If I were my friend, I’d tell me I’m ok as I am. I’d say I might not be perfect – and I don’t need to be. As long as I try to be what I can be, I’m ok.

If I were my friend, I’d say I’m forgiven. I’d tell me I’ve always done what I knew, what I could at that moment. And that is it.

If I were my friend, I’d tell me it’s ok to make mistakes. And I’m not a bad person because of them. I’m not less. I’m not stupid. I did what I did. I’ve learned what I have, and it’s time to go on. Even if I make more mistakes, I’ll still be lovable.

If I were my friend, I’d tell me I, as everyone else, deserve love. Even more, I’d tell me I’m loved. And if I crave yet more love, that’s ok too. Because that’s me.

If I were my friend, I’d tell me I’m not a failure. I’m not damaged goods. I’m not nobody. I’m not trash. I’m a wonderful being. Valuable. Treasured. Special.

If I were my friend, I’d remind me we all have ups and downs, bad days and good days, successes and challenges… We all make good and not-so-good choices. We are all human.

If I were my friend, I’d tell me I understand… I get lost sometimes. And that is ok. I just have to find my way back.

If I were my friend, I’d tell me… I’d tell me all the things I would tell someone I love, care for. And I’d hope I would listen. Believe.

Why do we tell others, with all honesty, love and faith, the things we do not believe for ourselves? Better: why don’t we believe for ourselves the things we, honestly, lovingly, tell our friends?

Alenka H., 2022

I am many things, many roles, many aspects. One of them is – I am brain tumour patient.

I was first diagnosed more than 8 years ago. Since then I had different treatments, remissions, recurrences, getting worse and getting better… And now, facing the third time, I’m more tired than ever. And more lonely.

Having such an illness is hard. Maybe the hardest part is that it is a damn lonely thing to face. Even if you have people near you.

People close to patients with severe illnesses face it in their own way. It is the truth: such conditions do not affect just the patient, they affect their families as well, just in a slightly different way. I am a mother, a daughter, a wife, a sister too, and I can understand that their pain is different, but in no way less signifiant than mine. Just different.

People face difficult situations in different ways. Some close. Some yell. Some fight. Some deny. Some research. Some lay down. Some get up and do whatever they can. In my eyes ther is no right or wrong way – everyone does what they can. And it is all right. It is all right to give up, and it is all right not to give up. It is all right to cry, and it is all right to stay positive and believe all will be well. The reality is how we perceive it.

However, when it becomes hard, understanding it does not make it easier to (not) feel what you do. Either you cannot burden those who face their own pain with yours too (how could you?!), or there is no-one who would listen at all. Because the reality of the one who is sick, who is in pain, who faces it all, is not the reality anyone would want to know. Some people don’t want to hear it. Some say it’s not bad. Some say you only have to stay positive. Some want to share their story. All you need is someone to listen.

Yes, it is lonely. There are days when all you feel is the need to share, to tell, to say it, to let it out.

You must face yet another pain alone.

Alenka H., 2022

I’m guilty.

I’m guilty of loving. Of loving too fast. Of loving too much. Of loving too little. Of not loving any more.

I’m guilty of wanting to be loved. Too much. Too often. Again and again.

I’m guilty of asking. Of wanting. Of needing.

I’m guilty of giving. Of giving it all. Of not giving enough. Of wanting to give. Of refusing to give.

I’m guilty of trying. Trying too long. Not trying hard enough.

I’m guilty of giving up.

I’m guilty of hoping.

I’m guilty of being tired.

I’m guilty of wanting it all to end.

I’m guilty of feeling guilty.

And in the end the guilt is the one thing keeping me chained here. I wish, I wish it would be something else. But I’m guilty of being just – guilty.

Alenka H., 2021

An old wisdom (Maybe Buddhist? I don’t know. I forget so much.) says that the key to happiness is not wanting anything.

I get it, on some levels. Always craving for more, never being satisfied – you cannot be happy that way. Wishing for something can end in disappointment, either when you get what you want and it is not what you thought it would be or the joy of fulfilment wears out too soon, either when your wish never comes true. I’m not sure it really matters if what we wish for are material things or not. The mechanism is the same: we wish, we get, we forget. Or we wish, we don’t get, we get sad. Or we wish, we get and we regret. Or… there is always a chance we get and it is it. At least, I want to believe there is, that chance.

However, I still don’t know how not to wish. And I am quite experienced at trying, if I may say so myself. I’m learning over and over again not to expect. I know expectations lead to disappointments. I know, I understand that most of the wishes come from influences of our society. We are a society of consumption on so many levels. Consumption of food, of goods, lifestyle, relationships… we are (sometimes very subtly, sometimes not subtly at all) taught to always want more. Realizing this is the first step to learn how to control those “cravings”. I do not need much. When I want something, I know that even if I don’t get it, it is ok.

But… there is a different kind of want. Wish. Need. Is it not? The kind that, even if I cannot categorize it, is quite distinct. The kind that you burrow deep, cover it, hide it, deny it, try to ignore it… and still it is beating deep in your heart. Retreating, but never going away. Fading, never vanishing.

I know. I’ve tried. I’m still trying. But the more I try, the more it feels like I’m denying not only my wish, but myself. My core. My soul.

Maybe it is not that simple with wishes. Maybe some are not simply wishes, but parts of us. I just wish… I wish I’d know how to tell my heart not to wish. I wish I would spare myself the hurt.

Well, maybe pain is the price for wish and not wanting anything is the way to happiness. But why does it then feel like I’m only depriving myself of being what I am, the longing being part of that?

Alenka H., 2021

My parents taught me to respect my mother tongue. My studies taught me that language we speak, and mother tongue especially, influence the way we see the world, the way we think, act. My attempts in translating my own poems taught me, once again, how precious the ability to express yourself is.

There are many differences between English and my mother tongue. For me, the most difficult things when learning English were irregular verbs (I mean… really? Really?!?), spelling (Again, really? Logic much?), and in some cases the proper use of tenses. I would never say I speak it excellent, but I think I’m ok at it. After all, all those years must pay off, right?

It is not the first time that I noticed the major differences between those two languages, my mother tongue and English, but now I see them from another perspective. I’m not a translator. My degree is neither my mother tongue’s nor English literature. I’m just someone who wants to translate her own poetry. And one of the things I miss the most in English?

The beauty of “two”. Of “us” that is not 3, or 5, or 10, no. When I say “us”, it can be so many people. When I use our word for it, it’s clear that we are alone, no-one but you and me. And it’s so beautiful that you know it, that there is only one word that tells you we are a pair. (Grammatically, it’s duel, the addition to singular and plural.) Even more, you can tell it just from the form of the verb I use. I don’t even have to write “us”, because “we” are already a part of verb. And it shows.

The beauty of two… You and me. Midva.

I’m sure every language has many many treasures. No, actually, every language is a treasure. The duel is one of the gems of my language. They say learning foreign languages makes you rich. It certainly does. But we should never forget the treasures of mother tongues.

Alenka H., 2021

Strange message came in one morning. As it turned out, it was strange because it was from unknown person. Usually, such things result in “block user”, but not this time. This time, it developed into conversation over a few days. As this stranger said, there are no accidents. It was meant to be. I’m thankful. He, among other things, gave me inspiration to write about scars.

I have many scars, yes. I might not be more beautiful because of them. (I might not be beautiful without them either, so it doesn’t really make a difference.) But they are a part of me. An important part.

Some scars remind us we are still alive. The scars that are left when we survived, when we could not, if… but we did. We might be left with a sign on our skin, our body, yes, yet we could no longer be at all. So we are scarred.

Some scars remind us that we can all make mistakes, or be a bit clumsy. But we have them because we work, we are active, we do something… we live, not just exist.

Some scars bear memories of adventures. Of things that we tell our friends even long after they are gone, things that have place in our heart after many days and years.

All scars are part of us. As are things that caused them. They didn’t just change our body. They made us who we are now. They are marks of our path, our experience. Signs of our strengths.

It is really sad that our culture teaches us that scars are ugly. We hide them, cover them, when we should be proud of them. No to brag about them. Not to feel something special. But to appreciate, respect what they represent. The story behind them. Our own (hi)story.

The same as wrinkles the scars tell us how rich our life has been so far. They show the depths of our living.

And at the same time… they tell us most of scars are not visible. They are hidden, covered. They teach us never to judge someone, because you never know the scars they carry – as others don’t know yours.

Alenka H., 2021

The candles were burning and I watched them, watched little flames transforming hard wax into liquid. And it brought me into another time, some years ago, could be last year, could be a lifetime ago. It was this time of year, when here we slowly prepare for holidays, for family gatherings, celebrations… But for me that year was something else. The beginning of years when it was never as it was before.

That year, my mother took me to our family doctor, and he sent me to psychiatrist, who diagnosed me with depression. Two years after my daughter was born. Two years that should be filled with joy but were, instead, filled with pain.

It wasn’t that memory that hurt. What hurt was remembering what happened after. My doctor recommended anti-depressants to help me get back on my feet, and then go on with support group. Looking back it was a good call. I wasn’t in state to do anything on my own. It was too long, I was too damaged. Too hurt. Too tired. I wasn’t able to look for help. I wasn’t able to accept help.

People are different, and so are things that help us. Some need talk. Some need rest. Some need activity. Some need individual therapy. Some need groups. It’s important to recognize that, to accept and respect that.

However, some need medical help to stand up and take another step. There is no shame in that. For me, it’s the same as any other medicine. If it helps, if it’s thoughtful, if it’s supervised… then why not?

But that’s not what I want to write about.

The thing with antidepressants is that it’s not like pain medicine you take in wait for effect and that’s it. You start taking small dosages and then wait until your body recognises it. It takes time. And, what is very important, in the beginning, it can make you feel worse.

For someone with suicidal thoughts worse is… dangerous.

So my doctor warned my family. I remember him saying “Look after her. Call me. Help her.” And then… Then my then-husband took our daughter and left, gone to his parents, and hour and half away.

I’ve dealt with it. I don’t resent it. I know my part in our relationship. I’ve accepted the good and the bad, how it was and how it ended. He will forever be my daughter’s father. But that’s all.

Yet… I felt pain. Pain remembering that December. A pain triggered by the relationship I am in now, yes.

It’s not that we don’t forgive. Or get over. Or however you want to call it. Some feelings still stay. Some wounds leave scars even when healed. We don’t bleed, but the skin is never the same. And sometimes it hurts.

And it’s ok. It’s ok to feel. We don’t want to. I for sure don’t want to. But it’s ok to. Feeling is being alive. Only dead things don’t feel.

Alenka H., 2021