Many things are out of our hands. Many, many things. Who, what and how we are is not – at least, not completely.
It is our decision to change. Be better version of ourselves. Be what we want to be.
It is easy? No. Is it simple? No. Does making a decision mean it is done? Oh, no. But is it a start.
The trick? Our decision means it’s our responsibility. Our accountability. And we just don’t like that, do we? It’s so much easier to say we are done and sculptured and molded the way we are, and so so much easier to blame others, the world, universe, fate, for the way we are.
But it’s just an excuse. Just an attempt to think it is not us who hurt, leave, forget… – us who decide.
Being kind. Of all the lessons I had maybe the most important one. It changes everything. Events, circumstances, people. Every person has their own truth. What is happening, is outside. How we are experiencing it, is in us. The kindness is what can help us, change it, make it easier, more beautiful.
Being kind to one another. “THINK before you speak: is it True? Helpful? Inspiring? Nice? Kind?”
But even more, being kind to yourself. Which is sometimes even harder. We blame ourselves. We call ourselves names. We punish ourselves. Judge ourselves.
Some people have hard time being nice. We all have hard time being nice sometimes. We work harder to be kind to others. We forget about ourselves… We comfort others and blame ourselves for the same thing. But I am You and You are me. My relationship with myself and with you are connected, intervened. Your relationship with me is a reflection of your relationship with yourself.
Ironic. I, the one who talks about power of words, must admit: I am a bitch, when I’m angry. I swear. And without a blink I say “Fuck you!” Not always a loving wish for pleasant activities, no. Sometimes it’s genuine angry, frustrated, leave-me-alone, you-asshole, fuck off.
Oh, how hurt He was, when I said it the first time. “I would never say something like that to you!” He swore.
He still says that He loves me. I don’t. I avoid lying. So should He. Because words of love don’t mean a thing if actions declare indifference.
I do not need midnight I love you’s. I need midday I’m here’s. I don’t need a kiss goodbye, if all I get when you are here are moody glares and annoyed hisses. Just… Fuck off.
And the most ironic part of it all? It’s when I stop saying “fuck off” – that’s when I gave up. I don’t care anymore.
Sometimes I ask Wholeness to show me what I can not see. Sometimes I ask for advice, guidance, clues. Help. Support.
So I asked. And I got my answer. The Old has to die for New to be born.
But it’s not that easy, is it? Even when old is poisonous, hurtful, empty. Oh, we ask for something else, something different, something more. We want change. Yet, confronted with the fact that the old must die, that we must let go, do the cut, that we must change, act, when any of this is to be done, we freeze with fear.
And not the fear of death of the old. No. We fear what the new will be. We hope, we wish, we want, and being unsure if it will really be like that, we are afraid. What if it will be even worse? What it will hurt even more? Sure, the old hurts. But the pain is known. It became part of us. What if the new one will cut us where we haven’t been cut before, and deeper?
We learn we should know the depths of the water we jump into. But do we ever really see the depths of life we dive into? Can we ever know if it’s safe? The water might heal or kill us.
How can we overcome the fear of New, when the Old must die?
I feared each and every time. Jumped. Dived. Survived. Each time with new bruises, new scars. Each time more afraid…
I wish I had some hope. I wish someone would jump with me. But we always jump alone…
“Do you want to hear the answer?” I asked Her. “No, not really,” She answered.
The questions we ask to show we care… If only. Too often just said, not really meant, just given because it’s polite, it’s right, it’s supposed to be, it’s a sign of good upbringing, it’s what people expect. And it’s expected to be answered the same way: politely, nicely, not really honestly.
“How are?” I’m in pain. “How do you feel?” Awful. “What can I do?” Hold me and listen and just let me speak. “Did I offend you?” Yes, you did. It hurts. “What do you want to say to me?” The truth. “Reach out for me, when you need me, ok?” I need you now.
Can you imagine this? No, rather not. It’s not nice. It’s not polite. It’s not by social standards. And no, nobody really cares.
How wonderful it would be, if people would be honest not only when answering, but also when asking.
I’m getting weaker again. I feel it. I knew it before, I know it now.
Illness is lonely thing, even when there are people around. Every step in my life cost me friends, until nobody was left. Still, I have family. He doesn’t care. She does, but it hurts Her too much and I can’t do that anymore.
Maybe… Maybe the reason I give is to forget I myself need it. Or maybe the reason is hoping it might return to me. Either way, it seems I am selfish. I give, because I need.
In reality, I know it won’t change anything. I still remain alone with my pain.
How can I convince my heart to stop wanting, needing, craving?
The nation I was born to is, statistically, one of most suicidal in the world. It is quite inevitable that growing up I either knew or knew of people who took their own life. I never condemned them, even when religious education taught it. It wasn’t part of my upbringing to do so, and it definitely wasn’t in my heart and soul. But, on the other hand, I never really understood them either.
It’s not that I was always happy. Objectively, my childhood and youth were ok. Subjectively, I was unhappy a lot, but then again, I’d now say, nothing out of the ordinary. I was told I’m too sensitive (or sensible) and I hurt too quickly. (That’s a story for another time and place.) Whatever the cause, noone would describe me as joyful all the time. Still, I could not apprehend the feelings of depression and suicidal thoughts.
Until my daughter was born. A child wished for, wanted, expected with joy, our little miracle. It wasn’t easy, those nine months of pregnancy, and it wasn’t without complications, her birth. But I’d never imagine that it would be the beginning of … Well, hell.
Yes, now I know, when I cried every day at the hospital, they should have know, should have seen, should have helped me. Now I know postpartum depression is not so uncommon. Now I know how easier it can be if a mother gets help in the start. (Yes, another story for another place and time.) None of that matters. Because it took two years of pain and hurt, two years, until my mother took me to the doctor’s and said to him that it cannot go on like this. And I knew I could not go on for a long time before that.
I now know how blissfully ignorant I was, not knowing the hollows of depression. How it is when, at the same time, you feel too much, mostly pain, and nothing at all, because all the pain made you numb. When you don’t want to die but you don’t want to live anymore. When every breath hurts. When you cry so much, and yet not enough, because no tears can wash away the sorrow. When you feel weak, because you cannot go on.
Maybe it all began long before that. Maybe I really was sensitive from day one. I think of that day, one of the luckiest days of my life, when my Light came into the world, as also the day when I started seeing the darkest shadows of life.
Because in the years that came, I started healing, but I never really healed. And in just a few years I experienced so many pains on physical and emotional level… It’s more that a decade of my life with depression, and almost a decade of my life with constant pain in my body, a result of serious illness. I’ve faced the news that I never wish anyone would have to, and at age of 30 my body was so ill I could not take care of my children or myself. Sometimes my pains are so bad I think I’m losing my mind. It’s just a fact for me: I do know pain.
And knowing it, I say without a doubt: there is no greater pain than the pain of the soul, of the heart. No worse condition than depression. Because no matter how hard it is, how damaged the body is, if you have the will, you can live days that are given to you. Depression takes exactly that away. The ability to live life.
Many illness can end life. Depression makes you dead when you’re still alive. And that, that is what hell looks like.
I know you don’t need me, said her lover to the heroine of the book I’ve been reading. I know you don’t need me, but you choose me, because you want me. There is nothing more appealing to a gentleman that to be wanted, not needed, he told her.
It is not just gentleman, is it? It’s human. The longing for to be wanted, not just needed.
And there is this song… About being wanted, needed, but not loved. Two out of three ain’t bad, it says. Maybe… What would one choose, when given those options?
Being needed can give your life a meaning, a purpose. Being wanted can keep you warm inside, appreciated and special. Being loved… How can one describe the feeling of being really loved? The gentle force that transforms.
We need to be needed. We want to be wanted. And we love to be loved.
It can be so confusing sometimes. We think we want, when in reality we just need, but don’t want to admit it. We think we love, when we want to be wanted, needed and loved. It takes us a lifetime or more to admit, yes, there is difference, and no, we don’t always see it.
Yet our hearts know it. It feels different, smells different. Being needed, wanted and loved.
They are a weapon. A cure. Poison. Aid. Magic wand. A tool of creation and destruction. They hurt. They caress. Make you feel whole, or make you feel empty.
Some of the most hurtful are those never spoken – wanted, anticipated, wished for, but never given. The absence itself is what hurts.
Actions are the loudest words. And actions that never take place are as words that are not spoken, when they should be. Swords of ignorance. Assassins that leave a trail of heartbreaks behind.
I once read that the worst regrets are not about what we have done, but about what we have not.
When I was much much younger, I imagined how my life will be, in detail. As years passed, I learned that you can never control everything and I left those details out, but I still had some general idea of what will be, what I’ll be.
Then… Life happened. Every single time I thought I have it under control, ever time I pictured the future, an earthquake came and destroyed it all.
I thought I knew some things. I should be honest – when I was young, too young, I thought I knew it all, or at least most of it. I’m humbled now, and I admit, I actually know nothing. Whatever I thought I knew, life taught me otherwise. It showed me nothing is as it seems, nothing is fixed, nothing in the world outside me can be really controlled.
I still worry. I still think through, calculate my options… But I’m aware that even if I try to imagine every single scenario, life can show me the one I never imagined.
I can never really know what the outcome will be. I’m still not brave enough to act accordingly. I still don’t do what my heart wants.
But the only thing I now know is that that would be the best way of acting. The best way of living. All you carefully plan can be shattered to dust in a moment. And you are left with the knowledge and feeling – did you give your hear what it wanted, what it needed, for at least a heartbeat?
Or are you left with regret, empty, wondering forever, what if?
It’s a little funny how we name sexual activity “intimacy”. It’s supposed to be the last step, the ultimate bond, the final touch between people.
It is not. And it’s not about love and sex, it is not about knowing eachother. It has nothing to do with either being together for a long time, before you make love, or having sex with no attachments, as some name it.
No. While bodies do matter and while having sex can be making love, it is souls that the real intimacy is about.
Comforting someone. Sharing joys and fears. Telling dreams. Holding in embrace. Trusting. That is what real intimacy is about.
You can have sex, orgasms, kisses… And still feel universes apart.
Or you can be totally dressed and souls touch eachother – intimately. Ultimately.
I used to get angry, sad, upset, when I was told I’m not good. I was told I am mean, egoistic, selfish, lazy, stupid, angry, destructive, that I am a bad person – and it hurt so much, because all I wanted was to be a good person to those same people who said I am not.
I tried to breathe the right way. Be the right way. I was walking on shells, I had them in mind all the time. Could they not see it?
So I tried harder. It became my way, my purpose.
They still told me I’m bad. Bad person. Bad human.
I denied it, argued, told them again and again how much I care, I learned from mistakes I made, worked to make things right. It wasn’t enough. It isn’t enough.
Now… Today… I think they are right. No, I hope they are. There must be a reason for wounds, for pain I feel, for life I live. There must be. If they are right… Then maybe world is not cruel. I almost hope it is fair. I wish it is payment, price, sentence, punishment.
That way it would make sense. It would be worth it. My heart may deny it, my head wants to believe it’s not true. But if it is, it would at least make sense.
I’ve spent a lot of time asking for attention. For 5 minutes a day of being the One That Matters. For being valued enough, important enough. So that the other one would find time for me, just like I find time whenever I’m needed. But I was never enough. I asked. I begged. Every time I heard the words of love and affection, but it never changed the fact that I just didn’t matter enough to be the one who deserves dedication. It took me long to admit that those words were just that. Words. Because the actions never spoke the same. I was told I’m too needy. That I want too much. And I believed it. I learned never to expect, never to ask. Maybe I am too much. But I’m done asking. I’m done wanting, expecting, wishing. Maybe one day I’ll matter to someone enough to be some kind of priority. Not to be all there is. Just to be something, anything. So that I’ll get “good morning” and “goodnight” and honest “how are you” and some interest in what I do, what I feel, how I am. Not 24 hours a day. But maybe at least 5 minutes. Maybe that will never be. But I promised myself I’ll never beg for being important to anyone anymore. I promised myself I won’t try to explain why words are not as important as actions. I promised I won’t offer all in exchange for anything, just anything. So… Yes, I’m here. I don’t ask the same. If I have to ask, then I’m clearly not that.
There were many times I wanted to give up. Be it the pain of the soul or the pain of the body – it just made me too tired to want to breathe.
And I heard I should not, can not – because of others. Mainly because of two little people I brought to this world. I was told I must stay here because of them.
I love them. But it hurts so much to have to exist for the sake of others. Even if it’s for who you love the most.
Again I was told this a few days ago. That I must take care, tend to my pain, go to a doctor, allow healing, because of – others.
I refuse to believe it’s the lack of love that makes it hard to hear this. We should exist for ourselves. With others, but for ourselves. Not to be egoistic, not to think of ourselves first, not to live just for ourselves… Nothing like that. But to exist just for the sake of others is existing, not living.
Nothing is more rewarding than to give yourself to others and be appreciated for it. Yet hearing you must forget your own pain for the sake of others takes away the value of your living, the value of yourself that is not conditioned by others. In a way it leaves you an object, not a subject.
I’ve told Him how my day at the hospital last week went. We don’t talk anymore, He is not interested in my days, or me. He doesn’t ask, I don’t tell. But now He seemed interested, and I spoke. I told Him one part and He said: “Ok, now wait, before you say more, let me tell you about my experience…” and I listened, I asked, I smiled and nodded, but all I could think was that I did it again, I’ve been a fool again. I hoped and believed and I should have known better. Again.
You cannot give yourself to everyone, my Whale said.
Maybe not. Probably… But maybe, if you get enough in return, there is always something to give.
It’s been a hard year for me. I’ve learned that some care only when I can do something for them. Some say they care, but their actions speak otherwise. Some don’t care at all…
In the end, that what we want, isn’t it? Someone who cares. Someone to tell them how you spend your day. What plans you have for tomorrow. Where you are going on Sunday. What books you read and the quote that touched your heart. What made you laugh. What made you cry. Why you look so sad and why you smile. The poem you wrote. What you were dreaming at night. Why you like this shirt so much. That you are having a haircut in the afternoon. What someone said that made you angry and how you know it’s not true. The milk you spilled and the funny shaped cloud you saw on your way in the morning. The big and the small things, the silly and the serious, the real you. All of it. Not because it matters to the world or even to them. But because it matters to you. Because you want to share and they want to listen just because it’s you.
Maybe, if you have someone to share that with, it gives you so much you always have something to give to others.
I’m reading a lot of books recently. Too many, probably. Yes, there is such thing. Because it’s like addiction, it’s escape, it’s what makes me alive and numb at the same time. It makes me feel what I don’t, and it helps me forget what I feel. I don’t read unhappy books. I don’t want drama or tragedy. I want happy book, love, devotion, sugar and sweets and roses and romance and happy ever after. I don’t care if it’s not real. If it’s not life. I appreciate that it’s not life. Life hurts too much. And now I’ve come across a book that is all that, but at the same time it’s shocking how painful it is. The heroine had so much in common with me. She was bleeding all the time. She was in relationship with someone she wasn’t sure she loved. She met someone and fell in love and decided not to be with him, because he wanted children she could not give him. She had this crisis mode, when she detached herself to operate, when the world was falling apart around her. How it hurt to see her… But the most painful part? “His choice was still me. He never gave up.” That’s one of things I could not relate to. And the one that hurt the most. Damn.
