Unquiet Minds

I bring to you, Unquiet Minds. A poetry collection written over the last six years.

Unquiet Minds

This is the link to buy the ebook version from smashwords. The kindle and paperback versions will go live in 72 hours. Keep your eyes on the blog. I will share a link once it is live.

Thank you for your support. Share this book with your friends and followers, please.

Muah…

Cathy

most successful post

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

A very personal post

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

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

Looking for love and affection. It never stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a great day…
… I will too

Cathy – the woman with the headache,lol

mind’s vomit

It’s too easy for me to cling to people who make me happy. This also makes it easy for me to doubt every little thing they do or don’t do, when I am overly tired or not in a good mood. (Like today.) Questions like: why? How? arise and there is no answer. Simply because some things happen without a reason. And that is perfectly fine or it should be. That, of course, clashes with my mantra of “everything happens for a reason”. It’s self-sabotaging and I know it. Logically, I know it. But I can’t prevent it. I can’t stop it from happening.

Is it a trust issue? Or is it a self-confidence issue? A mix of both? There are rare moments when I can see myself through the eyes of an other. During those moments I see a different person. Someone loveable.

I am a simple woman. Make me laugh and tell me how awesome I am and you will have a piece of my heart. But only if it happened at the right moment. The right moment being when I am in a free and serene headspace.

Yes, I think too much for my own good. And I doubt everything nice that happens to me, because in my life, happiness always came at a price. I am scared that my happiness is fake, and that if the people inspiring it are seeing me for who I am, they will turn their backs on me and take the happiness with them when they are leaving. Please don’t leave.

After all, I am leading a good life. Not always conventional, but a good life nonetheless. And I am not scared to ruin my own life; I am scared to make other people’s life a burden – as long as I am a daily part of it. I am demanding. Often, I am not afraid to ask for the things that fulfill my demands.

All in all, I am a pretty amazing woman. I am humourous, sensual, (I like to think that I am) intelligent enough to hold a conversation. I am kind and grateful, and trying to please those around me (without neglecting my own self). But I am also clingy and possessive and I don’t trust easily. I am not jealous. But I don’t deserve love, and I wonder why someone would spend time with me. It’s deeply rooted in my childhood. Things were broken inside of me and they cannot be fixed. Those damages overshadow the logical and they ruin everything good.

I am tired today. I couldn’t sleep. And these thoughts needed an outlet. I am unapologetic. And I know that I am overwhelming – in a bad way. But I am also honest about who I am and how I feel. No one is forced to read my words. But if you did read this far, I thank you. Some call this writing stream of consciousness. Today I call it my mind’s vomit.

Have a great day. Thank you for your eyes and ears.

xx

Quote 3/3

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

Welcome to the third and last quote of this challenge. I was nominated by the lovely Paul to share three quotes. I like Paul. Read his blog and you will know why I do. Go! Dive head first into some decent writing. And bring pizza. He likes pizza.

The Rules

  • Thank the person who nominated you
  • Post a quote for 3 consecutive days (1 quote each day)
  • Nominate 3 new bloggers each day

Now, about my quote: it is crude and raw and raunchy. It lacks respect and at the same time, it promises the addressee to be remembered forever. Romantic. It is not a publicly known quote – it is something that was said to me a while ago; a lifetime ago, that’s why I consciously chose to keep the author of it private. Still, I love it so much, because it has meaning. Of course, it is not a quote you can share with everyone; some people might be disgusted or offended. (If you feel offended, then so be it. I will not apologise at this point in time.)

My last nominees for this challenge are:

Pulkit Awasthi

Kent Wayne

Duc Nguyen

I hope you enjoyed this. And for everyone who is disappointed that the quotes I chose were not as deep or touching as they expected them to be, I apologise. It has to do with a tired and detached mind.

Good night and see you soon. Thank you so much for your ongoing support. It means more than I can say.

xx

My day – my way

Bitch-level today: off the charts.

And I am surprised by myself. Usually I am way kinder. But today, I can’t deal with any bullshit.

Simultaneous, I am laughing about myself because I am so aware of it.

I’ll have a drink and watch some stupid TV show now…

How’s your day so far?

Conversation

Mom’s making pizza dough and rolling it out, throwing flour and all.

Girl one: what are you doing?

Mom: vegan steak

Girl one: okay

Girl one leaves the kitchen in search for girl two and boy.

Girl one, girl two, and boy are called for dinner 15 minutes later.

Girl two: what’s for dinner?

Girl one: vegan steak

Girl two: but that’s without meat and it smells like pizza

Girl one: mom said vegan steak

Girl two rolls her eyes and looks through the window of the oven

Girl two (happy voice): mom made pizza

Boy: our family is crazy. Mom I like it when you are crazy

Mom laughing, slicing pizza, and singing along to a song on the radio.

*Just the daily random madness at my house

It’s going to be okay

Life’s a bitch, but it’s going to be okay.

My daughter had a nightmare about me dying. I tried to comfort her as best as I could, but there was a thought I couldn’t shake. I will die. Some day I will. And I cannot change it. And when she was finally asleep again, i felt guilty. So many times i thought about dying. I thought about ending my life. No – I will not kill myself, no need to worry. But I have these thoughts and I am aware that those are thoughts normal people don’t have. I cannot save my children from all the hurt that the world will inflict on them. It’s impossible. But I can try and not add to it. It pains me when my seven year old is bullied. It hurts that she didn’t want to tell me because she didn’t want to make me sad. It pains me when she tells me that she will come to me with everything that bothers her but that I can also come to her with the things that bother me.
Parenting is the best thing I do. It’s one of the few things I am sure of. But there is so much wrong with me that I worry that I will never be the parent they need or deserve. The world is crazy. And I am too.
And I am scared to share. I used to share a lot. But back then, people from my day to day life didn’t read anything I shared. And now I allowed some people in. And I feel ashamed and frightened to share who I really am. I hate this. And I want to scream “help”, but I can’t, and to be fair, I wouldn’t listen to anyone anyway. I need a hug from someone who isn’t a child. Who knew that being married also meant being lonely and longing for human connection.

Life Between Clouds and Feathers – colors (3)

There is a melody in Connor’s thoughts. There is poetry in his mind. Sitting on a bench in a park, he looks like a painting from a different era. Yes, Connor is art. His legs are stretched far from his body, his ankles crossed. A smile is tugging at his lips. From time to time, it is replaced with a frown. Deeply lost in the book, he doesn’t see the ball that is heading right his way. Lost in a world of giants that need to be defeated, and princes who, after slaying dragons, are allowed to marry the king’s daughter… BAM. The round leather collides with Connor’s head, he loses balance, and a laughable shriek escapes his mouth as the full impact of the ball pushes him off the bench. From up close, the grass that is now grazing his cheek has many different shades of green. An observation he stores away for further pondering at a later moment. Internally, Connor courses himself. People are gathering around him, some are pointing their phones in his direction. His cheeks heat with anger and embarrassment, but no tone leaves his lips. In his peripheral vision, he notices red shoes. Red is an angry color. Every color has an emotion for Connor.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” a voice laced with regret and concern whispers. It is followed by a gentle touch on his shoulder. Connor follows the outstretched arm with his eyes, touching a tender spot on his face with his hand. There will be a bruise on his face. Violet and swollen. He gasps when he sees the face of his helper. “It’s not the first time you hurt me. Please, hurt me again.” Brown eyes widen as they connect with Connor’s blue ones and register the words that were said. “It is you.” People are whispering to each other. They are aware of the connection between the two humans in front of them, but how, or why, or when, remains a mystery. Attention spans are reaching an end. Phones are put away. Heads are shaken, and backs are turned. “Connor, I…” Connor lowers his gaze and takes a deep breath. He flinches at the realization that there is still a physical connection between him and his assailant. He tenses at the realization that there is still an emotional connection between him and Thomas. Thomas, who had left him black and bruised before. “No,” Connor whispers to no one in particular, gets his feet back under him and flees the park. He will not be able to ever come back to his favorite spot again. It is soiled with memories. It is soiled with embarrassment. His only regret is that he left his book behind.

It goes both ways

I am a firm believer of “everything happens for a reason” and ” people walk parts of your journey with you for a reason”. Until now, I only applied it to me. This person entered my life for a reason and this person left for a reason. The reasons (phew… Lots of reason here), the reasons aren’t always understandable at first. Most often, we only understand the lesson we learned in hindsight. We are learning from the memories and experiences we made.

I recently understood that this works both ways.

I struggled with the fact that a person is not an active part of my life anymore. It was (and partly it still is) hurting my most sensitive feelings. And I miss him. But the truth is, I don’t miss him. I miss the idea of him. I miss the knowledge that he was just a swipe on the screen away. And while I tried to come to terms with it, using my mantra (everything happens for a reason), I failed to understand that I am not a part of his life anymore either. And as much as I have learned and gained (and lost) from this experience, he learned and gained (and lost) an equal amount of things. Sure, his lessons are certainly different, but they are there.

That thought, honestly, it blew my mind. Of course, I began pulling myself down and insulting myself as being egoistic and self-obsessed the moment I had some time to mull it over.

The fact remains that every coin has two sides. Everything we do has consequences. And sometimes, when we interact with someone, things happen for a reason. For us and for them too.

The lesson I am taking from this, is being even more considerate and kind. We all have our internal struggles. Most are hidden to the public eye.

xx

Cathy

did you make your bed?

Some days existing is hard. Breathing can become a struggle. Being is exhausting. Getting out of bed feels like an unachievable task.

Yesterday a good friend shared a thought with me, and it made total sense. It is about making ones bed in the morning. Here goes…

As I stated above, some days it is hard to find the strength to get out of bed. Making ones bed becomes an insurmountable task. I never bothered to make the beds. I never even considered it. Until we moved, 3 weeks ago. From the first day we lived in our new home, I made the beds. It felt like the right thing to do. Weird and out of character, and yet… The right thing to do. Now, the thought of my friend: if you make the beds, you have a first achievement of the day. Because it is a mundane task, but you did it. And if you had a bad day, you crawl into a made bed at night and you can fall asleep with the fact in mind that you got up that morning and did something. Making the bed was an achievement.

Now, for most people it doesn’t sound like a lot. If you are in a depression, the smallest things become your biggest achievements. A small task can be an insurmountable mountain. (I used the same words twice in two paragraphs, am I losing my mojo or am I just tired?)

It took me a while to admit to my situation. To address it. To ask for help. To speak about it. But it slowly dawns on me that there is no reason to hide the truth.

I am suffering from depression. And it is okay. I am going to be okay. (She said and hadn’t taken her medication in two weeks.)

I am going to undo my made bed, sleeping. Now… Remember, small things can have a huge meaning.

xx

Cathy

Thinking about last year…

Where do I start? This year has been the best and the worst in a long while. But how and why? Well… On the outside, everything went really well. In February, I started the best job I could ever wish for. I am very happy there. I celebrated my tenth wedding anniversary with my husband in August. We built a house together and moved the family into said house last weekend. I reconciled with family members who were mere distant memories. I got a raise at work and a trainee, despite the few hours I work. (26 instead of 40). My kids are doing more or less well. Financially, everything seems to work out too. We are not rich, but we can afford to take the kids to the movies and to the restaurant once in a while. I had to get a new car in April. It drives me from a to b, but it’s not my favourite…
On the outside, everything is looking up.
The inside though, my internal life is a mess. I suffered from a sever bout of depression this year. Worse than ever before, and for the first time, I asked for help. I couldn’t go on the way I was. Asking for help felt like failing, but it also felt like being in control of my damned emotions again. My behaviour was toxic. I cut my skin and pretended that I was marking myself to remember things. I was in complete denial of my own needs and suffered willingly for someone else’s good. For a while, I took meds – I am not taking them right now, and they helped, but I also know that I need to get on without the chemical help. I was overwhelmed with the fast success and I felt inapt and unprepared. For everything. Stepping out of one’s comfort zone is a scary thing. Emotionally, this year was very draining. From dealing with the past and worrying about the future, to coping with the present. I tend to assume and overthink. I often suppose and project, instead of knowing, and that’s what gets me every time. Add people to the mix who are sending mixed signals and are slipping through my fingers when all I want is to keep them close – let’s just say that it was the “coup de grâce”. The cherry on top.
My low self-esteem and the fact that I seldom allow myself to praise myself or be proud of an achievement makes life even harder for me. As it did this year. I guess, my ups and downs are palpable in my writing and in my poetry. Mostly the downs though, because I don’t need to write as much when I am okay. (Or even in a manic phase.) I scare people away with my moods. I am quite overwhelming at times.
I also made friends and lost friends this year. Acquaintances became friends. Daily parts of my life. I was mentioned in the acknowledgements of two different books and a song was written with me in mind. I saw some live music, not a lot, and I bought some of music, I always do – nothing new.

My favourite books this year were “You” and its sequel “Hidden Bodies” by Caroline Kepnes.

My favourite movie was “Paris 05:59 Théo & Hugo”.

My favourite musical release? I couldn’t tell. I simply don’t know since I didn’t listen to all that much different music this year. Though, Spotify lists the following as my most listened artists this year:

  • Pearl Jam
  • IAMX
  • Anathema
  • New Order
  • Kate Bush
  • Tadgh Daly
  • Lone Wolf
  • Fabrizio Paterlini

I read a lot and I wrote a lot, but I couldn’t reach the 400 poems I wrote last year. But I also drank and smoked too much, lol. Again, self-destructive behaviour is one of my patterns.
I loved a lot, and hated very few things, and no people. I stood up for myself and cowered behind bad excuses at times too. I cried more tears than I shed the entire decade before. I felt anxiety and excitement…
And at the end of it all, I am daring to let go of an idea that has been planted in my mind for too long now. I kept holding on for the wrong reasons and now, my mind and my soul have to reconcile and accept that my heart is saying goodbye. I am letting go.

I had a good year. Intense and emotional, but successful too.

To everyone I accepted in my world and didn’t push away – please stay.
To everyone I accepted in my world and who betrayed me – fuck off.
To everyone I accepted in my world and pushed out – I am sorry, but it had to be this way.

To everyone reading this – thank you.

I know my flaws and my qualities and they help me survive.

Thank you all for your support and friendship, have a happy new year.

xx
Cathy

(A lighter version of this was shared on Wattpad…)

music that pulls at the right strings

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:

And, Aiden is right, you know? He does great work with a clothing brand. He gives half of the proceeds he gets from In Music We Trust to a charity. Mind Charity. They care about mental illness in the UK. An important cause. So yes, he is right. No matter how dark it is and how blind I am… I made it through it all. And even if it looks as if I am not doing anything, I am not giving up.

And as I took a drag of my Luckies, I had to laugh. Out loud. Here I am. In my guest room. On the couch. Music in my ears. A book next to me. My phone close by in case someone wanted to reach me (and what do you know – of course, work calls while I am off…). There is an incense stick burning down… And I am doing what I am doing. I am being hard on myself. On top of that, I only smoke when I am not well, and it is self-sabotage, isn’t it? It’s like I know that it is destroying me and not good for me – and yet, I am doing it. But it is better than cutting my skin. Isn’t it? It’s been two weeks since I last felt the need to carve a memory into my skin. A memory that didn’t happen and that sits at my wrist now as a pink reminder that it didn’t happen. I have regrets, and I don’t have any regrets. There are reasons life happens the way it does. Maybe it wasn’t the right time for that memory to be made just yet.

A memory that was made last week was when I went to a concert of Anathema in Luxembourg. I went on my own. For the first time ever I went to a thing with a big crowd all by myself. It was scary as fuck to be there. At the same time, I was proud of myself for going. I mean, I am 34 and confident enough to take the space I need. I saw a good gig. I enjoyed myself, as much as I could. I stood in the back, between the mixing desk and a pillar. All without a drink. It was a clean experience. For a moment, I felt a complete lack of emotions. Scary for someone as emotional as me, right? I felt disconnected in a way. None of my favourite songs was played, maybe that was a reason too, but who am I to complain? These guys have played 50 shows, 11 in a row. And still, they are performing and doing what they do. And then they played The Beginning and the End – still not my most favourite song (again, who am I to complain about their setlist when a band plays for two hours straight?!), but it was the most amazing that night (for me). And as I left the venue with the crowd, I heard people talk. Some were disappointed and ripped everything apart – from the sound to the energy on stage, to the guitarist smoking without a care (and honestly, who fucking cares about that?! Let him smoke all he wants). Some were on that high you only get when you see the most amazing and brilliant music being played on stage. Me, I felt emotionless. I walked through the cold November rain and sat in my car for a while. I just sat there. And I waited. I can’t say what I was waiting for. But I watched the rain on my front window. I watched cars leaving the parking lot. And I was paralysed. My mind was totally blank. And I began to cry. Another good ten minutes passed before I finally was on my drive back home. I didn’t listen to Anathema then. I listened to Tim Buckley. Couldn’t have chosen anything more different… Goodbye and Hello.

Yes, memories were made that night. None of them was immortalised in a picture. It’s all in my head.

Being is hard. Existing is hard. Breathing feels like suffocating sometimes. It really does. But through it all – I am still there. I trust. I feel. I am. I will never be who I am not. I can only be me.

The cigarettes are smoked, the incense stick burned down. The phone rang twice. And music is still playing. The same music. No torture. No soundtrack of my deepest sorrow now. Just there. Pulling at all the right strings.

Thank you to everyone mentioned above. You matter to me. That’s all for now.

Cathy

Would you…

… want a fantasy to come true?

… want a dream to come true?

What will you dream/fantasize about when all is said and done?

What happens if everything goes wrong?

What happened if everything turns out better than anticipated?

What if. . . ?

And what if we forget about those questions and just enjoy the moment? Will that be possible at all?

No doubts, no regrets, no grudges.

And that has to be enough.

Because, there is a difference between loving the idea (fantasy) of someone, and loving who they actually are – flaws and oddities included.

But at the same time, these flaws and oddities make someone who they are. No one is perfect.

Perfection doesn’t exist.

A plea from the broken heart

Here I stand frozen in motion. A stranger in my own light. In my own right. Unable to say what I shouldn’t think. For once, claiming my rights to really fall apart. I am coming undone at my seams. Crying, mourning my own self. And I am afraid to leave it all behind. But there aren’t many moons (and even less moans) left for me. We all will die, that is for sure. But I need more time. Just a little more. And as I slowly disintegrate from within, I wonder if I let the darkest of my soul take over and allowed it to win. I am too tired to fight. Too exhausted to stay. I just want to live a little while. Oh my heart… Just keep on beating for me.

Inhale through the nose

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Exhale through the mouth.

Repeat.

Challenge accepted…

Before:

After:

Getting rid of the long hair was a big deal for me. 40cm (16inch) were cut. I always looked young. I look even younger now. Quite weird actually. This change of hairstyle happened spontaneously (on a whim) and after many years of being proud of my long hair.

While my kids aren’t fans of the short do (my daughter cried!!), I honestly love it and most people seem to like it too. (Or they are just being polite.)

I can’t really put into words how this feels. But I am happy 🙂

xoxo

Cathy

But that’s just a tiny part of me.

I forget how to make my legs work. I stumble, I fall. My knees are bruised from polite submission. I can’t get up. Lying in the dirt. Digging my own hole with broken fingernails. Filthy and discarded. Damaged goods. That’s me. A failure. Someone who gave up.

But that’s just a tiny part of me.

I am a fighter. Stronger than I admit or let on. Calculated. Cold. Empathetic. Affectionate. One doesn’t exclude this other. I pulled myself up without any help. All by myself. Damaged goods. That’s me. A success. Someone who never gave up.

But that too is just a tiny part of me.

I know so much about music and movies and actors… And if I don’t know, I do my research. All this useless information that is stuck inside my head.

Voices… I have voices in my head. No, I am not insane. But I talk to myself and create storylines in my head. I think about what to say and work the words over in my head until they make sense. And my stutter got worse again.

Quite emotional… I am rarely emotional. I cried when my grandma passed away last November. I cried when my son told me that I am a bad mother (and when he told me a week later that he didn’t mean the words he said). I cried when I felt abandoned. But I also cry when I hear music. Lyrics get to me all the time. And all of a sudden I am a crying mess. I cry when I see movies or TV shows. Last time I cried was during an episode of How to Get Away With Murder. I’ve been binge watching that show since last Sunday.

Too open-minded.

I don’t like women. The drama and narcissism is just too much for me. I don’t have many friends.

I love my son. We have a deep bond and I hope that it will stay that way. I think, I know a thing or two about him he doesn’t know himself. And when he comes to term with it, I will be there.

I am picky. With everything. Most of all with food and books.

I was so proud that I lost lots of weight some time ago. I guess it is all back and a little extra too. I’ve been neglecting myself. Drank too much, ate too much crap. It will stop and change. I am a stress eater and I eat when I am bored…

I had three weeks off work and my work colleagues sent me messages that they miss me and that they’re looking forward to me coming back. Me too.

I suffer from depression. And the older I get, the more anxiety is added to the mix. I feel useless and obsolete when I am not taking my medication. It has worsened a lot.

Two years ago, right around this time I was the happiest I have ever been in my life. I am not anymore. Yet, I still feel hopeful right now. As if it is okay.

Everything happens for a reason is such a cliché and yet such a huge part of my life’s philosophy.

Chewing gum. Phone/internet. These are my addictions.

I love vegetables, but I don’t like fruits.

I will never stop to need affection and acknowledgement. Of course I known that I need to earn it. And even when I receive love and admiration even, it is never enough to fill the hollow that has been there since I was a kid.

I didn’t have a nice childhood, but I didn’t have the worst either. And yet, all the events I experienced shaped me into the girl I am now. With a healthy mom and a present dad, I would be a different woman. A man once said I have daddy issues. I don’t know. Maybe he was right.

The most romantic thing I was ever told (spoken directly to me on the phone): “As long as I have cum in my balls and a mind in my brain, I will not forget you” It’s vulgar but beautiful too.

My favourite part of me is my eyes and my lips. I also like my voice.

Sometimes, things start out one way and end another and that’s okay.

People are onions. Layers and layers need to be peeled away to get to the core. And tears are plenty.

All of this is still just a tiny part of me. I am. But you just see the fragments I chose to show.

musings

We have dreams. We have ideas about how things should turn out. And then they turn to waste and leave us with a bitter taste in our mouths. Until we realise that some things just aren’t as important as we thought they were. And maybe “who cares” is not meant to be hurtful but it puts life and the grand scheme of things in perspective. Yes… Maybe there are more important things than those that we make the centre of our world. Just maybe. And maybe that is the exact thought that reconciles us with what has been nagging us for days now.

There are people I would shoot to the moon if they treated me badly. And there are those who are too important to let go.

And there are those who are toxic and yet life without them is grey and empty.

There are people who infuriate me almost everytime we talk, and I let them push my buttons, because I like to have them in my life.

There are moments when I take life and its circumstances too seriously. I should let go. Not all the way… Never all the way… But far enough to allow some distance.

And in the end, we chose love. And in the end everything is okay. Everything is energy. Everything is love. Well… That’s bullshit, but everything is easier with a serene and positive attitude and with love in our hearts.

Cathy

One last breath

She runs through the night, heavy footsteps are following her. Eating up the space between her and her predator. Her lungs are burning and her legs are slowing down; her muscles are tired and shaking from the unusual exertion. Her breath puffs out between her lips in visible clouds. Panic is all she can feel. And cold. Icy cold that spreads inside her bones and infests her entire body. The footsteps behind her come closer. She keeps running. At least she tries to keep running. Panting. She is trying to fill her lungs with oxygen, but she doesn’t succeed. Her breathing is too shallow. It’s quiet in the dark. Lonely. She can only hear his steps. Her own steps. The blood in her ears. Please, please. Please! She whispers. She prays that someone will stop the demon behind her, but the cold in her heart lets her know that she will not be saved. Her soul is lost. Rotting. Decaying. Turning to dust. She will be forgotten. Erased from this earth. And no one will remember that she ever existed. She never left a trace. She rounds a corner, losing foot on the slippery pavement. She struggles to get her feet under her body again. In her back, she tries to crawl away from the creature that has been following her. Eyes wide, she finally sees him up close. He isn’t running anymore. Like the predator he is, he comes closer. And closer. One last attempt to get up and run away, but her body doesn’t belong to her anymore. It doesn’t follow her orders, and when he kneels in front of her, with his long cold fingers touching her throat she looks in his dark eyes for the first and the last time. Like obsidian. A dark abyss. Beautiful. Beguiling. Pleading. As if they were asking for forgiveness and permission, all at the same moment. But then he blinks and the gentleness she thinks she has seen a is gone. It made room for something cruel and soulless. The hand around her throat closes and the breathing air becomes less. And less. She tries to gulp in some air, but the hand on her throat prevents it. Her body spasms. “Please, don’t let me die like this” are her final thoughts before she feels a strange and uninvited sense of lust. Her eyes keep staring at him but her soul is on its way out of her body. The horror and confusion she felt will be forever painted on her face. In rivulets, blood runs down her throat from where his sharp claws had held on to her. The demon lets go of her empty vessel and pushes angry tears off his face with the back of his blood stained hand.
I have to do it. He bares his fangs and with gusto, he buries them where his claws have left a bloody wound on her throat.
The heat leaves her body as one last breath, one last puff of air, is pushed past her lips. He stills his hunger. His thirst. And he feels the energy of the young woman setting in his veins. He sighs satisfied, but he wants more. He needs more. It is the nature of things. He lets go of the limp, pale body and gets up. He looks at her. Desperate. He is desperate for a companion, a mate. But who could ever love what he is? Who he is? She was his first for this night. A good start. Growling, he pulls his fangs in again. A tortured sigh escapes his lips again as he turns to leave. One last look at his prey and the peaceful way she looks. All dead people have this look. If he could only feel some serenity. If his tormented soul could only find peace. His hands turn to fists in his pockets as he pushes weak and romantic thoughts aside. This is his life. His hunt continues. It has to. It will never stop. Because if it does, he will cease to exist. And the tiny fragments of the souls of the people he has had the privilege to empty would be gone too. He can’t let that happen. They all are part of him now. Some of them is in his bloodstream and nurturing his body. Squaring his shoulders, he walks into the dark moonless night. He was a man of honour and principles. At least he has been before he turned into this… The taker of the last breath.

Positivity

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.

It’s okay

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.

It is okay to not be okay!

highlights of the day

I did not do much today. Much to my husband’s dismay, I imagine. Lately, I am very tired. Exhausted really. There is no physical explanation, I had everything checked, and yet, I am tired all the time. During the summer months, my schedule at work is a different one. It allows us to go on daytrips with the kids and do other fun stuff we usually can’t do because of the number of kids. (I work at a daycare center for kids). My own kids are away a lot too. They have summer vacation until mid-September and they visit aunts and uncles and grandparents. (instead of having to go to summerschool or something like that). I work three days a week and have two days off. Today was an off day. I slept in. Or at least I tried. Truthfully, I slept until 8am and then I began to read the news on the internet and caught up with the social media. (twitter, IG, facebook, wattpad) I watched a bit of Netflix (the New Girl… I am not a particular fan of the show, but the episodes are short and there are a couple of funny scenes in it) and when I got hungry around noon, I made lunch. And this is the actual highlight of the day because for the first time ever, I made tomato-soup from scratch. It was fairly easy to do. And it was delicious with a tad too much garlic though. I read some more (an actual book!) and watched a movie (on Netflix again – handsome devil) and then I decided to take a bath – where I read some more (on my kindle this time). I cleaned the house a bit, but not too much, and then I sat down at the laptop to write. I had 789 words ready but then I had this feeling – you know the one? The one where you look at your words and realise that they are pretentious crap that no one wants to read – and that rightly so? Well, my post was deleted. I made myself a cup of coffee and ordered two tickets to a concert this Saturday, before I finally decided to write anyway. They say a writer needs to write. I don’t consider myself an author – I have an issue with labeling myself and other people.

I have not been inspired to write stories lately. I can’t put my finger on the reasons, but I guess it has to do with the fact that I am so tired. I do have ideas, but as soon as my pen hits paper, they are gone. Weird, but it happens to all of us. It just feels like an internal drama to me, because I used to sit down and write entire chapters of stories. I haven’t done that in years and in a way, I don’t miss it but I feel that I should write for the people who read those early stories. Almost as if I feel guilty. But only almost.

From time to time, I wonder what makes me special and unique. And I can’t come up with anything, really. I am kind and compassionate, I try to help as much as I can. I am a dedicated mother, a shy person, I can be funny and sometimes outgoing too. I am loyal, supportive, I can speak to you in four different languages, I know how to use words with an emotional impact and I like music a bit too much. But are those really things that define me? Is the fact that I chew chewing gum while driving my car something that makes me me? Sometimes, I feel like a little kid. At 34 I should have figured life out, one would think, but is there really something to figure out? I like to go with the flow and I like spontaneous decisions – when I can make them. I don’t like surprises and I don’t like mean people. But I like men and men knowing how to play the piano and use their words correctly – that’s something I love a lot. (how did this fact slip into this?) I like sunrises because they are more hopeful than sunsets and I like clouds. I like the sound of rain when it is pouring (and it is raining a lot right now) and I marvel at rainbows like a little kid. I love soap bubbles and voices. And green eyes. Feeling appreciated too…

How this post started out with my day and ended with a description of me, I don’t know. Of all people, I am the one who knows me the least.

I wrote some posts in this book lately:

Burnt Wood

They will not take a lot of time to read because they are all under 500 words long – some of them aren’t even 100 words long. If you ever want to know what else I write, you should try and hit the link. I am a pretty great person, you know? I just don’t always have the right way of looking at myself.

So… you really read this far? Thank you. And now I exceeded the initial word count by 100 words. Isn’t that something?

Here… you deserve a song:

Radiohead – man of war (from their album OK NOT OK 1997-2017)

I enjoy this song a lot. (I didn’t watch the clip, lol)

 

Have a great time…

Cathy

a brief conversation with my son

 

Today, my son asked about the stripes on my arm. I told him that they are scars. My heart began pounding… I am not ready to have that conversation. Not when I am still dealing with it.
I am not ashamed. I am just not sure how to explain it without sounding pathetic and at the same time, teaching him that it is a harmful way to deal with pain and frustration… The above is an exact transcript of what was said.

xx

 

(On this picture, you can only see the bigger scars, there are faint ones you can almost only see when you really look for them… apparently, he did. Also, I am not sure why the scars are this swollen today)IMG_20170514_194638201

the storm before the calm?

My mood is a weird one. I don’t trust it. I feel serene. Guided by the light. I am satisfied with me and who I am. I am standing behind my words and believe what I say. My own wisdom surprises me and makes me uncomfortable too.

I am wondering… when I am like this – when I am the light, I wonder if I deserve to feel it. I also wonder if I am more attuned to other people’s moods then. I am always quite aware of the people around me and of their moods but maybe I am just projecting. Who knows? But yes, when I feel the way I do now, right this moment, I wonder about these things. It isn’t happiness I am feeling. But a calm. A calm before a storm? I don’t hope so… but as it is, I cannot control my emotions and I lose every reason and every rationality when they are involved.

And I also wonder if I stole someone else’s light. Did I suck it out of someone who is falling into the dark now?

I know that I am weird. But I also know that I have a huge list of qualities. It’s sad when people reduce me to one thing when I am so much more. In a way, I am complicated, but since I am very understanding and most times quite easy-going and relaxed, I am easy to live with too. I have a great sense of humour and I am interested in many things – from music (duh!) and books to politics and randomness. I am opinionated and intelligent too and as you can see, I am very modest too, lol. I am talented in many domains, I am spiritual and rational at the same time and did I mention humour? I like to laugh about myself.

Sometimes I think that we should take more time to set up a real connection with the people in our lives. Sometimes, we should dare to drop every mask and be who we are without holding back. No matter how intense or dull we think we are. After all, as long as we don’t show who we are, we cannot expect that anyone will understand us and wants to get to know us better. And maybe everything we dislike in ourselves, they’ll adore? Who knows?

I am tired of these masks –  and yes, I wear them too. With these people I show more of that, with those people, I show more of this. And honestly, I am tired of it. Sometimes I pretended, in the past, to be dumber than I really am just to make the other feel better. And it shouldn’t be that way. It really shouldn’t.

I don’t want to hide who I am and who I love. I don’t want to repeat myself and my promises again and again because the other is even more unsure of themselves than I am of me.

There are times in my life when I am very submissive… Right now is not such a time. I am strong and I have the scars to show for it. I am a survivor and I can (and will) take charge of my life and the situations that need to be taken care of.

In a couple of weeks (maybe even days) I will be fragile again. I will break apart at my seams because the emotions and feelings are agonising, but that is not now. Don’t let it be now, please. I want to keep this calm feeling and put it in a box that I will lock. I will hide the box in my soul and when the world around me is raging I will open the lid and let some of the calmness cover me from within…

 

xx