Category: musings

Meh- day

First, let me apologise.

Why? Well, hear me out. My mind is a complex thing, and I would lie if I said that I understand the weirdness within.

Anyway.

It was a meh-day. I was productive enough, even though I had a slow start. I slept in. A luxury, considering I am a 38 year old with kids. But the husband sent the kids off to school, he went to work, and I was left on my own. Last Monday, I began a new routine. For my shoulder, mainly, but also now, I am too proud to give in. I mean, this week. I am too proud to give up this week. Every day, I spend 10 minutes on the WaterRower the husband bought but only used once, and I spend 10 minutes doing the exercised my physiotherapist taught me. (Just for reference, I had surgery for my shoulder in March, and I am on sick leave until the end of June, due to complications). This morning, I had a hard time getting myself to tie the laces of my sneakers and get on the torture device. But I did it. Success. I just need to remember not to think, because similar to ironing, I tend to overthink and end up angry for no reason.

Exercise done, I had no lunch, but watched reruns of Little House on the Prairie. Simultaneously, I wrote an Instagram post about my publications and completed the daily challenges of my phone games. Exciting times.

An hour later, I began thinking, “what are you doing?! No one cares. Delete! Delete!”

I did not delete it, but now I had that thought in my mind. And urgh… Stupid mind and stupid thought.

But then I thought, “well, someone cares. There are people who read and politely show that they read by clicking the like button. They care.”

It made me feel guiltier. But hey, it also made me grateful. Real and honest? I am thankful for anyone who engages with my train of thoughts from time to time. I have been doing this for a long while now, and it has never been and will never be taken for granted. It’s the little things that matter most. The ones we almost don’t do because we falsely believe that they don’t matter anyway and they will go unnoticed. They don’t. Believe me, they don’t.

Tonight, I ate way too much bad food and watched Thor with the fam – even Ollie, my 16-year-old son, watched the movie with us. The movie ended, and everyone fled the scene. I mean, if they had stayed, one of the parents could have asked them to clear the table from our empty plates and glasses. Better run.

We watched a couple of scenes from a German comedian – Torsten Sträter. We, my husband and I. I found Torsten years ago online and like him because his humour is adult and based on language. And, for me, he is sexy as fuck. Pardon my language. Husband recently discovered him after a short segment in a different late-night show where Torsten openly talked about his depression, his burnout, and all that. My husband recognised me in some things that were said, and he recognised himself too. And I think ever since we are watching that guy together, the understanding between us shifted.

Honestly, I don’t like watching any comedy with people around. I am too fast to catch up on irony or jokes made with words. Most people aren’t. And that leaves me laughing while people around are still processing what was said. It makes me look weird. I shouldn’t care, but I laugh pretty loud, and I don’t want to be annoying.

Even later tonight, I noticed that my arm and biceps hurt again. Maybe I should not have carried a bag with groceries. But, I mean, I have been “working out” this week; why can’t I lift stuff? Hmmm… Maybe, because my doctor told me last Monday that I can’t return to work in a week but have to stay home for longer?! That could be it.

Either way, the day was… It’s just that feeling. The feeling when you are waiting for someone who is not coming. The feeling when you think that something is not right. And I really really don’t want to add to any online negativity anymore. There are people on Twitter who are constantly complaining. Complaining doesn’t change the situation though, actions do.

Actions do… That is something I learned from experience.

Be kind. Goodnight. And if I didn’t make much sense, I apologise, I just let my fingers float and did not censor my jumbled mind.

Lots of love from me to you. ❤💜❤💜

Advertising Space

The following is a post I just shared on IG 💜❤💜❤💜

It’s Friday (I think). Let me tickle your memory for a moment. I am an author who published 5 books since 2018. And they are all ready to be devoured by your hungry minds. There are two options to get your hands on a copy of these masterpieces. Either on Amazon as paperback and ebook or from my blog (link in bio). If you buy your paperback from the blog, you can pay via PayPal, and your copy will be signed with a handwritten note from yours truly.
Every word in these books was written by me. And every cover picture was taken by me too. It’s a complete solo project, created with lots of passion and love. Never perfect, but always real. A lot like me.

Out of the Dark and Into the Light: a poetry collection. It’s a mostly fictitious journey through the year 2020.

A Life in Frames: short stories and flash fiction. In this book, I am trying to showcase my writing style.

Heart of Stone: a romantic novel

Drowning in a Sea of voices: a poetry collection

Unquiet Minds: a poetry collection. This was the first time I ever wrote my real name under my writing and I was a nervous wreck when I published it.

Delete & repeat

Picture of me

I tend to delete pictures off IG. Most importantly, when they are more private or if my face is on them. I post them, leave them up for a couple of hours and then I feel stupid that I thought I was important enough to share my private stuff.

I mentioned it before, but in some ways, it always feels different on here. And, let’s be honest, I am not sharing my face here all that much either.

Anyway… Here is the caption I wrote under the pic:

This is an adhesive capsulitis 5 weeks after an acromioplasty, biceps tendonesis, and subacromial decompression. All these beautiful words just mean that some bone was shaved away, my biceps was moved and reattached to a different place, and some room was made for the ligaments to move easier. And now I am in pain again because of a threatening frozen shoulder because my shoulder capsule is inflamed. As you can see, there is nothing to see from the outside apart from three tiny scars. Two on the front of the shoulder and one on the back.
The doctor prescribed eight more weeks to recovery and more physiotherapy.

And I feel like it is one of those days when a song from the past feels like a comforting blanket.

Moonlight and Citylight (or village lights…)
Taken tonight.

The Lost Stories (repost from April 2019)

Sometimes I wish there was something in my head to record and store thoughts and ideas for later use. (A brain maybe?!) For instance, I was brushing my teeth, and I had a vision of a first scene for a novel. I formulated sentences and all. When I spat the toothpaste out and rinsed my mouth, I took my phone to write it down, but my mind was blank. It happened before, and it will happen again, I know. But I wonder if I will forget the next bestseller this way.

It was something like this…

He closed the door with the heel of his foot and took off his mask. He shuffled a few steps to the fridge, took out a can of beer and made his way to the couch. It had seen better days; he had too. With a sigh and a groan he fell down and closed his eyes, assessing his body after today’s job. One of his ribs hurt, his left eye was swollen, and his feet hurt. He bent over to take off the tight boots and let them fall down on the floor. He wiggled his toes; freedom. His cape got stuck when he sat back again. Cursing, he got rid of the piece of cloth. He tried to throw it across the room to his boots, but it refused to fly. Just his luck. He was tired of his job, and it dawned on him – it was time to retire as a superhero. After two decades of saving humans from their own stupidity and not once facing an evil counterpart, it was time to stop. Being a superhero was annoying, but what else was he supposed to do?

There was a knock at his door; he didn’t get up. He had earned a couple of hours of rest. But the slip of paper being pushed under his door spiked his curiosity. It was an odd thing to happen. Mysterious.

(…)

Does this happen to you too? Do you imagine a story but before you can write it down, it has faded from your memory? I call them lost stories. 

Repost because it happened again today… 🙂

Be kind? Nah, not really.

That title, though, right? I consider myself as being a kind person, showing empathy towards every person I meet online or face to face. I try understanding reasons for behaviours and, true if I like someone, I make up excuses for their ill behaviours too. I am respectful of limits and boundaries. And I am convinced these things help with the quality of my work too.

When I am asked to keep a secret, I do. When someone tells me they don’t want to talk, well, then I don’t push. Not because I don’t care, but because I care. When a friend asks for advice, a shoulder to lean on, then I am there. And when they need space to deal with their own personal lives, then I allow that space.

To be honest, I thought that was called kindness and respect. But as I was taught some hours ago, it makes me seem like a fake and aloof.

I am flabbergasted, to say the least. And ever since I was called the above by a woman who I consider a very good friend, in an email that came out of the blue last night, I keep questioning myself. Did I not ask about her? Did I talk too much about myself? Is sharing information (‘I had my surgery and am recovering well’) the same as using someone as an emotional dumpster?

Am I too selfish and egomaniac to have friends? Am I a narcissist? A user? An emotional vampire? Am I that socially awkward?

See, I am not one who easily trusts others. I don’t pour my heart out all the time, and I try dealing with all my issues without burdening anyone. I am one of those who replies “tired” when I am asked how I am, and am not well.

I don’t have many friends. The ones I have, I cherish them and love them with all my might. But even those friends rarely get to see the whole picture of me. Is that something that makes me fake? Because if it is, it is completely unintentional. I am often holding back because my views are peculiar and not always mainstream, and I am scared to be judged and rejected.

Since 2014/2015, my life changed a lot. I changed a lot. Back then, I had more friends than I do now. I seem to alienate them one by one with who I am.

I always considered myself to be a kind person. Maybe I am not. Maybe I am just fake and selfish.

Words cut deeper than knives. My fragile mind turns in circles, and I am falling into a self-punishing hole.

What is happiness?

Apparently, happiness is the feeling you had as a child, when everything was allowed and nothing was wrong.

But… I never felt that way. Or I can’t remember it, at least. There was always someone to take care of, feelings and emotions of adults to take into account. There were always adults to be considerate of.

I mean, I can remember that I was told to stop coughing when I had pneumonia. My grandfather worked shifts and wanted to relax watching Quincy or Columbo or something like that. And my coughing on the couch was considered a nuisance.

(I was 8 when I had acute bronchitis, and because it was not taken care of for a long while, it turned into pneumonia. I was not allowed to leave the bed or the couch for two weeks, and I remember that I had a high fever and that my chest hurt a lot… I read a lot during that time. A lifelong love for reading was born right there and then.)

I cannot remember a moment when I felt safe and carefree. Not until I was 31. And by that time I was married, mom of 3 kids and lived in a house, complete with a mortgage. I was always on the pursuit of happiness. And never really found it. Until that night in Brussels where a hug from a stranger put together some broken pieces in my soul.

When do I feel a sense of happiness?

For me, happiness is an hour of selfishly listening to music – preferably loud, singing along, and not having to take care of anything or anyone.

But, happiness for me also means looking at my kids and feeling proud of the young people they are becoming. I am proud because I lack role models in parenting, but my kids are awesome anyway. Sure, they could try tidying their rooms more. But they are kind and considerate, opinionated, and interested in the world. They are intelligent – we discuss a lot and speak about everything and anything. I would not be who I am now without those three young people who are only alive because I exist. Without women, there is no life on earth.

What is happiness for you?

I wonder if I am not looking in the right places or maybe, happiness is an emotion I cannot identify and label because I didn’t experience it in my formative years.

You see, today, children are taken out of families for less than the emotional neglect and abuse I suffered. And I consider myself lucky that I was able to grow up with my mom and grandma and my father who was at the periphery of my life too. And still, I cannot help but think that if a social worker had known or a teacher had cared, my life would have taken a different turn.

But… No regrets. I wouldn’t be who I am, and I would not think the way I do, if my past had been different.

xx

Sunday morning song

This one was written this morning. The sun was shining through the window, and I was thinking about the past. Not dwelling on it, not missing it. Just remembering. It was nice—a serene moment.

I noticed that many people are negative these days. They are vile and feel like the victims. They are afraid someone is gossiping about them, and yet, they are doing the same. It happens online and in my daily life too. If people spent more time focussing on themselves and what they have instead of focussing on others and what they want, they would be more content.

Yesterday, I had a discussion about merch and art. I did not get the artist’s point; I did not understand it. The other party was trying to explain. And after some back and forth, I conceded that I misunderstood the artist’s intention. It was a discussion that was respectful and informative. And yet, I was worried that I had offended the other party and got in touch in the evening planning on apologising – if necessary. Obviously, I had not offended them, and that was due to the tone of the discussion.

I am confronted with so much negativity all the time that I noticed that I am walking on eggshells and always afraid to step on someone’s toes. It is exhausting. And it is surprising when someone is an adult about a discussion.

We could all do with some positive vibes these days.

Enjoy your Sunday.

Flash #12

Dear Stranger

It has been a while. Lots happened, and yet, nothing changed. A lot has changed. The way we are together has changed. As if there is a friendship building. Slowly. And apart from the dirty fantasies and sex calls. It feels comforting. There are no expectations and no pressure. Just there. A while ago, this would not have been possible. A normal, real conversation would have been unthinkable. But it is not anymore. And I am grateful for that. I am not in love; you aren’t either. But there is connection and affection tinting our brief chats. For years, I wanted you to see me. And now, now you do. It took a pandemic to make you see me. It shouldn’t be like this, but it matters. It is important for me that you see me, and I feel serene when you are near.

Forever yours,

Sweetie

Flash #3

And if I am falling? Who will pick me up? No one will because I don’t allow anyone close enough to see me fail – or succeed. I don’t have secrets; I just don’t tell everything. And if I am struggling in my tired mind, when my mind tells me sweet little lies? Then I’ll fight with myself. That’s how I do it. And it is the only way I know how to do it. If anyone wanted to support me, I would not allow it. Out of fear that my insecurities and failures are too ugly. Insecurities and self-sabotage are lonely friends feeding of lies they told in the darkest hours of the night.

Flash #2

It’s a battlefield. Inside. A knot of nerves. One too many butterflies. Too much of that tingling feeling in her belly. Clammy hands are gripping the steering wheel. Knuckles white. Itchy palms. And that smile on her lips? It leaves dimples in her cheeks. There are one hundred directions to go, but which one is right? She is not driving. Her foot is not pushing down on the pedal. She closes her eyes and remembers how he held her tight. One too many butterflies are doing summersaults in her belly. A knot of nerves. Inside. It’s a feeling a lot like love. Love is a battlefield.