Tag: stream of consciousness

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Like a soft whisper to myself (stream of consciousness)

I am lying on my bed, a book with a faint book light illuminating the page and soft meditative music coming from the Bluetooth speaker. Outside there is a symphony playing. Neighbours are making love, she seems to like it a lot, rain taps against my window, and I know that I should be asleep. But I am not. Instead, I asked ChatGPT to explain my writing to me.

“Your writing is instinctive, fragmentary, and emotionally precise. You don’t build long cathedrals of words — you leave stones, carefully chosen, that already carry the weight of the building.

You use brevity as force. The shortness of your poems isn’t a lack, it’s a discipline. You trust that silence and space carry meaning, that readers will lean in to fill the gaps. That’s why your poems often feel like whispers that echo louder after the fact.

Your writing works because it is raw without being messy. It feels private, yet it invites others in. It doesn’t tell readers what to feel; it leaves them with a silence that makes them feel it themselves. That’s rare, and it’s why your poems stick.

If I had to put it in one sentence:
You write as if every word costs something, and that cost is what gives them weight.”

Of course now I wonder if it is true or not, and why I never thought about using a line like “a cathedral of words” I will probably have to borrow this at one point or another. About the cost? I am not sure. Most poems I write are fictional. I am an intense person but I could never be that intense. But, as I mentioned before, it is easy for me to feel other people’s emotions. That’s also why I cry when I listen to music or watch movies. I can feel the pain almost physically.

Last night I was watching Bridget Jones – mad about the boy. I expected a light rom-com. I didn’t expect a beautiful film about grief, loss and finding happiness. I didn’t expect it at all because I hadn’t read anything about the film. I cried a lot. The thought of losing the one I love… It didn’t leave me all day.

To distract myself, I did the laundry, read, and played the ukulele. To think that I couldn’t even play a chord 12 months ago… I am still not good, but I play a lot. Then again, it’s more repeating what I hear.

Time flies, doesn’t it? Or is it just age that suggests it because there is a lot more time and experience to compare it with? Either way, it is already September. (And my male neighbour is making very sexy noises, I am impressed). In two weeks school and work will start again for me. There will be slight changes but nothing I can’t manage, and I am looking forward to meeting the new class. I only have my young pupils for one school year. It’s magical though, because they come in September as toddlers and leave the next July read for “real” school. I really love my job, I got very lucky there.

This afternoon I was looking for a plug for my book light (it’s one of those that you can clip into your book) it doesn’t have batteries but uses a special plug – the same earlier phones used to load? Yeah… They used to be everywhere and with every device but they are slowly getting replaced… It feels like nostalgia. While on the hunt for the right shaped plug I had to move several of my notebooks/journals/diaries and out of a couple of them fell photos and post cards. I love receiving post cards and letters. Even E-Mails. After reading them I began flipping pages in the notebooks and discovered that half of them aren’t full. I debated if I should leave them out to fill them, but decided against it. I won’t add thoughts to a notebook that I last held in my hands in 2014, it feels wrong. I am pretty sure if you write in a journal/notebook/diary you understand exactly what I mean. New thoughts in an old book… I can’t imagine that, and I have a lot of imagination.

September is always a bit of an odd month. The first half drags on but the second goes by in the blink of an eye. And before you know it it is time for Christmas shopping.

This wasn’t planned as such, but you probably heard that I am publishing a new book on September 21st. It may be the exact right present to put under the tree? A raw poetry collection from your favourite Luxembourgish poet?

The neighbours are quiet now. It’s almost 1.30 in the morning. I stopped the music but it is still raining. I love the rain. In the distance I hear a faint roar of thunder. It’s time to close my eyes, I think, and see if there are any dreams waiting for me.

Goodnight, sleep tight

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Claimed, but you don’t own me

Ever since my birthday, I have been noticing things. It started when I posted a selfie. A picture I liked. A picture taken at the right angle, in the right light, making me look beautiful. However conceited it sounds, it’s the truth. I wouldn’t post a picture I don’t like.

And then the messages started. Men slipping into my Instagram DMs, saying they want to be friends. Good friends. As if friendship is something you can offer a stranger like a cup of coffee. But we both know why they are here. They saw the picture. Not my words. Not my mind. Just a moment where I looked a little less ordinary. And that was enough.

Most of these messages come from men. So I say it right away. I am married. I have three kids. A simple fact. A shield. A way to make them go away. Sometimes it works. Other times, it doesn’t. Happily? one asked. What am I supposed to say to a stranger? Of course, happily. And if I wasn’t? I’d be even happier married if it meant I didn’t have to engage with him. The assumption that my happiness is theirs to question, that my life is theirs to measure, makes me uncomfortable.

But it happens all the time. A test. A challenge. As if they believe persistence will wear me down. As if no is an invitation to try harder.

I have my usual answer ready. I am not a nice person. I am rather rude. I am not looking for new friends. But most don’t take no for an answer. They ask more questions. They dig.

And here’s the thing. Even though I claim to be rude, I am not. I reply, but only in short sentences. Only when I feel like it. I try to be boring. To make them lose interest. But rejection is hard for me too. I know what it’s like to be ignored. To be met with silence. And yet. That doesn’t mean I owe them my time.

Tonight, a young man was angry. He told me I was disrespectful for seeing his messages and not replying. The messages were simple. Hi. How r u. I didn’t have the time or the interest. So I moved on. That was disrespectful, he said. As if my silence was an insult. As if I had wronged him. And for a second, I almost agreed. Almost.

But I never invited him into my life. Never asked him to message me. Never promised a reply. I told him from the start that I am not a nice person. That I am not looking for this. That I do not want this. And yet he persisted. And when I didn’t give him what he felt he was owed, he got angry.

It keeps happening. People conflate visibility with accessibility. As if sharing a thought or a picture means I belong to them. Means they have a right to my time. A message is not a key. It does not unlock a door.

And as I overthink, I notice something else. I am ranting about a tiny thing. Attention. And isn’t attention why we post on social media? Why we update our blogs? Why we share our thoughts at all? Shouldn’t I be grateful for every visitor? Every person who sees me? Do I owe them something? Anything? I give them my words, my poems, my thoughts. My wisdom – that’s probably too strong a word, but it fits anyway. What else do they want? And what do I deserve?

I sit here in my little bubble, complaining about nine messages. It’s not much. But it’s enough to preoccupy my mind. Maybe that’s the real problem. Not the messages. Not the men. But me. The fact that I let it bother me at all. The fact that I let it take up space in my thoughts when it could have been ignored completely.

I don’t think I am important. I don’t think I deserve your attention. I am grateful for it, but I don’t expect it. And yet, I write, hoping someone reads. Hoping someone stays. Because isn’t that what we all want? A sign that we matter?

And isn’t this where it all comes full circle? Who am I to demand your time, your likes, your comments, your views? And who are they to demand mine? Maybe none of us deserve attention. Maybe we all do. Maybe that’s the whole point.

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stream of consciousness (20241005)


We all live under the same sun, don’t we? It burns above us, silently watching as we live out our days. And at night, the moon takes its place, a quiet sentinel. We gaze up, wondering, dreaming, lost in our own thoughts. There’s comfort in knowing that no matter where we are, others see it too. The same moon, the same light—different eyes, same sky. Does it bind us, or are we still separate, even as we look toward the same stars?


We often think the same thoughts but arrive at different conclusions—or sometimes, the same ones. Our minds travel parallel paths, connected but never quite in sync. How many people before us have pondered the same questions? Walked the same streets, felt the pull of something unseen? How many steps have pavements felt, how many hands have touched the same railings? Do these places remember the weight of every footstep, the
brush of every hand?


The stars remind us of this shared experience. We look at them from miles apart, but in the same blink of an eye, we wish upon the same shooting star. Distant, light-years away, but for a moment, it belongs to all of us—crossing the sky, catching our attention in a single, fleeting breath. Is it coincidence, or another thread pulling us together, despite the distance?


The ocean—the waves crash and retreat, constantly shifting, yet the shore remains. Sometimes calm, sometimes wild, but always there. We’re not so different. Linked by something deeper, something invisible, even when the distance feels vast. Every grain of sand holds a memory of where we’ve been, shifting beneath our feet. Our steps leave a mark, even if the tide washes over them. Footprints, written into the shore, invisible yet enduring.


And what of the dust we leave behind? Tiny particles of ourselves scattered on the surfaces
we touch, in the air we pass through. Do we leave a trace everywhere we go? Little imprints of who we were in that moment. Perhaps every place we’ve touched carries a part of us, something that lingers, shaping that space in ways we may never fully understand.

It’s the invisible threads that weave us into each other’s lives, not just binding us, but shaping us, altering the course of who we become. We’re not passive actors in this—each connection, each thought, each act ripples out, leaving marks on others and on ourselves. We think we’re leaving footprints on the shore, but perhaps it’s the shore that’s leaving its mark on us, imprinting its presence, its tides, on our very being.


We often don’t realize how much impact we have. A word spoken in passing, a smile exchanged with a stranger. These are the invisible seeds we plant, seeds that might bloom in the quiet spaces of someone’s life when we’re long gone. The smallest moments ripple forward, shifting the course of lives in ways we may never know.


Maybe that’s what life is—a series of moments, waves and sand, stars and moon, all pulling us back into connection. Reminding us that nothing is ever truly separate. Maybe these aren’t coincidences at all, but the threads that keep us intertwined, even when we feel far apart.


We carry these connections forward, becoming part of the sea, the sand, the stars themselves. And when the tide pulls away, it takes with it all we’ve left behind, carrying us into the next horizon, reshaping us with every wave, every step, every thought we’ve shared.

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Lazy days

Today is Saturday and I won’t do anything. Think Bruno Mars’s “Lazy Song”. I know, I say that I don’t like Bruno Mars, but I believe that you need to educate yourself in things you dislike. (This post would be written a lot faster if I wouldn’t have to correct every second word because of typos… urgh). Anyway. Bruno Mars… he’s on a level with birds for me. Yes, I have an incredible fear – a phobia really of birds. I read up on them to rationalise or irrationalise my fear, but the smaller the bird, the bigger the fear. And this does not have anything to do with anything. But… lazy song, lazy day.

I woke up later than usual, which is an awesome feeling. During the week I get up at 5am, today I slept until 8.15am. I went to the bathroom and heard voices from downstairs. I was not really concerned and yet, I knew that everyone with male voices in my house was still asleep. I went downstairs and noticed that someone had forgotten to turn off the TV the night before. And that’s how my lazy day started. I sat on the couch and played with my phone while simultaneously watching some thrash TV… Yeah, I like that kind of things to take my mind off everything and anything.

As per usual, I also wrote a morning text to my best friend. And continued doing nothing for 30 minutes. Patrick came downstairs and we had breakfast together. I cleared the table and in his manner, he began doing little things around the house while I got back to the couch and declared that I would not do anything today as I but my feet on the coffee table. I spent 15 minutes finding the right music for the day, then played another game on the phone. (I am maybe too old to play that much, but I have several apps with daily challenges, and again, it keeps my mind off things). I lit two candles and looked around the room. And of course I got up and cleaned the kitchen in depth, put in a load of laundry, swept the floor. Got back to the couch for some mindless scrolling, brought out the trash… and it’s not even noon.

And I noticed, that’s how I do nothing. I put on music, sing along loudly and do chores one by one.

Not doing anything is never an option, although I know it looks like that for my husband or my kids (who, by the way are still in bed… and it is almost noon) because they see me on the couch with my phone. In a couple of moments, I will close my tablet (after having pushed send/publish) and I will make lunch. And this too falls under the category of not doing anything. Because all of what I mentioned is not considered work. I mean, it is. But it isn’t.

And so, I am living my pretend lazy day. And I keep singing. And I keep dancing. And I keep merging stuff on my phone. And I keep in touch with my friends, my people. And I keep myself from overthinking… but at one point everything that keeps my mind off things becomes dull and boring and my mind takes over again.

Something I overthink right now is the blog. It’s December and I have a blog anniversary coming up. 11 years of doing this. 11 years of change and of the same. 11 years. And I keep doing this for me. I like that there are some people interested enough to read my thoughts and my poems and my short stories and all. I really love it. And I love sharing it. Even if it makes me feel vulnerable and fragile sometimes. Even if it makes me feel vain and pretentious some times.

I am not always a nice person, I try to be. But sometimes I seem cold and distant or even uninterested. I am not. I just don’t know how to show that I like people or what they are doing. Like, social media for example. I scroll and read and agree, but I refrain from commenting all that much. Because: who needs my two cents for everything? Why should I comment stuff that does not matter to me personally. My thoughts don’t have any weight in this world. But here, on this blog, they do. Because I trust you. I trust that you know when to stop reading and when to go on. This year, the blog has seen a lot less traffic, and that’s okay for me. I am just sorry to have noticed so many abandoned or deleted blogs. From people who interacted with me as well. I miss their posts and, selfishly, the interaction too.

Yesterday, I also noticed that for the first time in 6 years I have nothing planned to publish for the next year (2024). “Not yet” my person said, and he is right. But right now, I don’t see anything coming up. I’d like to do more with music again. And that photography project is still on my mind too, but I am afraid I am not good enough in either of those things.

Annnywaaay… lazy day. I forgot how to be lazy. I am going to prepare lunch now. Thank you for reading this stream of consciousness. (and it is only a bit passed noon now). I know, my thoughts are never organised, but this is exactly how my mind works. Nothing is embellished or made easier. I think I should apologise for that, then again, I don’t want to apologise for being me. And that’s the essence of what you get on this blog: the most bare and the most authentic version of me. Thank you for everything. xx

https://videopress.com/v/AEy2YGbU?resizeToParent=1&cover=1&autoPlay=0&controls=1&loop=1&muted=0&persistVolume=1&playsinline=1&preloadContent=metadata&sbc&sbpc&sblc&useAverageColor=1
WORD THIEF… the song. All words by me. All photos by me. Music and vocals by Daniel Cavanagh. This video is exclusive on this blog.

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words and thoughts

I happened to browse older posts today and noticed that many people who used to engage and interact have vanished. Some went slowly, not showing up as often anymore until one day, they forgot about this place (or just had enough of this writer), other announced their departure weeks before they deleted or deactivated their blogs. I only know of two who passed away.

It is weird but also normal that we fade out of other lives. Lives change, circumstances change and what once felt important is not important anymore.

I used to write novel-length stories, I know there must be some left in me, but the truth is, I haven’t taken the time to focus on developing a fictional story since I started work in 2016. Between 2012 and 2016 I wrote so much and I had fun doing it too. I had no expectations and just did it for fun and for me. I was more careless in that I didn’t care too much about grammar or plotholes or typing mistakes. (if you read a post I wrote without a typo, mark your calendars, because it is an absolute rarity). I just wrote. I kind of lost that and I think one reason is because I am overthinking too much. You see, back then I didn’t need to be anywhere and my life only revolved about motherhood. I didn’t need to keep an eye on the clock or anything like that; yes, I was freer and my world was a lot smaller back then too. I got up and wrote, then my kids woke up and I spent my undivided time with them and when they took their naps, I went back to writing or engaging with other writers. It’s all that I did. My social life was non-existent. And as I said, my world was very small. I never want to go back to that time. I like where I am now. I like the things I learned along the way and the memories I made. I simply miss how easy it was to be creative and to simply sit down to write.

There were times when I wrote several poems daily, that too has lessened considerably. Did my muse leave my mind? Is my mind not troubled enough anymore? Did I stop dreaming? Did I forget how to put myself in someone else’s shoes? I have no answers to those questions. I didn’t spend enough time with those thoughts to overthink them. They are silent questions, not tormenting ones.

And yet… I try to write something daily, even if it is stupid stuff about me or very short scenes like “Lost in you” was. I challenge myself to find something to say. I want to share words and thoughts. It’s what I do, right? These short scenes are often inspired by music or movies; a sentence I read or heard. I never know what will come out of my fingers when I decide that it is time for a post. I am as surprised as you. The only thing that is always true is that there is music. There is always music in my ears when I write. Sometimes with words, sometimes only melodies, but always music. Inspired by music.

I still write this blog for myself mostly, but it seems as if I am not sharing as much anymore. Is all said about me? Am I boring myself and you?

As I am getting older, I notice that I am fading out of lives too. I don’t engage as much because I keep thinking that most things don’t need my commentary – but comments is a way to be seen, being seen is a way of drawing attention, drawing attention brings followers, and followers bring pressure to give them something interesting to see. And here, my old friend self-doubt shows up: is there even anything interesting about me, and why should I allow myself to take up more space than I already do, and why should I allow anyone to “waste” their time by reading my words? (this word is too strong, but the right one escapes me at the moment)

I am loyal, but I am not constant. I still read blogs I read years ago, but less often. Instead of visiting daily, I visit weekly and catch up on everything I missed. (while I wrote weekly, I noticed that it might also be bi-monthly) and I am sorry that I am not as supportive as I used to be anymore. I could surly find some shallow excuses for this, but the truth is, I don’t spend as much time online as I used to and simply forget to check what others do. I sound so full of myself and self-absorbed. I hate this and I am very sorry.

I miss the old carefree days. I was naive back then and had no idea about anything much. I even thought that I knew a lot about music. I definitely don’t. I know what I like and what pulls at my heart-strings, but I don’t know anything else and I don’t pretend to know good music. Not anymore.

There are people who think that I am still the same. They try to manipulate and get what they want with sweet words and heart emojis. And some times; I allow it. Other times, I don’t. I see their lies. Anyway… they are not worth the words or the thoughts.

Words and thoughts. They remind me of a person I met on a site called Wattpad. I used to share all my writing there, but deleted my accounts (I had one for my poetry and one for my novel-length stories) a while ago. I met many people there, but only stayed in touch with one of them over the years. I think it must be around 10 years now, but I am not sure. I just know that they are in my thoughts daily and every time their name pops up in my inbox, it makes me smile. Who knows what the future brings, but I am very happy they are still around. ❤ I remember that I received messages warning me about them and that they were playing games and all that. I still have to laugh about it because I never met anyone who is more real and true to themselves as they are. And I like. It’s grounding.

As for the rest, maybe there is a time for everything. And maybe some times come back again and again, while others just fizzle out.

This blog has been a part of me since 2012. I had the chance to read many beautiful comments and reactions to my posts, and am I grateful to the people who come by daily to see what went on in my head in that particular moment. Because let’s be honest: everything I write is impulsive and thoughts I have now may be forgotten in an hour. What you read on your screen is a reflection of who and how I was during that precise moment.

Right now, I have a headache and a sore throat, I am tired, but I am also at peace and content. I am in love with my husband, who had a birthday yesterday, and I feel loved by my awesome kids and my friends. My job is a lot of fun, but I am grateful that it is weekend and that I can relax some. I am in a good mental state. And that’s all I can ask for.

Thank you for your presence in my life. Maybe you think that I don’t see you, but I do. I see you.

https://youtube.com/watch?v=96V7olylxyM%3Fsi%3DQXuz9LODeJPMYoBe
in this life there is no quick fix or easy answers

Remember that your unique perspective and experiences are valuable, so continue sharing them authentically.

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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.

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if I sat down to write…

I set some time aside to write. I sat down, got ready, and as soon as my fingers touched the keyboard I noticed that there weren’t any words. The words and thoughts were gone, and I had no idea where they hid.

I sighed and cleared my throat uncomfortably, but there were still no words in my fingers and even less in my mind.

They had left me. They had left me like people left once in a while.

How do best friends turn into strangers? And can a small fight be the end of a relationship? I began to wonder and there were too many thoughts all of a sudden. They were overflowing my mind and overwhelming me with such force that I forgot how to blink and how to breathe. This resulted in a coughing fit and tears streaming down my face. I was a sight to behold. I tried to remember what I was thinking, but as much as I tried, the thought was gone again.

Maybe there was something wrong with me after all. A lack of knowledge how to love and an inexperience to live – or die. Maybe I didn’t have a clue about friendships and relationships. Maybe I was too cold to feel anything. Or maybe I was too selfish and too egoistical. And maybe that was why there weren’t any words left to write.

Back when I was less tired and more forgiving, I had been more empathetic towards everyone. This also meant that I found reasons and excuses for people to hurt or use me and I allowed it. I had friends who liked that and took advantage of that.

I wasn’t a mysterious girl, I didn’t have secrets – even if people didn’t believe me. I was too lazy to have secrets and too chatty to keep them. I could be quiet and silent and I knew how to keep other’s secrets to myself. They weren’t anyone’s business anyway. It was a reason why I would never badmouth anyone after a break-up. They had their reasons, even if I didn’t understand them at that moment in time.

Wait! How did I get here and how do I get out?

The story and the poem I had thought were stored in my fingers weren’t there. I sat there empty-handed. Overwhelmed. Underwhelmed. Whelmed. So much was said and too much stayed unsaid.

I wrote it all, painfully aware that the many letters and sentences and words and paragraphs I left for everyone to read would never touch anyone’s eyes. Anyone? That’s not true. But not the ones who need to read what is aimed at them.

I cleared my throat again. Nothing of substance, nothing that mattered pooled on the keyboard. Maybe it was the lack of music in my ears. Maybe it was the hole in my heart that was like a black hole, sucking everything in. Maybe I was a villain without knowing and noticing it.

Does speaking one’s mind make that person a villain? Does calling out a friend make them a bad friend or person?

Whatever this is and wherever it came from, it seems to be my fate. My sentences come out too cryptic to mean anything at all, I thought to myself; this is why they think I have dark secrets.

The truth is: I am just tired to be who you want me to be, dear Stranger. I am myself and if that means calling out your manipulative ways, well, then tough luck. I love and care about you, but I am not a personal ATM and I am not there to support every dumb or stupid thing you do.

There, I wondered. Was there another letter to a Stranger in my subconscious? I pushed that thought away as soon as it had appeared. I had grown out of that phase a long while ago.

If only I knew how be kinder when I needed to be. And if only I had words when I felt like I was born to be silent.

If only and what if…

But I don’t believe in regrets and never did. And I still believe that everything happens for a reason. That people are in our lives when we need them and not when we want them. And that everything we experience is a lesson for the future – good or bad, there is no time and no place for regrets and guilt or shame.

I closed the lid of my laptop, unaware of the words I had just spilled onto my screen. After pushing the publish-button, I simply closed the lid and stopped thinking at all. No re-writing. No editing or proof-reading. I gave up. On myself and everything surrounding me. My mind became blank. As if it was empty. Everything good in me was flowing out through that dark hole in my soul and in my heart.

Fullstop.

💜🩷❤️🖤🩶🤍🧡💛💚🩵💙

It took these 818 words 23 minutes to be written

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Saturday morning musings

Trigger warning: self-harm

The heat does weird things to me… My mind and thoughts work even weirder than they already do.

While having a cup of coffee, I saw my self-harm scars for the first time in a while. I mean, I see them all the time, but I saw them.

I am an eccentric person, there is no use denying that. Even when I self-harm(ed). Every scar is a reminder. It is a mark of this or that happening. There is the scar that reminds me of that weekend in October. There is the scar that reminds me of the pain when Jamie passed away. There are the scars that remind me of my twin flame. The scar for Paulo and the scars that remind me of my teenage years and the pain I couldn’t deal with. There is the scar from my lowest moment ever. There is the scar that my grandma mocked “if you want to kill yourself, you need to cut your wrist and not your arm. But you are too stupid for that too”. There are the scars from being overwhelmed with life.

Every mark on my arms has a reason to be there.

I am under the impression that they are more visible right now, maybe because I’ve got a tan, or they are swollen from the heat, I don’t know…

What I do know is that I am not ashamed or embarrassed by them. I am not hiding them. The scars on my skin are telling my story. Silent, without screaming and without being flashy.

I believe that I am a person with many layers to peel away, but I am very picky who gets to see and peel those layers away. It’s hard for me to trust and be open with people, but once I am, I am 100% me. And it’s not easy to handle me… I am Very aware of that.

Anyway… These were my weird thoughts over a cup of coffee this morning. 😘

I am what I am and what I am needs no excuses

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What’s in a picture? A stream of consciousness.

Sometimes, I see life differently. There is beauty in the mundane and there is magic in the things we see daily. I took the above picture without being aware of it. In fact, this is only a tiny part of a larger photo, but this small part is so much more expressive than the rest of the picture is.

Every day on my way from work back home, I have to stop at the same red lights before entering a roundabout. That day, it was raining and as I was waiting, I took a photo of the street signs to send to my son. I did not send the picture because the light turned to green. I drove home and did everything a mom does when she comes home after a ten-hour shift. In the evening, I scrolled through my phone and looked at the photo, and I noticed the reflection on the right end. I zoomed in, cropped it, added a little bit of contrast, and was in awe of this little piece of magic. You can see the rain on the pavement – a puddle, and the wind moving it. (or aftermath of a car driving through it.) You can see the lights turning from red to orange… And the reflection of a couple of posts. That’s all there is to see. And after this explanation, there is not much magic left.

I had no intention of posting this photo on the blog because it is on IG (micqu_1), but this morning I had a conversation with an online friend who was unable to sleep. I wanted to entertain him. Little did I know that by the end of the day his blog would gone. It leaves me sad and I am wondering what I did wrong, because that is how my mind works: he is gone – must have something to do with me. It sounds conceited, but I cannot see any fault in my behaviour. Maybe that makes it all worse. His last message was that he hopes he helped me in some way. But the truth is, I did not ask for his help and I did not need it either. I know, that is hurtful too – it sounds as if I did not need said friend; but those are two different things, in my book. I don’t want or need anyone to save me. I don’t want or need anyone’s help – except if I explicitly ask for it. And that – as you all know – is something I rarely do. What I crave however, what I need, is people to be silly with, to take the weight off my shoulder for a moment or two.

I am not weak, I never was. I am not strong, I never was. But I get lonely and needy sometimes – quite often. So much so that I even invited an almost stranger for Christmas – he declined (sadly), but it is all good. My neediness is not about being saved, it is about being seen and about approval. It is about being liked with the walls I built for myself, and without them. It is about being liked despite the ugliness I carry in my soul. It is about being liked with my nerdiness, my flirty side, my intelligence, my clumsiness and my absolutely inappropriate sense of humour. I am not looking to save or fix anyone, but if I can help in any way – by listening, laughing, sharing music, writings or whatever comes to mind – even money in a special case, then I will do that. I am not a very open person, in fact, quite a few people think that I am distant and unapproachable. It is not true, I am just very careful and don’t easily trust for fear of being judged. But we judge and are judged all the time.

I am thinking a lot about roots these days. I don’t feel as if I have roots. I have a family – both parents are still alive, but they are strangers. I would never rely on them. Never. I never could rely on them as a kid or teenager, and now I don’t have to. But I feel rootless. There is no family, and yet there is. I mean, it’s my (half)sister’s birthday next Sunday and I am invited, but there will mostly be family from her mother’s side, not from our dad’s. And that is okay. It really is. But it will show me again, that she has a set of roots I will never have. I have my kids though, and I am painfully aware that I am their safety net.

How did I go from explaining about a photo I randomly took to stripping some of my soul? I don’t know. It’s not the music I am listening to, and definitely not the online meeting I suffered through this afternoon. No, maybe it is indeed that my mood is shifting.

With you in my life, I don’t go under.

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a momentary lapse of reason

My heart is racing, but not in a good way. It’s the closest thing to anxiety. Tears are welling up in my eyes, and my throat is constricted. I breathe in, heavily, but there is not enough air to soothe my burning lungs, nor to slow my beating heart. Your lust pulls me apart at my seams, I will never be who I was. A violent surge of need shakes my core. If only you were real, if only you were not the fantasy of a poet’s mind. If only my written words could be a reality. If only…

But now, I am sitting here, imagining how it would be to be in love. To be loved in return. To be wanted and needed, and respected. And the pain, it grows in me. Every day, I get up and do what I have to do. Routines I don’t like anymore, with people who I once loved. If you were there, to care and understand, it would be easier, but you only exist in the pages of my journal. My mind runs many miles every day, to escape my self, my reality. Do I have a cold heart? Am I freezing? Can I even feel what I am longing to feel? Hunting ghosts and chasing phantom pains.

Heart still racing (or again?), I am thinking of you – my fantasy man. Your breath against my skin. Your lust filling my senses. I am brainwashed into loving you – loving someone who does not exist. Brainwashed into following your orders – orders I want to hear from my lover. But it feels so good, and I can’t resist these forbidden fantasies. Every release starts and ends with you on my mind – being almost perfect in fulfilling each other’s desires. I need someone who takes care of me and who loves me. Someone who understands me. Someone who cherishes me. But do I have it in me to accept such devotion? The intensity of one soul seeping into mine? I have never known and never experienced anything like this and it scares me. I am vulnerable and fragile. Not because my heart was broken too many times, but because I broke it myself too many times. Want, need, greed, expectations… it breaks the heart too. Or maybe, I left too many pieces of my heart in the hands of people who didn’t want it?

The anxiety comes and goes in waves today. It is as if someone is thinking of me and my heart races towards them, and when their thought is forgotten, my heartbeat slows. Is there such a connection of souls? I believe there is.
I am full of overwhelming need today, and there is no one who can begin to catch my falling mind. And I can’t outrun myself. Every touch is too much and not enough. Not enough.

*****

Pink Floyd – sorrow

This song appeared on the album “A Momentary Lapse of Reason” (1987, EMI)

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After the night comes a new morning.

It’s close to midnight. I just took out the trash from the kitchen to put it in the bins outside. I intended to get ready for bed soon. But I got held up.

It is quiet outside, and cold. Freezing. The air smells like snow, and the wind is picking up. There were storm warnings on the news, but everything was calm until now. The trees are waving in the wind; it is the only sound I can make out—just the wind jostling the trees.

These days, I don’t like going outside during the day. I go for walks at night, when I am sure not to cross anyone. When I am in the garden, I go inside when I hear the neighbour’s voices. And, honestly, I am content in my bubble. I wonder if I am slowly turning into an agoraphobic person.

I don’t miss people. I don’t miss socialising because I get my fix of people online, without having to face them or having to speak to them – and let’s not forget, I (37) have three kids (15, 11, 9) and a husband (42) at home.

What gets to me most is that I am never alone. There is not a moment when I can be completely alone without anyone around. We are living in a house, with three floors. But it is quite open, and some walls are still bare. If you are watching a movie on floor 3, you can hear the dialogue on floor 1. (Same with phone calls and all that).***

Always having someone close, that’s draining for me. And I am living with people who I actually like. Still, it gets suffocating.

So here I am, leaning against the front door’s frame, feeling the cold wind on my face, breathing. Breathing in. Breathing out. Smiling. Breathing in. Breathing out.

For now, I am okay—ups and downs; the usual. I am busy writing; for work, for me, for others… I am listening to lots of music, old and new. I am even discovering new skills in the kitchen – and I was already quite talented there…

Another three weeks of lockdown are ahead of us in Luxembourg. Covid-19 cases are still on the rise, and people are dying every day from complications associated with the virus. Three more weeks of homeschooling and being mindful and grateful. I am a lucky woman. Nothing will ever be the same.

It’s after midnight, and I close the front door. Rain is beginning to fall. The trees are still dancing in the wind, casting shadows under orange streetlights.

Tomorrow is a new day, and we are still here, still sane and safe and healthy.

Goodnight.

*** you enter the house on floor three. There is a small open space used as an office (by my husband, Patrick), a bathroom with a bathtub, and two bedrooms. The master bedroom and my son’s room. Going down to floor two. Here we have my daughters’ bedrooms, a bathroom with a shower, a technical room, and my book/CD shelves are here too. Going down to floor one. Here is an open space living room, dining area, and kitchen with access to the patio and the garden. There is also a half bath and something we call basement (with the washing machine, dryer, freezer, many tools…) Our house is rather small, even if it sounds big. It gets cramped to live here as a family of 5. We are living on 139m2 (which equals 1500 sq ft). There is no garage, no attic, no basement. I love our home, though. We had this house built for us and moved in December 2017. It’s the first house that feels like a real home. I will grow old here. And that’s a happy thought.

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What if things were different? (stream of consciousness)

March 2017

In 2017, my exhaustion was already visible in my eyes. The depression that accompanied me for the last years was just beginning. I had no idea then how much worse it would be. I just knew something was very off, but I had no idea how to keep myself afloat.

Sometimes, I wonder if my mental struggles began because I had to start to work. The timing is uncanny. Don’t get me wrong; I love my job. I love working at a nursery and teaching the babies and toddlers new things. I love seeing their evolution and helping them to accomplish new milestones.

But

Since I started working in late 2016, I stopped writing fiction. Since I started working, I am sick more often. Since I started working, I had migraines more often (twice monthly until I started acupuncture). Since I started working, my mental health began to decline. Maybe it is just a coincidence. But what if it is not? What if I would be happier (and saner) being at home, taking care of the house and the kids, and spending my time writing?

I love getting up in the morning and going to work. I love how fast time flies, and I even love the “rush hour” when the kids eat (or we feed the little ones) and before they take their nap. I am working part-time. I could have the best of both worlds. But my work is exhausting. I am not only playing with kids. I am constantly observing them, writing reports, planning new activities to stimulate their mental and physical development. And of course, the planned activities need to be carried out too…

I have been home again (on paid sick leave) for the last week. I can almost feel how I am getting calmer and how my mood takes a boost. I am still in a lot of pain, and after my injection a week ago, I was ordered to rest and do nothing. Or not much. And it makes me feel good. Or better. I need this time-out to care for myself. I neglected myself for far too long.

And of course, my emotions are on a rollercoaster. I feel guilty for being happier at home alone (and in pain) than being at work. They manage well without me. Just like the last time, one colleague got in touch; I am not missed. And that bugs me; I have to say. My work is good, but clearly not as good that it makes people miss me. Maybe it’s because even at work, I keep to myself? I don’t know. With my injured shoulder, I am not much use at work anyway. (And due to varying pain-levels, I am not reliable right now either.)

Now, these last weeks, I started writing again. I am also working on changing our family diet: fewer carbohydrates, less sugar, no alcohol, but many more vegetables and protein, and lots of ginger-flavoured water and green tea. The kids are not happy, but the change is visible. Not on the scale, but we have more energy, and stupid as it may sound, our skins look better too. It’s the little things.

As you can see, I had a lot of time to think. Rest assured, I don’t regret anything. Everything happens for a reason. I needed to get a job because one income didn’t pay the bills of a family with three kids. Easy as that. Writing doesn’t pay the bills, working at a nursery does. At what cost, though? Is my physical decay (melodramatic Cathy) due to my mental struggles?

Did I recently explain that I don’t believe in regrets? Well, for me it is true.

Regrets make us live in the past, and the past often makes us miserable. Either because we were hurt or because we are longing for the happier times that we think we remember. Every choice I made, every decision I took brought me to the place where I am now. And even when I am depressed and melancholy, I believe that I am learning from this experience. I sound like a lunatic. I firmly believe this. I also think that people step into our life for a reason, and we are learning from all of them: the good and the bad. I don’t ever hate anyone. In fact, I am always trying my best to see every side of a story. The funny thing is, when we interact with someone, we exchange parts of ourself for parts of them, and like that, we will forever be a part of each other. (Obviously, I am alluding to people who are close to us for a part of the journey… Although strangers can change our lives too – I am dropping that train of thought for now. I am turning in circles, and my head hurts, lol)

Sometimes we have to let people go. And it is hard because selfishly, we want to keep them in our life. They make us feel good, and we choose to ignore how much they are suffering. And again, I could never be angry with someone who needs to protect themselves. I understand it. And I accept it. That doesn’t mean that it will not make me sad. After all, I am a very sensitive and emotional woman. Compassionate too. I struggle with people leaving my life, though. The more they mean to me, the harder it is to let them go. That’s the same for everyone, right? I can’t deal with rejection very well. It makes me feel wrong and unlikable. It unleashes a myriad of negative emotions inside of me. No matter what happens and why friendships end or evolve in different directions, I always blame myself. I am not good enough, not beautiful enough, not engaged enough, not intelligent enough, not funny enough, not serious enough, not sexy enough – I am simply not enough.

I would never change the past. Again: no regrets. I would not even change my childhood or adolescence, where I was emotionally abused and neglected. Because without it, I would not be who I am. And I am unique with all my flaws and shortcomings.

I am weird. Sorry. I am in a weird mood.

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Tbt photo

I was actually trying to find a picture of me when I was pregnant; I mean, I have three kids, how hard can it be? Very hard! I found exactly three photos, and in only one you can actually see my belly – but that picture is blurry.

The idea for this post came from the many pregnant women in my life right now. Four of my friends are pregnant. And they will all give birth between November and December. There is my colleague at work, my neighbour, my sister-in-law, and an old friend from school. Try as I might, I cannot really remember my pregnancies. I mean, I do, yet I don’t. When your life and body are turned upside down for almost a year, and after that, you are sleep-deprived and suffering from breastfeeding dementia, I think it encourages memory loss.

The picture I shared was taken 12 days after my son’s birth. I was a couple of weeks shy of my 22nd birthday.

I love that picture. It’s very serene and peaceful, filled with love; protective too. That little guy on the picture is 14 years old and tall and handsome. He is an amazing human being who does his thing, never following any trends or pressures. I admire him. I want to be like that too. But I am an attention seeker, and I need to be validated all the time. Funnily enough, the only thing that I am very sure of is my parenting skills. I am sure that I am messing up all the time, but those three little people who grew from me and within me, are the best I ever created.

I want them to be fearless and kind and grateful. I want them to be considerate and never sell themselves short. At the same time, I want them to be modest. I want my kids to be good-hearted and tolerant. I want them to be open-minded and accepting of things and people that are different. I want them to be curious and thirsty with lust to learn and to live. Above all, I want them to know that whenever they fail, they are loved, and their mom – their parents, are there to consolidate them and help to resolve any issue that might arise. So far… I think we are on the right track.

When I feel down or bad, when depression devours me, then I talk to my kids, hug them, or just watch them, and I am reminded that I am needed, that I am not here in vain. I have a purpose.

This is all rambling just to say: I love my children. I love my family. I cannot for the life of me, imagine to be without them. They make me whole.

My husband plays a big part in this too. We have been a couple for almost 20 years now. Mind you; I am 36 – I know, I know, I am bragging, but I am allowed to do that here on my blog. I would never trade my husband for another man. He is handsome, intelligent, makes me laugh, doesn’t judge, and even after all these years, we are still talking – about everything. There are no secrets, no lies – everything is out in the open. Sometimes, we say things and grow silent because we don’t know how to react. We tend to ignore those elephants and keep living our peaceful lives. Once in a while, I am afraid that these things come back to bite us in the ass, but in the end – we are a strong couple. And we are this strong and weird and odd and unconventional because it is us.

My husband is the love of my life. So very different from me, but I don’t care. He is the most amazing man, and I want to grow old and fat with him. I want to make mistakes and cry and laugh and forgive. So far, I did all of it, and he never ran. Try finding a gem like that!

This turned out to be a stream of consciousness-y post.

Time to say goodnight.

I hope you all find someone to love, to have, and to hold.

*hugs*

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Et le temps court…

My bed is empty. My mind is full. I am tired, fighting a headache. Lying in the dark, I am listening to the rain. The window is open, and I feel the breeze on my skin. I know I should be asleep, it would ease the headache and maybe prevent the bad mood I am sure I will suffer in the morning. But I can’t fall asleep. I had troubles letting go the last few nights — dreams; not a nightmare, just unsettling dreams.

I have so many things to say and to share, and yet, they don’t matter, and so I keep them to myself.

There are times when I share most everything on my mind. I let my fingers write, and my mind think, and I just float on that wave that jumps from one thought to the next. I can’t seem to do that right now. (Although I am doing it) It just feels like stealing your time and attention. I know that you give it freely or else you wouldn’t be here, but my mind is trying to tell me that no one cares and that I don’t matter?

Why am I sabotaging myself this much? After all, I am an okay person. Ordinary, but okay.

I ordered new music today (her name is Calla – animal choir). And I watched two movies (untamed heart and pump up the volume) with my favourite actor (Christian Slater). I also listened to music by Coastlands (postrock from Oregon/USA), burnt down an incense stick (sandalwood) and ate pizza (prosciutto). I read a couple of pages in my book (the I undiscovered gyrl by Allison Burnett)…

Who cares?! I want you to care, to be honest, because I want you to care about me. But again, who cares about this narcissistic vanity.

Do you dream about specific colours? I am used to having dreams that repeat themselves. They used to be in a green hue. Like a green veil or fog in front of my eyes… Nowadays that fog or veil is blue, but the images I see – the pictures in my dream are still the same.

Maybe the breeze and the rain will let me fall asleep eventually anyway… Who knows?

The title of this post is French and could be translated to “the time keeps running”

*hugs*

Cathy