I’ve never felt really at home here, on Earth. I’ve never really felt I fit. But life was sometimes a bit hard, sometimes wonderful. Just as life is. It was ok.

Then I got to know hell, the depression, something I could never imagine before. I got better, eventually. But just as I was getting better, life happened again. Divorce. Daughter getting diagnosed. Pregnancy. Tumour. Again, I got up. Stronger. Because I knew how to face it. I knew what I need. I knew where to look, how to ask. I’ve learned a lot before. And that helped me survive.

But that’s not how life works… Things got hard again. Slowly, day by day. The pain. The tiredness. The loneliness. Until I started to break. A year and a half, maybe two years ago I stopped fighting. I gave up.

Not completely. I kept asking for help. I kept saying how much in pain I am. How tired I am. How hard it is to get up, day by day.

I just can’t. I don’t even want to. When a year ago first results that a third time tumour might be growing again, I told my mother (because my husband didn’t even react, didn’t even show any interest, not a single word, even though he was just there when I opened the letter) that I won’t have any more treatments. Any kind.

Because, you see, I admit. I’m not strong enough. I need help. And there is none. My mother is supportive, but she has too much on her shoulders as it is. Others… stopped caring. Or left.

I’m told I have to get up. But I can’t. I just can’t and nobody believes me anymore, because every time in the past I got up. Now I’m too tired. My body is. I’m weaker every month, I feel it. I worked hard to get my body to function after the surgery. And I did good. So much that nobody believed what I did, so much I surprised everyone. Now… Now I’m getting weaker. And I’m emotionally weaker. I cry a lot. When I don’t, I just drift away. I gave up. All of me is down. And I know enough to admit this time I can’t get up.

I also know it’s nobody’s concern. Nobody’s job to help me. I need too much, so much I can’t ask for. Even if I do… Well, I do. I do, even if I promise myself every time I won’t.

I just want to stop asking for help. I want to stop hoping. I want to stop feeling.

Alenka H., 2022

This is a sad world, ladies and gentlemen.

I’ve read a book. Romance, yes. I almost didn’t read it. It was not that badly written and it even had some aspects I enjoyed, I just didn’t like the main character. She was, well, just not what I’d expect a grown up woman to be. But I also admit that she had a sense of humour I liked, and I was intrigued by the story enough to read it whole.

I do not wish to name the book. In short, a woman and a man met, fell madly in love, and then started to discover that they didn’t know much (or anything at all) about one another and that what they learned was not what they expected or wanted or liked… However, they decided that they were still in love and wanted to make it work. A bit of denial here and a bit of compromising there. All good? Of course not. Not at all. But they did make it work, yes, eventually. (Surprise, I know, totally.)

For me, not the best book, not the worst, I’ll probably forget it soon, it didn’t change my life and I also don’t regret reading it. Readable. Fun (mostly).

What made me write about it is what I read when I added it to my list of read books. I discovered that many people were kind of disappointed (perfectly acceptable), that many people disliked the main character(s) (I can relate to that), and – well, that many people disliked the book because she and he wanted their relationship to work, because they didn’t give up.

Hm. Of all the flaws I think the woman and the man had, this was one thing I admired. Not the denial part – I could understand it, I just didn’t like it. The part where they decided that their love is strong enough to overcome their differences, the part where they decided they want to be together even when more things worked against them than with them, the part where they build bridges instead of walls – that was what I liked.

It may not be very common. Maybe that’s the reason. We give up. I’m no different. I gave up. I might have my reasons or excuses (depending on your point of view), but the whys only change understanding, not the result. I gave up. As many of us do. Do I believe we must suffer in relationships? That we must take whatever is thrown at us? That no matter what, we must stay together? No, not at all. Never. Once again it’s about balance, the grey area, the line between giving too much and too little.

I simply think it’s a sad world in which characters (or people) are disliked because they want their relationship to work. Because they refuse to give up. Because they stay together even when “they are so not meant for each other”. It’s a sad sad world…

Alenka H., 2022

I write about or to many things and people, but rarely about and never to Him.

Because, what could I say?

That our relationship taught me not to trust, not Him or others, but myself?

That I’ve spoken all the words long ago and even shed all the tears and there is only an emptiness left?

That I have no hope anymore? No hope for Him, no hope for us, and no hope for myself?

That, even more, I know it’s just my weakness that I stay with him?

That I’ve never been lonelier than when He is in the same room, but universes away?

That I touch Him because I’m so hungry for human touch, ashamed, because it’s not His touch that I crave – He is just the one physically near?

That I am sorry, so sorry, for Him and for me?

Alenka H., 2022

Perhaps I’m the last person to speak about love and relationships. I’ve failed them all. I’ve made mistakes. I know I’m not whole, or healed, or reasonable, or wise about feelings.

Maybe I’m not the smart one. Maybe I’m not the one that sees the bigger picture, maybe I’m not the one that understands anything.

I am, however, the one that at least tries to learn. Grow. Understand. Heal. Go on. Go further. And stop and look at herself, when needed (oh so often!).

Even through my failed relationships I tried to learn from my mistakes. Tried. What I believed in, what I thought, changed so many times. Each relationship, not just the romantic ones, showed me something new. A new part of me, and a new part of life. Of, well, relationships.

With every new experience I’ve changed. Relationships changed. What I think I know changed. How I see life changed.

Can I really say anything about love and relationship? Yes. I can. My truth will never be the truth of everyone else. Not even of most of others. It’s entirely possible that it won’t be anyone else’s truth. It’s also entirely possible that I share it with someone. Whichever the case is, it is my truth. Today. Tomorrow it may change. Today I can speak of love like this…

I don’t think love is about attraction (but it doesn’t hurt either). It doesn’t need strength (but sometimes it takes strength to love). It doesn’t need sacrifice (but sometimes sacrifice can be made out of love). It doesn’t need gifts, it doesn’t need declarations, it doesn’t need profound poetry or ecstatic music (again, none of those things hurt… I guess). It’s not about saving someone. Having solutions. Taking care of others. All those things can be faces of love, manifestations perhaps, or acts out of love. But… Even when you cannot offer solutions, it doesn’t mean you don’t love. If you cannot take care of someone else, because circumstances are as they are, it doesn’t mean your love isn’t real.

Love is (not just, but also) about respect. I thought I knew that. I did, in theory. I’m just not sure I ever felt it. Really felt it as the truth, as something that is not just an welcome yet unessential part of love. Because of all parts, pieces, elements of love, I now not only know, but feel too: with no respect there is no love.

Respect is not something you can give by saying “I respect you”, it’s one of those things that are true only when really meant. Acted upon. Felt. Lived. Cherished. As is love…

Am I any wiser? I guess not. It’s just another thought… A faint memory of a moment I felt respected. I’m thankful for that moment.

Alenka H., 2022

Poets are always a little bit dead – we die each time we write something. At the same time a little bit of us lives forever with anyone who reads it.

For a Dead Poets group on MeWe. Thank you.

Alenka H., 2022

Maybe it’s time to be honest with myself again.

That’s so hard, isn’t it? To reveal, to see the wounds you know are yours. You are at the same time the one exposing, the one exposed and the one exposed to. And also the one who is cleaning the wound. With alcohol, damn it.

When I started this blog it was not with one goal or reason or “mission” alone. The talks behind it were about many things. The plans. Ideas. Wishes.

It is time I admit… When at last it came to life, formed as a collection of poetry, deep down I did it because of the need to be heard too. To feel like my feelings matter. Like the words I bring to life matter. I think, yes, that I hoped it would give me some comfort. Some sense of being seen, valued.

But it doesn’t work that way… If someone cares about how you feel, you don’t need to broadcast it to matter. And if they don’t, then no bold letters, no loud words will make it heard.

I am thankful, because I’ve got to know some magnificent and wonderful people because of this blog. I’m thankful for them. I’m especially thankful for one unique person that made me realize just how much I missed sharing love for poetry with anyone.

My own poems, yes. Because even though I’m not a poet and I write to let feelings go, it’s so so touching to be appreciated. And his appreciation was even more valuable. Not that nobody ever said anything nice about my poems. (True, it was not the persons I wanted the most to care… Never…) However, I was raised to know there are different levels of literature, there are those who write and there are writers. I believe everything written has some value, if not for others then for those who wrote it, and I acknowledge it, but I cannot deny that not everything written has the same cultural value. I have no illusion of my word’s worth. Yet I cannot say it didn’t feel good when someone who appreciates and knows literature says they like what you wrote.

But more than that it was sharing love FOR poetry, the poems that touch me, not mine. It was the gift of sharing a poem you love and it’s appreciated. It’s this wonderful warmth when you show something you like and the other person likes it too.

So yes, I’m beyond thankful for those moments. Darling… The time that you dedicated to me meant more than I could ever express. It was one of most wonderful times I’ve had. I’ve been able to show and be me as I was not in a very long time. Maybe ever.

Yet, I can see it. People I meet for a moment or two, however special they are, cannot be expected to fill the void I have in me. Some things, unrelated yet so synchronized, made me think it’s time to admit. I was hungry, starving for being seen, heard, understood, appreciated, liked, wanted. It is time I admit this blog is partially (perhaps even mostly) about me and my want. It is time I also accept it doesn’t work that way.

After all, again, I believe if there is someone who truly cares, they show it. And if they don’t… You can’t make anyone care. You just have to accept it.

Now I am here, wondering if I should stop with all of this or not. Wondering if I should accept what is, or continue what I need. Wondering if I should shut down the blog or not.

Perhaps… Not long ago I met someone who lives very unconventional life. We talked for some time. I asked him if he shares his experience with anyone and he said he doesn’t, that it’s for him, and he doesn’t really know if it would matter. I told him what Whale said to me long long ago. Sometimes sharing is not about you. It’s about anyone else, someone else, somebody, anybody, perhaps just one person, who will read it when they will need it most and it will, in some way, mean something to them. Touch them. Maybe help them, maybe just make them smile or feel not so alone.

I don’t know if my words are what needs to be shared. I know they are not some great poetry. But they are me. Raw. Honest. And maybe, just maybe, sharing makes it better for one person in the world besides me. If it does, I can accept my personal, egoistic drive to continue with publishing.

Alenka H., 2022

Sometimes I feel like it’s all in vain. Like no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I cannot change things for the better.

And sometimes I feel like it’s all some kind of punishment. For what? Maybe my sins from many lifetimes ago. Maybe my choices, my deeds, thoughts, or words. Maybe… Who knows?

And most times I feel like it could never be better. Never for me.

The thing is… That thought makes it better and worse at the same time. Worse when I think of the future filled with what I already feel. Better, because when I know I could have nothing different or better or happier, then I cannot hope or dream of that.

The moments I wish things were different are way worse than then moment I accept this is it. The moments I dream are even worse. The moments I hope are the worst.

Alenka H., 2022

Some times I considered someone a friend. Close one. I never had many, some times I had none. The ones I had, I game myself to them. When I give, I give it all. When I offer, I do it sincerely. When I say I’m here, I’m here. I was there. Some… were not.

It doesn’t really matter, not to me, if the one did it on purpose, if they were aware, or not. My feelings of being used, of being deceived, were my own. Not other-one’s fault. It was my decision to jump when they asked, to always be prepared to come, to answer when they called, listen when they talked, comfort when they hurt.

Only recently I accepted that I needed something else. A friendship where I would be equal. Where I would be listened to too. A friend that would take their time for me as I take my time for them.

But it was always my decision to give. Maybe not even decision, since I’m not sure it was always deliberate, conscious – but definitely my act.

Not long ago someone told me he tries not to expect too much, because he knows he will always care for others more than they will for him. Yes, it hurts when you see that you give more than you receive. His words, again, put things in a different perspective. Seeing a part of you in someone else makes you rethink how you see yourself. Saying the words you really mean to someone else makes you rethink the words you tell yourself.

A part of me that hurts wants to learn not to jump, not to give so much, not to believe so much, not to become so involved. I know that when I give I give too much. I know that when I let someone close, I’m here whenever, all the time, whatever they need. And yes, it hurts that I’m not the same priority.

The other part of me remembers what I said to that friend that cares “too much”, who thinks “over caring has always been a flaw of mine”: maybe you see it as weakness, as fault, as mistake. I see it as gift. As something that makes you special and wonderful. A beautiful soul. A person whose caring is to be cherished and valued and appreciated, I told him.

And I hope neither of us looses the ability to care. Even when, at the same time, I try to shield myself.

The world needs caring, love. Don’t stop.

Alenka H., 2022

Sometimes late at night, when He comes to bed, I don’t move, if He puts his hand on me. I take it’s warmth. And sometimes, if He falls asleep before I do, I reach out and touch Him. Just to feel a body. Sometimes I miss human touch too much.

I’m told that even as a baby I always wanted more – more attention, more love, more affection. I never had enough. I felt ashamed when listening to that. I felt as if it is a fault, as if I did something wrong.

I am still the same. And I still feel the same. Ashamed of how much I crave to be loved. Feeling guilty of wanting to be someone important and valued. I try to hide my need to be the one someone devotes their time to.

Every time I want to say “I need you” I feel like I’m too needy. Every time I feel sad and lonely and desperate, I feel almost disgusted by myself – for being weak, for wanting someone, for missing affection, for… For wanting love.

And yet, a part deep in me, a part I want to silence, wonders if it really is such a fault, if it really is wrong, if I am damaged. A part of me feels like it’s right to want and need. A part of me cries.

The part of me that wants to be adult and grown up and reasonable says I should accept what is. A part of me that wants to feel safe and sheltered wants to learn not to want and feel. A part of me wants to die.

That part I buried and hide wonders: if I need to kill a part of myself to be as I should be, is it really right?

I’m not that naïve. I do not expect anything anymore. That’s ok. It’s not a nice thing to know, it’s not easy to accept, but it is what it is. Wanting is not the same as expecting. The hard part is to convince myself, convince to change my heart. That tiny part of me wonders, if by changing it I won’t kill all that I am.

If I stop wanting to be loved, will I kill the love in me?

Alenka H., 2022

There are people that will never honestly tell you what they think. There are people that will say nice words to your face and hurtful ones behind your back. And there are people that say they are “just honest”, even if brutally. People who will say what they think, even if their words cut and crush you, and do it in the name of “truth”.

I don’t believe in that kind of honesty.

I don’t believe in lies. I don’t believe it’s good to deceive others. I especially do not believe it’s ok to say one thing to a person when you think the opposite (and then even say that when that person is not around). But I believe in being nice more than in being brutally honest.

It’s a thin line between lying and just not being hurtfully honest. When does omitting something become deceiving? I do not know. But if the opposite is hurting someone, then at least I have to consider if saying it all, the truth, whole truth and nothing but truth, does anyone any good. I have to consider others more than my need to say what I think is true. (Yes, what I think is true. Not what is true. Because my truth may not the the other’s truth.)

And when being honest, I have to consider one other thing. Am I so honest about myself?

Sometimes it’s hard to be honest even TO yourself. There are parts of us we don’t really want to see. Acknowledge. Accept. Admit. Own. Some things are embarrassing. Some make us look bad. Some we are ashamed of. Some make us vulnerable or make us look weak. Can you honestly say to yourself that there are no things that you don’t want to admit even to you? I cannot. Yes, eventually I have to face it all. But some thoughts I avoid and look away and pretend they are not there. In the end, I have no other option but to be honest to myself. But it is not easy, no. Sometimes it hurts like hell.

It’s even harder to be honest ABOUT yourself to others. How much of myself do I reveal? How much do I tell? Share? Do I show my ugly side? My insecurities? Oh no, modesty has nothing to do with that. Modesty is not honesty. Downplaying has nothing to do with it either. Talking ill of myself neither (oh, yes, we know the game: we say something bad about ourselves and hope, even expect, that others will tell us how wonderful we really are). None of that is being honest. The true honesty is not that simple, not that plain, not shallow, not easy.

Only when I can honestly say I’m honest to and about myself have I any right to consider being “brutally honest” to others, about others. And then I have to say the truth with my heart, not my mind – kindly, gently and lovingly. Only when brutal honesty looses brutality.

Love is the only truth. Anything else is an opinion.

Alenka H., 2022

It’s almost springtime. Almost. Some days it’s here, some days not yet. Some mornings are too cold, but some afternoons are warm and sunny and smell like growth.

I like this time, pre-spring. Early flowers bloom, others are still sleeping. You can see the buds on trees waking up, slowly, not yet ready to show, but you know they are there.

You can sense the restless life that is just below surface.

And the world is so full of options, chances, all that could be. You know what is to come, you can almost see the richness that will be in a few week’s time.

Or maybe not. Cold can still come. Buds can freeze. You can never tell. But right there is an abundance of possibilities, the joy of life and birth and growth and fruit to come. Everything is still there to almost see, almost touch, almost feel.

All the possibilities. Just as the last moment of dreams before you wake up. The first smell of food before you taste it. The last inch before the first kiss. The brush of air before the touch. Everything can still be ok.

Yes, I love this time, with the joy, the optimism, the open doors, the invitation and the anticipation.

Alenka H., 2022

Some people sing under the shower. It is my place to cry. Warm water relaxes my body and allows my heart to feel. And my heart feels the only thing it can, allowing the water to wash my tears. Some people sing, I cry. Water drops and tears make love on me.

Alenka H., 2022

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

I’ve made many mistakes. Bad choices. Wrong moves. I’m paying for them. I’m not deflecting the guild. I’m not looking for excuses. I’m not blaming anyone else. I know it was me.

Life is always complicated, our paths partly guided by things we cannot control in partly by our own choices and decisions.

Sometimes we can see the next step, sometimes not. Sometimes the path suddenly takes a turn. Sometimes it’s so foggy we can only guess where it leads us. Sometimes it’s crystal clear and it’s all laid out and obvious.

Could I change it all? No. Some things were not my choice. I accept them. Live them.

But even the things I’ve caused… All mistakes always resulted in some bad and some good. Some pain and some joy. Nothing is ever just black or white. So even when I could, I’m not sure I’d change it.

Yet… There are moments I allow myself to be sorry. To feel remorse. To wonder if the price is fair.

And every time I promise myself to be more careful next time.

Is it good or bad I don’t stick to that decision? Because even when I say it to myself, even in that moment, I know I won’t be. I’ll give it all again. I’ll ask for all. I’ll go and take the step. I’ll make stupid moves. And I’ll get miracles and hurts of it.

If I’m strong enough, I’ll at least get poems out of it all.

Alenka H., 2021