when I hear music. Lyrics get to me all the time. And all of a sudden I am a crying mess. I cry when I see movies or TV shows. Last time I cried was during an episode of How to Get Away With Murder. I’ve been binge watching that show since last Sunday.
Too open-minded.
I don’t like women. The drama and narcissism is just too much for me. I don’t have many friends.
I love my son. We have a deep bond and I hope that it will stay that way. I think, I know a thing or two about him he doesn’t know himself. And when he comes to term with it, I will be there.
I am picky. With everything. Most of all with food and books.
I was so proud that I lost lots of weight some time ago. I guess it is all back and a little extra too. I’ve been neglecting myself. Drank too much, ate too much crap. It will stop and change. I am a stress eater and I eat when I am bored…
I had three weeks off work and my work colleagues sent me messages that they miss me and that they’re looking forward to me coming back. Me too.
I suffer from depression. And the older I get, the more anxiety is added to the mix. I feel useless and obsolete when I am not taking my medication. It has worsened a lot.
Two years ago, right around this time I was the happiest I have ever been in my life. I am not anymore. Yet, I still feel hopeful right now. As if it is okay.
Everything happens for a reason is such a cliché and yet such a huge part of my life’s philosophy.
Chewing gum. Phone/internet. These are my addictions.
I love vegetables, but I don’t like fruits.
I will never stop to need affection and acknowledgement. Of course I known that I need to earn it. And even when I receive love and admiration even, it is never enough to fill the hollow that has been there since I was a kid.
I didn’t have a nice childhood, but I didn’t have the worst either. And yet, all the events I experienced shaped me into the girl I am now. With a healthy mom and a present dad, I would be a different woman. A man once said I have daddy issues. I don’t know. Maybe he was right.
The most romantic thing I was ever told (spoken directly to me on the phone): “As long as I have cum in my balls and a mind in my brain, I will not forget you” It’s vulgar but beautiful too.
My favourite part of me is my eyes and my lips. I also like my voice.
Sometimes, things start out one way and end another and that’s okay.
People are onions. Layers and layers need to be peeled away to get to the core. And tears are plenty.
All of this is still just a tiny part of me. I am. But you just see the fragments I chose to show.
We have dreams. We have ideas about how things should turn out. And then they turn to waste and leave us with a bitter taste in our mouths. Until we realise that some things just aren’t as important as we thought they were. And maybe “who cares” is not meant to be hurtful but it puts life and the grand scheme of things in perspective. Yes… Maybe there are more important things than those that we make the centre of our world. Just maybe. And maybe that is the exact thought that reconciles us with what has been nagging us for days now.
There are people I would shoot to the moon if they treated me badly. And there are those who are too important to let go.
And there are those who are toxic and yet life without them is grey and empty.
There are people who infuriate me almost everytime we talk, and I let them push my buttons, because I like to have them in my life.
There are moments when I take life and its circumstances too seriously. I should let go. Not all the way… Never all the way… But far enough to allow some distance.
And in the end, we chose love. And in the end everything is okay. Everything is energy. Everything is love. Well… That’s bullshit, but everything is easier with a serene and positive attitude and with love in our hearts.
Cathy
She runs through the night, heavy footsteps are following her. Eating up the space between her and her predator. Her lungs are burning and her legs are slowing down; her muscles are tired and shaking from the unusual exertion. Her breath puffs out between her lips in visible clouds. Panic is all she can feel. And cold. Icy cold that spreads inside her bones and infests her entire body. The footsteps behind her come closer. She keeps running. At least she tries to keep running. Panting. She is trying to fill her lungs with oxygen, but she doesn’t succeed. Her breathing is too shallow. It’s quiet in the dark. Lonely. She can only hear his steps. Her own steps. The blood in her ears. Please, please. Please! She whispers. She prays that someone will stop the demon behind her, but the cold in her heart lets her know that she will not be saved. Her soul is lost. Rotting. Decaying. Turning to dust. She will be forgotten. Erased from this earth. And no one will remember that she ever existed. She never left a trace. She rounds a corner, losing foot on the slippery pavement. She struggles to get her feet under her body again. In her back, she tries to crawl away from the creature that has been following her. Eyes wide, she finally sees him up close. He isn’t running anymore. Like the predator he is, he comes closer. And closer. One last attempt to get up and run away, but her body doesn’t belong to her anymore. It doesn’t follow her orders, and when he kneels in front of her, with his long cold fingers touching her throat she looks in his dark eyes for the first and the last time. Like obsidian. A dark abyss. Beautiful. Beguiling. Pleading. As if they were asking for forgiveness and permission, all at the same moment. But then he blinks and the gentleness she thinks she has seen a is gone. It made room for something cruel and soulless. The hand around her throat closes and the breathing air becomes less. And less. She tries to gulp in some air, but the hand on her throat prevents it. Her body spasms. “Please, don’t let me die like this” are her final thoughts before she feels a strange and uninvited sense of lust. Her eyes keep staring at him but her soul is on its way out of her body. The horror and confusion she felt will be forever painted on her face. In rivulets, blood runs down her throat from where his sharp claws had held on to her. The demon lets go of her empty vessel and pushes angry tears off his face with the back of his blood stained hand.
I have to do it. He bares his fangs and with gusto, he buries them where his claws have left a bloody wound on her throat.
The heat leaves her body as one last breath, one last puff of air, is pushed past her lips. He stills his hunger. His thirst. And he feels the energy of the young woman setting in his veins. He sighs satisfied, but he wants more. He needs more. It is the nature of things. He lets go of the limp, pale body and gets up. He looks at her. Desperate. He is desperate for a companion, a mate. But who could ever love what he is? Who he is? She was his first for this night. A good start. Growling, he pulls his fangs in again. A tortured sigh escapes his lips again as he turns to leave. One last look at his prey and the peaceful way she looks. All dead people have this look. If he could only feel some serenity. If his tormented soul could only find peace. His hands turn to fists in his pockets as he pushes weak and romantic thoughts aside. This is his life. His hunt continues. It has to. It will never stop. Because if it does, he will cease to exist. And the tiny fragments of the souls of the people he has had the privilege to empty would be gone too. He can’t let that happen. They all are part of him now. Some of them is in his bloodstream and nurturing his body. Squaring his shoulders, he walks into the dark moonless night. He was a man of honour and principles. At least he has been before he turned into this… The taker of the last breath.
My grandfather was Italian. He lived during WWII. He was sent to a concentration camp because he was missing a finger and was no use to the Italian military. In said camp, he learned to speak and understand German. I never learned to speak Italian but grew up with German. My Nono (Italian word for grandpa) spoke to me in German. He once told me that he hated the reason why he knew the language but loved that he knew it to be able to talk to me and my sister.
In my book, that’s positivity. The old man could have refused to speak the language he associated with so much misery, but he chose to speak it. And I am forever grateful for that.
Another memory I have about him is that he couldn’t pronounce my name. My Italian family calls me Katie. My Luxembourgish family calls me Cathy (which sounds like Cutty). He said Kettey 🙂 Also makes me smile.
Not sure where this thought came from but, there it is. x
PS: if I had been born as a boy, I would have been named after him: Giuseppe.
reflections of an unquiet mind 