Tag: memories

Posted on

What’s hiding in the silence?



Do you ever feel like you’re a walking contradiction, carrying around all these mismatched parts of yourself, just waiting to trip over them? I do. It’s practically my talent at this point—running into pieces of myself I didn’t know were still lurking around. One minute, I’m minding my business, drinking my tea, and the next, I’m face-to-face with an old version of me I forgot existed, tapping me on the shoulder like, “Oh, now you remember?”

It’s been happening more than usual lately, and I can’t say I haven’t noticed the reason why. This week marks the anniversary of my grandmother’s passing, and she’s been cropping up in my dreams—vivid ones, that pull me back to my youth and my childhood, to moments I don’t think I’ve fully unpacked. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my grandmother dearly, but she wasn’t always kind. There was emotional abuse, blackmail, words she’d say that I could never quite forget, even if I’d managed to ignore them for a while. And it’s funny (or maybe not so funny) how those old memories have a way of resurfacing, especially around anniversaries, as if they’re waiting to remind you of who you were and who you still are, despite everything.

So here I am, faced with the ghosts of myself I tried to leave behind. These aren’t grand revelations, either; more like a scavenger hunt where each clue is a slightly cringeworthy reminder of past me. Like the optimist who once believed everyone in the world could change if they’d only read the right book. Or the hopeless romantic who thought love alone would be enough to heal everything and everyone. And, of course, there’s the poet in me who would spend hours lost in the sound of waves, convinced they held some profound secret about life, because what could be more poetic?

Some of these selves feel like strangers, but others are uncomfortably familiar. And while I’d love to believe I’ve outgrown them, they clearly haven’t gone anywhere. They’re just hanging out in the quiet spaces, waiting for the right (or wrong) moment to appear again. Maybe I’ve left these breadcrumbs for myself all along, like some sort of reminder of the things I once believed and the ways I once saw the world. And in moments of silence, they come creeping back up, asking to be acknowledged, even when I’d rather just move on.

But here’s the thing: even though these run-ins are sometimes jarring, they also remind me of everything that makes me me. Because those versions I’d rather forget? They all shaped me in some way. And even if they’re outdated or idealistic, they’re still part of my story. They’re like old furniture I’ve lugged from house to house, even when I don’t have room for it, because something about it feels like home.

So here’s what I’ve come to realise: if you find yourself crossing paths with a part of you that feels long forgotten—like the dreamer, or the one who cared too much, or even the self that feels a bit too close to painful memories—maybe don’t dismiss it right away. Maybe let that part of you linger, because even if you’ve tried to shut the door on those memories, they’re still part of you, part of what’s shaped you into who you are now.

And who knows? The next time you’re sitting quietly, or standing by the sea, letting the waves carry away your thoughts, you might reconnect with a part of yourself you didn’t even realise you missed.

Posted on

It’s autobiographical… Part 1

Right about it. Write about it. Write about it. Write about it. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense to anyone but you. Just write it all out. Because you are a writer. And you know the words. You know the words. Even if you cannot say them. They are all there. They say you are deep and intelligent and mysterious. But you know you are not. You know it very well. And whenever you deny what they are saying, they reply that you are undervaluing yourself. Whatever you do, you cannot win. That’s one reason why you keep things to yourself. Not to be mysterious or enigmatic; you just cannot share certain things. The words are there, but they have no voice. There is no fight anymore, no reason to be loud and to raise what is left of your voice. There is no reason to defend yourself. Not if no one knows. Or if they only know vague fragments of a past long gone. Long gone on the calendar. But very present in your mind. Every day. Day after day after night after night. And they tell you that you don’t know pain and that you don’t know hurt. They tell you that you don’t know soul crushing sorrow. But you do. You keep living with it. Every day. Day after day after night after night. And it never leaves your side. Even when it gets quieter, it never goes away. But what exactly is it? What makes breathing and being and existing so hard sometimes? The past does. The future too. Anxiety. Expectations. Experiences. You have suffered for a short time, and yet, it fucked up everything that came after that. It gave everything an acid taste. Normalcy. That’s a foreign word for you. You know many languages, are fluent in all of them, but normalcy – no, that’s a word you don’t know. Write it. Write it. Right it. He told you to tell it all out. He demanded you dig up the memories that keep scratching at the edge of your sanity. Insanity. He asked you to open your wounds and let them bleed on a sheet, saying that it would free you from the suffering. Can you do that? Can you reach into your soul and give these grey and forgotten memories colour? All you want is peace and closure. Why is it so hard? And why does it get harder every year? You are used to the silence, and you are used to being your only supporter. Nothing can change that. Not even the cold facts of childhood trauma. It’s not right. It’s not right. It is simply not right. You were the parent, aged 4. You had to take care of a sick mom, were emotionally blackmailed into becoming a submissive kid like that. Silent. Because in a house filled with adults an unwanted child had to be silent and invisible. An unwanted child – that you were. The words keep coming back again and again. You are the reason your mother is sick and was unable to take medication. You are a waste of skin and not worth the air you breathe. You should not have been born at all. It would have been better for everyone. You are too stupid to kill yourself. Yeah, those are just some things you regularly and repeatedly heard as a child and young adult. And now that you are grown-up, a middle-aged woman, they still haunt you from time to time. Because even now, after many many years, you keep wondering if those words were right. Back then, you did not react to the insults. You couldn’t. You weren’t allowed to use your voice or your words. It turned you into an adult who let’s other people step over you, and you are unable to reply to them. All it does is bringing back memories and it makes you shut down. You build walls to protect yourself. But inside those walls is a lonely place. And there lives that voice that keeps repeating those ugly evil words. Only very few people get the chance to remove a brick or two and see the fragile you. The one that is able to trust. The inability to trust is often mistaken for being cold or unemotional ,disinterested even. You are anything but. There are explosions of emotions rattling your walls regularly. Internal screaming matches with yourself. And a pain that is almost unbearable. During those moments, old coping mechanism lure you back in. Self-harm. Cutting, hurting yourself, watching yourself bleed. Self-sabotage. Not taking your meds. Drinking and smoking too much, eating junk food that makes you sick. If you had been shown some affection as a kid, you would have learnt to love yourself. But you the adults in your life showed nothing but disdain. You were not right. Not loveable. And there was no reason to show love or pride. Instead you took care of the person you would have needed most: your mom. You were told to take care of her daily hygiene and if you dared to speak up, saying that doing this or that was too hard, you were told you didn’t love her enough or that you weren’t trying hard enough. You were a small kid. It all started when you were 4. Helping her to the toilet. Getting her undressed. Waiting until she was finished. Helping her wipe and getting dressed again. Cleaning after her. Bringing whatever was not in reach. Meds included. And you didn’t understand. You didn’t understand why she was crying so much when you were doing your best to make her life easier. A bit later, to the daily hygiene of washing her, feeding her was added. Getting her in and out of bed. Preparing her meds daily. Meeting friends was out of question. Now you know that there were a couple of reasons for that. One: if you only saw kids in school you couldn’t find out that you were being treated differently. Abused would be the right word. But even now, it is not easy to admit it. Neglected. That’s another word. Because while you were helping your mother with her hygiene, no one ever told you that you needed to take care of your own body and your own needs too. You had to learn it on your own. In a house full of adults, no one taught you how to brush your teeth. Or to swim. Or to ride a bike. And a second reason why you were not allowed to have friends was so that you were at all times available to cater to everyone’s needs. When you were 8, you received an old battered radio. It became your first escape to that music world. Books were added later on, but you had to buy them for yourself. You did have a game boy though and you spent hours playing Tetris or Super Mario. Your only games. It didn’t matter, they helped in hiding from the world. You know well that these few unemotional words don’t explain the pain that still resides in your soul. It is just so very hard to find the right words to tell your story. If it was fiction, you would embellish here or there, but this is your real life. A life where when you had pneumonia (age 7), you were told to stop coughing because it was annoying. You had to lie down for two weeks and you had a fever for a long while. You remember that the doctor told the adults that they should have brought you in earlier, but you can’t remember their reaction. Just stop coughing already. It’s one reason why you hate people touching your ears, as stupid as it sounds. You ears hurt when you were ill, you had drops put in and it was not in an affectionate manner. However, an uncle got you books as a present, it was the start of your love for words and books.

❤️💜🖤💚💙💛🩶🤍🧡🩵

And then the mood changed for the better and the writing mood was gone… 1355 words… Unrevised… I should read and edit, but I don’t want to go through the emotions I felt when I wrote this piece, which is indeed autobiographical.

Posted on

Throwback – I’ll never stop giving up

*stream of consciousness*

I sit, and I wait. Sitting and waiting. And I hope that no one will ask what I am waiting for. I would answer “Life”, and they would quote John Lennon “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans”. And they wouldn’t even know that it’s not a simple quote but that this sentence is a line of lyrics from a song he wrote for his beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy Julian. And I would bite my tongue because information like that is plenty in my brain. It’s just – no one cares about it. And that’s why I keep sitting and waiting. For life to happen. And to understand it. But that is not entirely true. Because from my place, I have a nice view. I observe and analyse, and I keep to myself. The things I know, are not the things I need to share. But on the other hand, all the half-truths and snippets of misinformation I know, are not the ones others want to hear. It’s a circle. And if I don’t find the right corner to get off, I will stumble, and my clumsy attempt to catch myself will end with me lying face down enduring the spiral, the slipstream that brought this upon me. Upwards or downwards? Which way does it go? Maybe just sideways? Either way, I will end up puking on the floor and emptying what little is inside me. All of it, until the heaving is dry and the acrid smell of bile chases everyone away. Everyone left the building. Including me. I need to pay attention to the little things. Hold on tight to the pillars of this meagre existence, to keep myself from stumbling. And while I am doing just that, all these unfiltered thoughts are rushing down onto the screen.

I put the cigarette to my lips and inhale. No filter. Rolled with my own shaky hands. Because – yes, why? Because it is edgy. Cool people roll their cigarettes themselves. It’s all pretending anyway. Oh yes, I’m a great pretender. Who gives a crap about my cigarettes and my thoughts. But I keep writing. Someday, the romantic voice inside of my head suggests, someone will read the mix of weirdness and eclecticism my brain produces. They will beg me to publish a book – a memoir – a biography of this writer and all will be good. At least, I have dreams. The other possibility, far more probable, is that the words stay unread. I will die in a stuffy room with overflowing ashtrays and too many empty bottles.
Maybe a cat or two. Sheets of papers with the start of the next big novel is strewn across the floor and the bed — music loud and on repeat. And in the centre of it all; me. Picture me like Jimi Hendrix, suffocated on my own vomit. A rock star death. Don’t be alarmed, though. I am not a rock star. I don’t play the guitar well enough and all in all, I am just a coward who never did any drugs. On second thought, aren’t most rock stars ridden with anxiety? Isn’t that why they turn to alcohol and drugs and whatnot? Always on the hunt for the next high? But one day your brain (and your soul too), are just too used to the girls screaming your name and the papers printing your photographs, your name in the headlines. And while you pretend to crave your privacy, the thought of being left alone and forgotten scares you to death. And so you power on, with some chemical help, because you couldn’t do all the shows and interviews and all that other crap that comes with being famous, without it. I don’t envy these people at all — not one bit.

And so I stare out onto the lake. The sky is grey; the water is too. And I wait for the next idea to come up. A real writer wouldn’t wait. They would write. Or am I wrong and a real writer would draw charts and write every idea down? Being organised? Where’s the fun in that? So – no labelling my ideas. Just sitting. Waiting. Staring. Smoking. And while I am doing that, the music plays softly in the background. It’s not loud enough to drown out the voices that keep telling me that I am a waste of talent. I can still hear them judging me and how I spend the days. For them, I am doing nothing. For me, I am savouring the moment. It’s as a friend told me once: We need time to understand who we are before someone else comes along and makes us into the version they want us to be. So maybe – just maybe, my answer to the question “What are you waiting for”, would not be “Life”, but maybe the truer answer would be “To understand”. I guess the reaction would be close to the same. They would urge me to get up and do something.

But, if they don’t see it, does that really mean that I am not doing anything? Because in my mind, eccentric as it may be, I am doing a whole lot. I am not giving up.

###

Author’s Note:

Written in March 2016.

I haven’t had a cigarette this year… And, I don’t know how you feel about it, but I think that the last paragraph in this piece of writing is the most important thing I have ever written. Whenever I encounter people who are struggling with their mental health, whenever I am struggling myself, I remember these words. I am not giving up, even if people are not seeing that I am fighting.

Posted on

most successful post

Once in a while, not often, I look at the stats of this blog. These last two months have seen more traffic on here than all of 2017. It’s amazing, thought I am not sure what changed.
My most successful post has been shared on March 28th, 2015. It’s actually quite surprising, because the post has not been tagged, but one person with a very wide social media reach – Nate Maingard – shared it with his followers and I guess that did the trick back then. It was a very naked and bare post and although I don’t agree with all of what I wrote at this point in time, I want to share it with you.

A very personal post

I feel the need to write this. It may be impulsive and it will be very personal.
Everything that happens inside of me, feelings, emotions, I need to deal with it on my own. More importantly, I never find the words to say what is wrong.
As a teenager, I cut myself. It was my outlet and my way to let go of the emotional hurt I felt. I grew up in a broken home, with a very ill mother. Her sickness and the way I cared for her from a very early age on, made me the person I am today. With all the implications of her illness, I was never shown love or affection. I grew up in a household full of adults. Grandparents, aunt, uncles, my mom and my sister (three years older than I am). Love and affection was nothing shown in my family. I wasn’t hit or abused. Not physically, instead, I was ignored or yelled at when I did something wrong. From an early age on, it was expected that I help my mom. My earliest memory goes back to when I was four years old and helped my mother with her daily hygiene… I won’t go into details. Suffice to say, no child that young should need to do these things for their parents. I was bribed into it and I was told if I refused or reluctantly helped, that I didn’t love her enough. And since I loved my mom, I did as I was told. And I broke inside, bit by tiny bit.
Emotions were bottled up and I found a friend in music. It was my safe haven, somewhere where I could flee from my daily life. I never had many friends, I wasn’t allowed to go out and I wasn’t allowed to bring anyone home.
I was thirteen when I first cut. I never hid my wounds. Nobody ever asked about them. Cutting was like a valve to release the pressure I felt. In a way, it felt as if my skin was too tight and when I cut, I fit in again. Little things could trigger it. I remember one particular cut that my grandma saw. I remember how she laughed and told me that if I wanted to kill myself, I should cut my wrist. No help there. It was a cruel thing to say, but I was used to it. Back then, I felt alone. Like a freak. An outsider on every front.

Despite it all, I was a rebel. I started to meet with the wrong people, fell in love with the wrong people and saw them destroying themselves with drugs. I never did anything. Was I a coward or too headstrong? I don’t know. I simply didn’t like to see them lose control and I didn’t want to see it happen to myself. Drugs were never an option for me. If it had been, I would not be here right now. I would have died with my friend. (he died of an overdose in 2012). I didn’t go home during the days anymore. I went to school and wouldn’t go back home until it was evening. I would do my chores at home and hide in my room with the music turned up. I wrote pages and pages in my diary and I also started to write poetry. It became an outled and I stopped cutting. I simply stopped. It was hard at first. To take the pen instead of the cutter. But I succeeded. I was proud of myself, but I had no one to share that feeling with. It’s the story of my life.

Looking for love and affection. It never stopped.

I met the man I married when I was sixteen (almost seventeen). He lived a life very different from the one I lived (and was six years older too). In a way, he saved me.
I went to school and started a specialization, all without the support of my family. They didn’t care as long as I was there to help with this and that. In their minds, I never missed anything. I had clothes, a roof over my head and monthly pocket money. They didn’t understand that I needed more. I was told that I was/am egoistic and self-centered. Maybe they were/are right. I finished school in 2004. I was the first and to this date only one of my family, who went to school and got a degree that allowed them to go to university. I had plans. But then I became pregnant with my first child. In 2005 I gave birth to a beautiful boy. I love him to bits. I moved in with his father and for the first time in my life, I didn’t need to take care of my mom. I now had my own little family. I was devastated with feelings of guilt and I was told more than once that I destroyed my family because I was so selfish and had a child. I was twenty-one. Old enough to make those decisions for myself. After my son’s birth, I fell into a deep hole. I cried a lot and I didn’t want to live anymore. I loved him, but it was not enough. I felt useless and worthless. Lonely too. I had 1 (one) friend and her life was very different from mine. She was single and worked and I was jealous of her. She was free, while I was still tied to someone. In hindsight, I know that I had postnatal depression. It took months to find a way out. But again, I did it on my own. I was a recluse. Gained a lot of weight, lost most of my sparse self-esteem and hid. More importantly, I didn’t talk about it. Again, words failed me. And reaching out was out of question. I was weak and frail, but I didn’t want to show it. There were times in my life, when I drove in my car – alone, and I wondered if I should just put my feet on the pedal and drive off the road or into the next wall. Of course I never did. I only ever had one car accident and that was when I thrashed a parked car’s side mirror when driving by. And rest assured, those thoughts are not in my mind anymore. But they were and I will not deny it.

Life went on for a couple of years. I found work and I liked it, but I never wanted to leave my child alone. I got married at twenty-four. I was with my partner for seven years then and I had told him that either we would marry or I would take the child and live a life on my own. It wasn’t my finest moment, but I felt like wasting my years with someone who didn’t show me that he cared. He cared. I just didn’t see it.
I became a mom for a second time and soon after that for the third time and I felt content. I didn’t work anymore and although I missed the freedom of it, I enjoyed being with my children and being there for them. I spoil them and show them how much I love them. Every day. I didn’t have the time to let my thoughts drift to dark places either, My sole preoccupation was to be the best mom I could be.
My life seemed to have turned around, until in 2011 something was triggered inside of me. To this day, I don’t know what it was. I began cutting again. I was twenty-eight. I didn’t do it often. Four times in all, but I did. And at that time, I realized that I had to do something. I had to work through my own emotional baggage. I began writing. Fiction and poetry. Nonfiction too. I shared it online. Shared many very personal things about me too.
I don’t know what I expected. I didn’t expect to find people who liked what I wrote and the way I wrote. I didn’t expect to find people who found my poems to be meaningful and powerful. It was a nice feeling. I felt valued and didn’t feel the need to hide my own emotional roller coaster anymore.
I never told my family about it and when I finally did, they laughed about it. Saying I wasn’t good enough anyway. To this day, none of them has read anything I have written. They can’t judge if I am good enough or not, but they do. I am different from them. That’s enough to judge me.
I just only wanted to be loved and be accepted for the damaged person I am.
There are still many days when I don’t feel appreciated and the internet has made me quite vain too. It build some of my long lost self-esteem, but easily destroys it too. There are days when I wake up and have sixty or more notifications on my phone. I chose to share my writing on a site called Wattpad.(link is on the about me page). It’s a great site for immediate reactions to your writing. I need that. I need that immediate response. I share my poetry on here too, share the links, just like I will share this one too, on twitter and I get no reactions at all. That is when I feel unappreciated again. I support so many people and rarely feel that support in return. It’s not that I expect it, but it would be nice to be acknowledged. It would just be nice, that’s all.
Recently, I am much more in tune with my internal self. I know exactly when a bout of depression is lurking around the corner. I can feel it creeping up on me several days before it strikes. And when it happens, there is a wall that comes up. I write more poetry then and I can’t wrap my head around writing fiction. Which only makes it worse, actually. That writer’s block just pulls me under deeper. And I feel useless and untalented too. I often wonder why anyone should read anything I write. Whether if it’s a poem, a short story or my full length novels. The answer is, I don’t know. The answer is also, because they are good. Yes, my grammar lacks here and there, but I am improving every day. English was the fourth language I learned!

Last September, I was told to look into self-publishing, and I did. Between September and November 2014, I released three books. Self-published and it was a lot of work. They went through proofreading (and still have typos…) and they got reviews (good and bad), but I continued to write and post for free. Not long ago, I realized that once again, I had acted impulsively and although I was very proud about having published these books, they have strong characters and strong story-lines, I also realized that they need more work. I unpublished everything and I am on my way back to my roots.

Writing. It gave my life a routine and a direction. Music too. I spend way too much money on music and my shelves are packed to the brim with CDs, but I love it. I love it even more when the music touches me on a personal level and it doesn’t matter if the artist/band is famous or not. If I like it, I will buy it.

There are days when I want to scream and hide. I can’t because of the kids and my responsibilities. There are days, when I don’t want to get up and I want to sleep until the feelings and thoughts in my head stop torturing me. But it doesn’t happen. It’s a recent thing, but I learned to accept those phases. They are a part of me. They are a part of the person that I am.
I am starving for love and affection and I don’t see that change anytime soon. And even when I don’t feel good, I will not ask for help. I need to get it done on my own and at the same time, I wish someone would say that they know how I feel. Truth is, only I know how I feel and even while I write these many many words that probably will not be read, because I wrote them and nobody really cares about my thoughts and little hiccups, I cannot make you see inside my head. But I can maybe make you understand, why I am the person I am and how my mind works.
I was told that I am cold. I was told that I am strong. I even was told that I am amazing. I was told that I am too emotional and I was told that I am selfish. Maybe I am all of those things. In the end, the only thing that is real and true is that I am me. I am Cathy. I am flawed and damaged beyond repair. I am starving for something that I can’t accept, even if offered to me.
Under layers and masks, I am a woman (old or young, depending on the mood) with lots of thoughts on her mind. I am me. And I want you to love me.

****
I hope this didn’t scare you away. The post itself is completely unedited. As stated above, I am not agreeing with everything anymore, and the worst phase of my mental health began some months after that post were written, but I still remember that I felt a strange kind of pride to have put it all down and in words.

Have a great day…
… I will too

Cathy – the woman with the headache,lol

Posted on

I forgot something…

On my long list of likes I forgot something important:

I like you! And you. And you over there, trying to hide. I like you too.

Thank you for your time. Time is precious and I can never give it back.

Cathy

(The mood is still good)

Posted on

memory

I just had to see a doctor with my kid. We went to the ER’s pediatrician because the one we usually see is not in. Either way…

When we drove home Elton John’s Tiny Dancer was on the radio. (I love that song) In this song is this line

Hold me closer tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway

And a picture of me in my dad’s s red Volvo came up in my mind. When I was a young kid, my dad would pick us (me and my sister) up on Sundays so that we could spend a little time together. He didn’t come every Sunday, but that is another story.

I remember sitting in the back of the car whenever he drove us home at night, and counting the headlights that weren’t working. I spent 45minutes looking out the windows counting. It comforted me.

I still count the headlights occasionally.

xx

Posted on

Time

Time is running out. The sandglass is emptying itself, but the time that slips through our fingers now can never be retrieved again.

We stand on the sidelines watching it happen. Listening to the paroles that have been ingrained in our souls, in our minds since we were helpless children.

I dare you to stand out and live your own life far away from the usual conventions. Far away from the judging looks of the self-proclaimed elite.

Who are they to tell me what should make me happy? And yet, we are all kept in line, silenced, living in invisible shackles.

I admire those who are free. Those who live. Those who are seen as misfits, dropouts, freaks, weirdos, punks, hippies…

I could never live that way, even if I wanted to. I’ve been brainwashed into living in shame. Hiding my true colors so that society keeps on loving me.

Since my earliest years, I tried to be a rebel. But I was only ever ridiculed. The latest target I make is playing at being a writer.

Ah, but it’s water under the bridge. At least that’s what I pretend. I am not fazed by their words. It’s a hopeless lie.

As time is running out and slips through my fingers, I understand that I am who I am and only I have the power to be me.

I live a life without regrets. I try too. I know that the past can’t change, but it shaped the person I am today. All of it.

I am not perfect, not flawless. I have qualities and I have quirks. Everyone has. Now I am working on becoming my friend again.

We should stop the self-sabotaging and the undiscerning following. If we can’t see things differently, we will grow old in our stink.

And we will wonder what life could have been if we had danced when we had the chance. What life would we have had if we had taken the time to live?

*Repost from July 20th 2015)

Posted on

I like…

  • Raspberries
  • The colour purple
  • Reading
  • Listening to music
  • Talking about music
  • Knowing my facts in a conversation
  • Lists
  • My job
  • The wind in my hair on a hot and sunny day
  • Taking long baths
  • Driving my car – fast
  • Having a connection
  • Laughing
  • Singing
  • Readers who relate
  • Unexpected turns of events
  • Pleasing people
  • Live music
  • Playing the guitar – no matter how bad I am at it.
  • That state of tipsiness after a couple of beers (not being drunk)
  • Baking and people loving the outcome
  • Inspiration
  • Sitting down and writing something good – effortlessly
  • Foot massages
  • Movie night with the kids
  • Taking pictures
  • Looking at pictures
  • Memories
  • That I am strong enough to not have regrets
  • I loved and I had heartaches
  • Sunrises
  • When that serene feeling spreeds inside my soul – out of nowhere
  • Dreaming something good
  • Sleeping
  • Feeling deeply
  • Having a good cry
  • Knowing who I am
  • Appreciating my worth
  • I held on
  • I will not let go
  • Parenting
  • My kids
  • I am educated
  • I laugh about my own shortcomings
  • I keep secrets
  • Not afraid of telling it how I see it
  • Drilling holes
  • Men
  • Teasing people
  • Humour and sarcasm
  • Understanding where others don’t even try
  • Supporting the people I believe in
  • Vegetables
  • The fact that I am finding so many things I like
  • Evoking emotions with my writing
  • Being me and not hiding
  • Listening
  • Being praised
  • Doing nothing
  • Doing a whole lot of things
  • Not forgetting
  • Not holding grudges
  • I allow myself the time I need when I am not well
  • My eyes
  • My smile
  • My boobs and my ass
  • Reading my horoscope
  • Twitter
  • Artists
  • Beauty
  • My ever growing record collection
  • Being smiled at
  • Being kind
  • My mischief
  • Showing empathy
  • (… And lots more that I can’t think of this spontaneously)

101 things I dislike (written in late 2016 – not everything is accurate anymore)

Posted on

How to mend a broken heart

Listening to your even breath

peaceful as it is

not revealing the tormented soul

underneath

if I could

I would

but tell me, how can I mend

your broken heart?

Your whispers sound like cries

searching for and exit

speaking of unseen hurt and a lost

love

if I could

I would

but tell me, how can I mend

your broken heart?

If I could

I would take your pain away

if I could I would make you mine to stay

through your tears

I recognize you

for years I waited for you

to hold you close

and if I could

I would

and now I know how to mend

your broken heart!

In 2013 I wrote a story called “A Long Journey to Love”. It was my first original novel and it is nowhere to be found anymore. For now. This poem was written exclusively for that story – from one character to the other. It’s one of the earliest posts on this blog too. Please enjoy.

Posted on

memory lane

As long as there is cum in my balls and a mind in my brain I will never forget you.

I wrote about this one before but I can’t find it anywhere so I will write it down again. This was said to me. Not written, but said. And I thought it was weirdly romantic. He laughed then, saying that it is our kind of romanticism, and he was right. In the meantime, this man is not a part of my life anymore. We knew the day would come but we tried to ignore it until it was there and he left. Which is okay and his proper right to do. But that sentence there, it keeps repeating in my mind. Over and over again. If it is true, then he will not forget me for a long time. I don’t want to be forgotten. Least of all by him. He who meant so much to me at one moment in time and who still does, who will always do.

When I shared this sentence with a friend, she was disgusted and thought it was very disrespectful. And I wondered if I had rose-tinted glasses on to be happy about these words. Now, a long time later, and these words still get to me and they are still disgusting to other people. For me, they are the ultimate declaration of love.

Funny how people see one and the same thing and feel so differently about it. Or maybe I am just weird. By the way, that same man said to me that he felt abject loneliness without me and that I was the only one who could fill the holes in his heart, in his mind and in his soul. Indeed, he is a writer… but come on… Those are amazing words to hear… Alas, love or an infatuation is not always enough. And I am not a romantic person anyway…

(written in August 2016 and still true)

Posted on

My favourite pic of myself in my teenage years. This pic was taken when I was 19 and on vacation in Brittany. 🙂

Posted on

more than you might see

We are different. We all have different minds and different things that shake our worlds. My madness is not worse or better than yours. It is unimportant to the grand scheme of it all. But, little things can have a huge impact. Words carelessly thrown at a stranger might leave them bruised or uplifted. A smile or a hug can change entire lives. A broken string can mean much more than just a broken bracelet.

A broken string can mean much more than just a broken bracelet

I used to wear the bracelet on the picture around my wrist. Every day for nearly a year and I never took it off. Never. The threads were worn thin and there was a moment when I was in a near panic-like state when I thought about losing this simple piece of jewelry. But I also knew that the day would come. Inevitably. For most, it is just that – another weird thing Cathy wears and fondles all the time. But it is – and was much more. Little things have memories and meaning. And, this piece is unique. It doesn’t exist a second time. I had it custom made for me with these exact words. I needed those words with me. I needed to be reminded of them. I was losing a battle. Not a war, but a battle. Inside. And while I was living, I forgot to exist. I was not there.
Are you there? Is the title of a song (shared at the end of this post). It is also the question I was asked several times by the person who inspired most of last year’s writing, and my personal change and growth in recent times too.
Those words, worn against my pulse, were a daily reminder. As I said, different small things shake our worlds in different ways.
This broken thread would be easily replaced and everything would be fixed. But it is not that easy. It never is as easy as it seems.
Letting go of this little thing means letting go of something else. It means letting hope float to different – distant, shores. The memories and the meaning that were attached to that bracelet will remain with it, always. But sometimes we can’t or shouldn’t fix what is broken, because it will not be the same anymore. It will always just be the thing that was once broken and is fixed now. And it can work, but not for this. Not for me.Sometimes, it is good to put the memories in a box and close the lid on it.
I knew that the day would come the bracelet would come undone. And in my mind, I also knew, that this moment would be emotional. Because it is not something meaningless. To me, this was – this is, meaningful.

The beauty of life, isn’t it? What’s meaningful to you could be absolutely meaningless for me (and the other way around).

Are you there?
He asked and she said yes. She would always be there. Waiting for him.
Are you there?
She wondered about herself. The answer was No. She was not. She lived in a world of unfulfillable fantasies. And he had brought her back.
Back down to earth.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s-S28rX_c24

 

Posted on

next November

​What a difference a year makes, don’t you think. Last year, you spent two weeks in Australia for work. You called daily. Sometimes twice. I remember that one call, when you were crying because you missed your daughter. We talked a lot that night. About your kid and her mother and about my kids and the way I raise them. You said that you liked the way I talked about them and it was the first time you called me beautiful. Another time when we talked, it was my turn to cry. The past had caught up and an apology had been issued. It had meant so much that I teared up when I told you. And you listened patiently. It was also the time when I told you about my family dynamics. I remember those things clear as day. And I miss those talks. Quality talks. I was never someone to cry a lot in front of people. But I cried with you. Three times. Yes, I counted because crying is such an intimate and personal thing for me. I don’t mean the tears I shed last night after I watched that movie, but the real emotional tears that come straight from the sad and overwhelmed heart. Yes, that meant a lot. And you know, those tears, those explosions of emotions, they felt so good with you. It feels like a lifetime ago. Do you remember that time you called very early in the morning. My voice was thick with sleep, my brain not ready to translate the words we were saying to each other. We laughed so hard. That’s a sound I remember and miss too. Your laughter. It’s true, last November, we were so close. This November we couldn’t be farther away. You will probably be abroad for weeks, you mentioned the Netherlands to me the last time we spoke. I am not sure about your schedule and it is not my business anymore either. Just, yes. I had this thought that last year everything was different. Last November we were one. This year we are worlds apart. Next November life will be different yet again. And it is good.