Friday 13th…

… and nothing happened. Well stuff did happen. Like colleagues at work ranting against me again for asking to use an hour of overtime. Or me just letting it slip. Or me buying an inflatable swimming pool for our garden. Or taking care of a little rabbit for a week. Or my sister being in hospital. Or my kids’ summer break starting today.

I still feel disconnected and sometimes when I take my phone, I don’t know what to do with it. There is no need to check statuses and posts… There is a lot less scrolling.

I did not work on the new book today, but I finally folded my son’s, my daughters’ and my own laundry. Took me several hours. I also cleaned the house. Things I just couldn’t do for weeks now.

I want to be a good mother to my children, but some days I wonder about it all. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t. I have a hard time talking about my self. We took pictures at work and I was taken aback with how much it shows that I am not well. My eyes, my mouth. I look sad.

There are moments when I don’t feel sad. There are moments when I feel like a million bucks. I am feeling all sorts of emotions washing over me, I am carefree and me. In that moment I am happy. And I live without regrets. But, what I am struggling with is giving most of what I have to offer and not having anything in return. Sometimes it only feels like nothing, but that feeling of nothing or rejection makes me doubt myself. I hate it when I am like this, because I know exactly how I am feeling, but I have no clue how to change it. I was looking into therapists. Truthfully? I can’t afford it. It is too expensive. Being healthy is one damn expensive thing.

Since I am not active on any other platform anymore, I am wondering if I should borrow Satursongday from Nate Maingard. I would post a song every Saturday. I am not sure if I will do that. Having the ideas and acting them out are two different things. And I often have ideas that will never see the light of day.

Light of day… It’s night and there is a chance of sleeping in tomorrow.

This post is uncoordinated. This is how I think. I think about one thing and somehow it is linked to another thing that I don’t mention and that thought that I am not expressing leads me to the one I am writing. It is hard to follow me to times. But to me, it makes perfect sense.

Either I am entering a manic phase or my onyx beads that I have been wearing on my wrist for two days straight are helping.

Goodnight

C

73 questions

1. What’s your favorite movie
A few good men / my own private Idaho

2. Favorite movie in the past five years?
Théo & Hugo / Deadpool 2

3. Favorite Hitchcock film?
Never seen a Hitchcock film

4. A book you plan on reading?
Notes on a Nervous Planet by Matt Haig

5. A book that you read in school that positively shaped you?
On n’est pas sérieux quand on a dix-sept ans by Barbara Samson (English title: Being seventeen)

6. Favorite TV show that’s currently on?
The Big Bang Theory / How to get away with Murder / the Americans

7. On a scale of one to ten how excited are you about life right now?
If One is bad and Ten is super excited, I am a 4

8. iPhone or Android?
Android. Never had and never will own an iPhone

9. Twitter or Instagram?
Twitter

10. Who should EVERYONE be following right now?
Matt Haig. Not only is he a very talented author, he is also openly speaking about mental health, and overall, he is not afraid to speak his mind.

11. What’s your favorite food?
The French call it Bouchée à la Reine. (Vol au vents?)

12. Least favorite food?
Brussel sprouts

13. What do you love on your pizza?
Spinach, prawns, eggs

14. Favorite drink?
Tea or Pinot Gris

15. Favorite dessert?
Mousse au Chocolat

16. Dark chocolate or milk chocolate?
Milk Chocolate

17. Coffee or tea?
Tea

18. What’s the hardest part about being a mum?
Managing the chaos and remembering everyone’s schedules, while working, and making sure everyone has enough clean clothes in their cupboard to last two days

19. What’s your favorite band?
Anathema

20. Favorite solo artist?
Ben Howard

21. Favorite song?
Running up that hill by Kate Bush (and most cover versions too)

22. If you could sing a duet with anyone, who would it be?
Robbie Williams

23. If you could master one instrument, what would it be?
Piano

24. If you had a tattoo, where would it be?
Left lower arm

25. To be or not to be?
To be

26. Dogs or cats?
Neither, but if I had to choose: dogs

27. Bird-watching or whale-watching?
Whale-watching

28. Best gift you’ve ever received?
A personal song from a musician I once admired

29. Best gift you’ve ever given?
Personalized jewelry. I didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but I took great care in choosing it and there person was really happy and is wearing it a lot

30. Last gift you gave a friend?
Tote bag

31. What’s your favorite board game?
Karuba

32. What’s your favorite country to visit?
France is nice

33. What’s the last country you visited?
Germany

34. What country do you wish to visit?
UK and/or Patagonia (which, of course, is, technically, only a region in Argentina)

35. What’s your favorite color?
Purple

36. Least favorite color?
Orange

37. Diamonds or pearls?
Diamonds

38. Heels or flats?
Flats

39. Pilates or yoga?
Yoga

40. Jogging or swimming?
Jogging

41. Best way to de-stress?
Drinking Maté and listening to music. A bath helps too.

42. If you had one superpower, what would it be?
Teleportation

43. What’s the weirdest word in the English language?
Acknowledgement, awkward, jealous

44. What’s your favorite flower?
Sunflower

45. When was the last time you cried?
Today

46. Do you like your handwriting?
Yes

47. Do you bake?
Yes

48. What is your least favorite thing about yourself?
I am too hairy everywhere

49. What is your most favorite thing about yourself?
My eyes, my ass, my boobs, my humour, my wit, my empathy

50. Who do you miss most?
Jamie and Daniel

51. What are you listening to right now?
Snoring of my partner. Musically, I am listening to a random playlist on Spotify

52. Favorite smell?
My perfume (Jean-Paul Gaultier pour Femme)

53. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone?
My boss

54. Who was the last person you sent a text to?
Robert

55. A sport you wish you could play?
Ballet

56. Hair color?
Brown

57. Eye color?
Brown

58. Scary film or happy endings?
Happy Ending

59. Favorite season?
Fall

60. Three people alive or dead that you would like to have dinner with?
River Phoenix, Emma Thompson, Thom Yorke

61. Hugs or kisses?
Hugs

62. Rolling Stones or the Beatles?
The Beatles (duh!!)

63. Where were you born?
Luxembourg city

64. What is the farthest you have been from home?
Djerba (Tunisia)

65. Sweet or savory?
Savory

66. Lipstick or lip gloss?
Lipstick

67. What book have you read again and again?
None. There are books I read twice, but usually, I only read them once.

68. Favorite bedtime story?
None

69. What would be the title of your autobiography?
In search of a balanced mind – the story of a troubled soul

70. Favorite sound?
Happy children playing and laughing

71. Favorite animal?
Donkey

72. Who is your girl crush?
Angelina Jolie

73. Last photograph you took?

Showing my view to my colleague while chatting.

Questions in the comments are allowed and encouraged. Thank you.

(Credit to Vogue: 73 questions)

Random_20180602

I write because I can and because I have to. It is my therapy. Often, I write impulsively, so that you only see a momentary glimpse into my internal landscapes. I am happy with the people who are currently in my life. I am worth way more than I allow myself to be and I am grateful that they see it too. They love every inch of me. They accept every part of baggage on my back and in my soul. And I love them just the way they are. Flaws and all. That is how it should be. That is what gives me the strength to let go of old weight on my shoulders. I am happy that I am still here… As I mentioned before, I don’t take rejection very well. And I take it even worse when it comes from someone I adore. It almost ended badly. But, I am still here. Strong. Confident. With my ups and downs. The best version of me yet.

Written impulsively too.

xx

Happy

Instead of 26 hours, I spent 40 hours at work this week. And I always had to be there early. Even today I got up at 6am to be part of a conference at work, whereas you will not see me up before 9:30 on a usual Saturday. I am exhausted.

But, I will not complain, because I am also happy. You read that right. The one who is always (or most often) whining, is happy.

I’ve learned to let go. And truthfully, I switched one addiction for another. But that’s okay. Because it makes me smile. I am feeling whole. I am beautiful. I am intelligent. I am funny. I am happy.

How often can I truly say it and mean it? I admit that I am scared to jinx it. And I know that this feeling won’t last forever, but it has been with me for over a week now and I am embracing it. And yes, doubts and low self-esteem tried to spoil it all, but I didn’t allow it.

I am sharing this, simply because I want to show you that not every day is bad. Some days and weeks are really good. And they are even better when we let go of toxic people and embrace our uniqueness.

I ask you to love me. Because I deserve it. Often, I don’t have love for myself. For every quality, I see two flaws. Some days though, some days the qualities have a lot more weight.

Love yourself. Be happy. Allow people to love you. Be daring and step out of your comfort zone. You never know what you might find.

Cathy – the woman who is stepping off her soapbox now. 💜

PS: I am having a week off work. Yay! I need it.

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

A bit of an early morning rant

Let me ramble about work ethics for a moment. I have a trainee at work. She started mid-April. Today included, she already miss six days at work. I told her yesterday that she should be careful and not miss too much work, it doesn’t look good on her. It doesn’t put her in a good light. Her work is shallow and on the outside, it looks good. She doesn’t get involved with the children though. And she is not reliable. I am a bit angry right now. She is supposed to be a help – instead she is a burden. She has a second chance with us – she dropped out of school, and she is not using it. It sucks. And I told her so many times, but maybe she is too young to understand. I am willing to help her and to teach her the ropes. But she has to be there too. If she’s not present, and if she keeps being unreliable, I can’t do anything for her… This sucks.

And now, shower and off to work. (Without her…)

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?

Too late.

Some say it is never too late. But what if it is? It is too late and I am going to go. I am going to go and… I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. Because it is too late. It is too late to do things differently. And I don’t want to change my ways anyway. So, I guess I am trapped in my own reluctance to be. What if I cease to exist? What if my breath stops? What if I close my eyes and forget to open them again? What will be my last thought? And if I fall asleep forever, what will be my eternal dream? I don’t want to know. I am here. I exist. I breathe. And I am tired. I am positive and I am tired. Exhausted. I am exhausted. Breathing is. Existing is. Being is.

The music keeps playing. Lives go on. Mine does too. Because I have a lot to learn, a lot to teach. I have a lot of love to give. And smiles to smile. I have millions of hugs to give. And words to listen to; to write; to read.

If I was… But I am not. And the rain falls down in its own way, and the wind blows in its own way. There is nothing more to say.

It’s the little things

  • Crying during a movie
  • A song that turns back time and carries you to one specific moment
  • A book you can’t set down
  • Tea that has the right temperature
  • The sun shining through trees
  • A formation of clouds
  • A rainbow
  • Thunder and lightning
  • A right pressure on the spot where your back hurts most
  • A child saying your name
  • A child giving you a hug
  • Birthday wishes from people you thought had forgotten about you
  • An evening with friends
  • Hugs (but hugs aren’t a little thing)
  • A song on the radio that you like
  • Your child singing along to your favourite song
  • An entire paragraph that was written without a typo
  • Writing the first words after having felt uninspired for a long time
  • Not setting the alarm
  • Empty plates
  • A decent parking spot
  • One last chewing gum when you thought there weren’t any left
  • A smile from a stranger
  • Giving a busker some money and the gratitude in their eyes when you offer to buy them something warm to drink
  • Old pictures
  • New songs
  • The smell of my pillow
  • Clothes that are still warm from the tumble dryer
  • Smooth skin
  • Even numbers (grocery shopping, gas pump)
  • The smell of my favourite perfume
  • When the hurt goes away
  • Being aware of life’s beauty
  • Not forgetting life’s challenges
  • Sleep
  • Lists
  • Realising that many little things make some big things
  • A kiss
  • A good dream
  • Serenity
  • Thinking without succumbing to melancholy
  • An old voice message that still makes you smile
  • A memory
  • Knowing that everything will be alright (even if it doesn’t look that way)
  • Being present (are you there?)
  • The clock that says 23:09 or 08:02
  • Sunrise
  • Not feeling regrets
  • Remembering a friend who has passed away
  • Thinking of people who changed our lives (I am thinking about you daily lately – are you there?)
  • Notifications
  • Stars
  • I am what I am
  • The wind in my hair
  • The soundtrack of my life
  • The perfect shade of your favourite colour (raspberry or aubergine)
  • A picture that touches you
  • A song that pulls at all the right strings
  • Being understood without need to explain everything in detail
  • A life in pictures that were never taken
  • Everything and more

random thought

I am blind. I am too blind to see the struggle of others. Well… Not entirely. I see their battles, but I don’t see the severity of them. If I was a little less self-centred, I would see more of the world around me. As it is, I realized a year too late how bad a friend was really doing. I was too focused on myself and on the way I expected him to pull me out of the dark. But he was in even deeper than me and I didn’t see it.

Out of the dark into the dark.

I didn’t realize how much he was struggling. I had just scratched the surface when he pulled away. He had shared the bare minimum. I knew he was addicted to at least two things. I knew he was really not well. But I didn’t fight to be in his life when he pushed me out with all his might. Maybe our relationship was caustic from the beginning.

Two fragile minds becoming even more fragile because of what we shared.

I wish it had been different. Instead of breaking him even more, I could have helped him heal. But our relationship was based on a toxic behaviour. A pattern that repeated itself again and again. A circle. Of course there is more than this wrong pattern. There is more to the person I am and there is more to the person he is. But, we didn’t stand a chance. Our minds and our mental illnesses ruined every chance of a friendship. Quite sad, actually. But not irrevocably.

Not irrevocably.

Ones views change over time… Mine too.

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

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…)

randomness

I read the following today:

Sorry I haven’t texted you in a while, I haven’t been drunk

It is sobering how unfunny this is, and how true it is sometimes too.

Let me explain, I have friends I often think about. Those friends mean a lot to me but I am often shy to initiate contact. I am afraid to be a bother. (I know that I am not, but it is a feeling I often get.) Getting in touch with said people often happens when I am tipsy or drunk. That’s the sad reason why I can relate to this.

Pathetic, really.

Happy Belated Anniversary

I actually missed my blogging anniversary. It’s been 5 years since I write whatever comes to my mind on this site.

In the beginning, I was shy about sharing my poetry and most of my older posts aren’t tagged at all. In the old days, this blog was mostly about music that I liked and I shared YouTube links. But then came the day that I realised that liking music didn’t make me a critic – and I never wanted to be a critic either. So? Why holding on to a concept I didn’t like anymore? I took off almost every music. I also took off most of my personal posts and began sharing my writing.

I am proud of my words. Of my writing voice. Sure, I cannot write a post without a mistake. I cannot write a poem without a mistake. But maybe that’s my signature? Lol…

I am not sure what the future will bring. But I learned that writing is more than just spending some time doing something. Writing helps me to filter my thoughts and put them in order again.

To everyone out there spending time here on this blog, thank you. I appreciate it a lot and I hope you never feel like you just wasted time when you leave my place.

Happy Holidays.

xx

honest truth…

I write about being released and someone else having control over me… That’s bullshit. Honestly. They can’t have control if I don’t give it to them willingly. The cage I am in is one I built for myself. They cannot not release me if they aren’t aware of their grip on me. They cannot give up their control if they don’t know how throughout it is. What was I thinking?! Where did this feeling of being trapped in something or by someone come from? I guess it comes from that place that doesn’t want responsibility. It comes from that place that doesn’t want to acknowledge that, ultimately, I am the one in control. I never lost control – well, apart from losing control over my emotions and my depression.

My entire writing of these last years seems to be based on an emotion that is a lie. Yes, most of my writing is fiction. But some of it is not. I don’t regret my words nor my actions. But wow… Can I be an overwhelming person. My apologies, if I overwhelmed you. I overwhelm myself all the time, too.

Fuck me… What a bunch of crap you can find on this site… some emotional stripteases too… and some very powerful pleas for something – anything. But is is my space. My place you are visiting. And I am allowed to take up a certain amount of space for myself

With lots of too heavy emotions,

Cathy

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.

Thank you

To everyone seeing and reading this, Thank You.

I took a look at the stats of this blog just a few moments ago. This blog has the best year since it was created in 2012. It has the most visitors from different countries, the most shares, and the most comments and likes. It’s amazing. I like it. Maybe a bit too much.

I have been updating regularly this month. Daily, actually. I have been tagging my posts, too. Something I only started doing recently. It is nice to know that people read what I write if it is visible.

It is nice to know that people take time out of their busy lives to spend it with my words. After all, time is a precious and finite resource. And you will never get it back. I cannot repay you.

So, yes, Thank You, from the bottom of my heart 💓

Cathy

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

Writer’s dilemma

Petty post ahead 😉 You’ve been warned.

I am sure many fellow writers and poets can relate. You write something (a blog post, a novel, a poem – something) and you are proud and satisfied with the words that left your fingers and made it to paper or the screen. In an euphoric way, you share it (- the writing) with the world and wait for the appraising comments and a flood of votes, but… Nothing happens. “Give it some time,” you think to yourself, but time doesn’t change anything. You’re beginning to think that there is something wrong with the app or the site or something! But there is nothing wrong. You read your post again and again. You still like it, but doubts begin to creep in. Maybe you are delusional to believe your writing is good. Maybe you are annoying everyone with your words and your story and your thoughts and your existence. Maybe you are mediocre at best and your post is just as mediocre? And a vicious circle begins and you are threatened to drown in a whirl of negative thoughts and emotions. There is no way out. Just the one. Writing more! And so you write a poem with childish rhymes and post that, too, in a vain attempt to pull yourself up. You don’t like the poem at all. It’s as if you have written the same poem 142 times before. But… This bad poem receives all the “love” your treasured post should have gotten. It angers you. You don’t understand the reason and the meaning behind all this. And it slowly loses its importance too. As long as there are readers you will write. And for everyone brilliant masterpiece you write and no one reads, you write several average poems that are loved. It’s okay. It’s good. But in the long run, settling for less will leave you unhappy and unsatisfied. Every now and then (months after the initial post) a reader will stumble across your words and call them powerful and intense. And you will be proud. Proud for still being around and not having given up.

And what choice does the writer have? Handwritten exhibitionism is what drives them on.

Because if this writer is being totally honest, writing for herself and her eyes only doesn’t provide the same feeling of accomplishment that sharing her writing does.

I hate it when I am this honest – makes me appear all needy and ungrateful. I am not. I am just thinking about this kind of things.

xx

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.