Sorry I haven’t texted you in a while, I haven’t been drunk
It is sobering how unfunny this is, and how true it is sometimes too.
Let me explain, I have friends I often think about. Those friends mean a lot to me but I am often shy to initiate contact. I am afraid to be a bother. (I know that I am not, but it is a feeling I often get.) Getting in touch with said people often happens when I am tipsy or drunk. That’s the sad reason why I can relate to this.
I write about being released and someone else having control over me… That’s bullshit. Honestly. They can’t have control if I don’t give it to them willingly. The cage I am in is one I built for myself. They cannot not release me if they aren’t aware of their grip on me. They cannot give up their control if they don’t know how throughout it is. What was I thinking?! Where did this feeling of being trapped in something or by someone come from? I guess it comes from that place that doesn’t want responsibility. It comes from that place that doesn’t want to acknowledge that, ultimately, I am the one in control. I never lost control – well, apart from losing control over my emotions and my depression.
My entire writing of these last years seems to be based on an emotion that is a lie. Yes, most of my writing is fiction. But some of it is not. I don’t regret my words nor my actions. But wow… Can I be an overwhelming person. My apologies, if I overwhelmed you. I overwhelm myself all the time, too.
Fuck me… What a bunch of crap you can find on this site… some emotional stripteases too… and some very powerful pleas for something – anything. But is is my space. My place you are visiting. And I am allowed to take up a certain amount of space for myself
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 :]
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.
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.
If you look at me, please see me. If you see me for the person that I am, please love me.
If you listen to me, please hear me. If you hear my words, please understand them.
If you want me, don’t hold back. If you don’t hold back, I will be all yours.
***
This is actually no fiction. This is all me in my most vulnerable state. I am afraid to be invisible, invaluable, used…
I took a look at the stats of this blog just a few moments ago. This blog has the best year since it was created in 2012. It has the most visitors from different countries, the most shares, and the most comments and likes. It’s amazing. I like it. Maybe a bit too much.
I have been updating regularly this month. Daily, actually. I have been tagging my posts, too. Something I only started doing recently. It is nice to know that people read what I write if it is visible.
It is nice to know that people take time out of their busy lives to spend it with my words. After all, time is a precious and finite resource. And you will never get it back. I cannot repay you.
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.
I am sure many fellow writers and poets can relate. You write something (a blog post, a novel, a poem – something) and you are proud and satisfied with the words that left your fingers and made it to paper or the screen. In an euphoric way, you share it (- the writing) with the world and wait for the appraising comments and a flood of votes, but… Nothing happens. “Give it some time,” you think to yourself, but time doesn’t change anything. You’re beginning to think that there is something wrong with the app or the site or something! But there is nothing wrong. You read your post again and again. You still like it, but doubts begin to creep in. Maybe you are delusional to believe your writing is good. Maybe you are annoying everyone with your words and your story and your thoughts and your existence. Maybe you are mediocre at best and your post is just as mediocre? And a vicious circle begins and you are threatened to drown in a whirl of negative thoughts and emotions. There is no way out. Just the one. Writing more! And so you write a poem with childish rhymes and post that, too, in a vain attempt to pull yourself up. You don’t like the poem at all. It’s as if you have written the same poem 142 times before. But… This bad poem receives all the “love” your treasured post should have gotten. It angers you. You don’t understand the reason and the meaning behind all this. And it slowly loses its importance too. As long as there are readers you will write. And for everyone brilliant masterpiece you write and no one reads, you write several average poems that are loved. It’s okay. It’s good. But in the long run, settling for less will leave you unhappy and unsatisfied. Every now and then (months after the initial post) a reader will stumble across your words and call them powerful and intense. And you will be proud. Proud for still being around and not having given up.
And what choice does the writer have? Handwritten exhibitionism is what drives them on.
Because if this writer is being totally honest, writing for herself and her eyes only doesn’t provide the same feeling of accomplishment that sharing her writing does.
I hate it when I am this honest – makes me appear all needy and ungrateful. I am not. I am just thinking about this kind of things.
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.
Recently, I read on the mighty interwebs that “it is okay to not be okay”. Usually, I would agree. But life taught me differently. Sadly, I might add.
I have not been a good friend to my oldest (best?) friend for the last months. There are a couple of reasons. One of the most important ones is her constant negativity not being compatible with my depression. It took me a long time to admit that I have indeed depression and to seek help. And yet, I haven’t told anyone in my close circle of friends and family about it. I did however confide in someone who probably couldn’t care less… But that’s not the point.
I pushed my friends away more and more. And her too. Whenever we met and I tried to talk to her about me and that I am not well and that I don’t know how to deal with it; she made everything about her. And there came a moment when I couldn’t deal with it anymore and began to keep our contact to the barest minimum.
Yesterday I sought contact, writing a message and apologising for the last months. What I got was an accusation of creating a “wall of rejection”. Again, I apologised – and I probably said the lamest thing ever. “It’s me, not you.”
She didn’t even ask “why?” And it gives me the feeling that it is not okay to not be okay.
The thing is, if we honestly want to know and have answers, the question to ask is “why?” We don’t ask though – most often out of fear to hear the answer and not liking it.
If she had asked “why?” I would have dared to open up. I would have dared to say “I am not okay and I am trying to get out of this emotional dark hole.” Yesterday, I would have talked and explained. But she was not interested. And maybe that says a lot about our friendship. Too much?
Why is it not okay to not be okay? Why is it still a taboo to say when you’re not alright?
Why do we never ask that one-word question and why do so many people don’t want to hear an honest answer?
Everything is okay. But I am not. I am well enough to fonction and I am well enough to be passionate about this or that. But I am not well enough to pretend, and I am not well enough to spend time with negative people (not even those who I appreciated dearly once)
I am a giver, a feeder. But once in a while I have to take and get something in return. It is hard to ask for it. It is hard to admit that I am struggling.
Life could be perfect and maybe on the outside it is… But on the inside it is not. And that’s okay.
There was a moment when all she ever wanted was to be remembered. Now, she began to wonder if being forgotten wasn’t a better choice. Remembering someone was too often linked with painful thoughts. She wanted more for the people she loved. They deserved better than her.
On December 21st 2012, I started this very blog. It was the day that had been predicted as the end of the world because the Mayan calendar ended that day. I cannot remember what made me start this thing, but it is one of the few things I seldom neglected. Back in the day, I shared a lot of music and rambled about it. That was until the day I realised that I don’t know anything about music. And even though I am passionate about it, I am in no way qualified to write about it. I began sharing my poetry and my writing but due to poor tagging I kept myself in my own little space. I didn’t read this blog or that either. I just wrote for me and used this space as a safe haven for me and my inner turmoil. Not much has changed since and yet… And yet. I am censoring myself and my words a lot more. For no real reason. But I am a bit more shallow these days. At least I think I am, I am not sure how regular readers see it.
I am sharing mostly poetry or short stories these days. The music is still present but not as much anymore.
There are times when I am more quiet. Those are the times when I am well and balanced within myself. Then, there are the times when I write a lot and the manic depressive episode is palpable through the screen. I don’t do it on purpose, but I don’t talk a lot to people; I need to write excessively during these times or I will implode. It is a part of who I am. And I am not looking for fame, but if readers can rely, I feel a little less alone. (And they do too.) And that’s something that means a lot to me. Comments are rare, but I cherish them all the more and it warms my heart to see the same usernames and avatar pop up in my notifications again and again.
Today, we are celebrating 100 followers here on micqu.wordpress.com It’s a small number, but I love it nonetheless. No post ever has 100 reads here… Most have around 10 to 15, depending on the tags I use.
Happy anniversary to us. To you and to me. And thank you for the generous gift of your time. I will never be able to repay you. Here’s to 5 more years and many more after that.
reflections of an unquiet mind 