There is of course a lot of research about depression and there are many kinds but the three most common are Major Depression, Dysthymia, and Bipolar Disorder.
Major depression is a combination of symptoms that interfere with the ability to work, sleep, eat, or enjoy anything. Some people have a single episode of depression, but many have episodes that recur.
Dysthymia is a less severe type of depression that lasts a long time but involves less severe symptoms. A person with dysthymia will probably lead a normal life, but may not be functioning well or feeling good. People with dysthymia may also experience major depressive episodes.
Bipolar Disorder (also called manic-depression) is another. Bipolar disorder is thought to be less common than other depressive disorders. If you are bipolar you have cycling mood swings - usually severe highs (mania) and lows (depression). The mood swings are sometimes dramatic and rapid, but usually are more gradual. When in the depressed stage, a person can have any or all of the symptoms of a depressive disorder. When in the manic stage, the individual may be overactive, over talkative, and have a great deal of energy. Mania affects thinking, judgment, and social behaviour, sometimes in ways that cause serious problems and embarrassment. A person in a manic phase may feel elated, full of grand schemes that might range from unwise business decisions to romantic sprees. Mania, left untreated, may worsen to a psychotic state, where the person is out of touch with reality.
According to scientists there are three factors that may be the cause of depression, the factors are biological, genetic or environmental.
Biological - hormones for instance. Or it could be that one has an imbalance in the neurotransmitters serotonin or norepinephrine, these are natural substances that allow our brain cells to communicate with each other.
Genetic – difficult to point out what and why and how, but pi-polar disorder is one of the depressions that has a strong connection to heredity.
Environmental factors – normal but tough stuff that happens in life can cause depression, death, break-ups or stress are some of those things that can affect you.
For me these things, that I just told you about, were once important.
WHAT? WHY?
The “what” I refused to acknowledge until I spent a lot of time with a friend who was suffering from post-natal depression. To try to help her I found a book for about Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. Since she was too “gone” to read, I read it for her.
The more I read the more I began to realise that the book was for me.
The list of symptoms was like a blue-print for my life, a description of my universe.
The “why” was imprinted in me, just look at my movies. Not only would I watch movies of things to come but I always watched movies about moments that had passed. Things that were no more and could have been done differently…
It doesn’t really help, you know, to think “I should have said this and that…” or "he hit me because I am not a likable person" it only makes matters worse.
But for me it was a simple reason to why I felt blue - I was a failure and therefore I should feel low.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Darkness - My Acquaintance
Ok, so let me finally breach this painful and difficult subject. I don’t really know how to go about it but here we go…
I didn’t always know that it was there, I used to think that I was meant to feel the way I felt. That “this was life” take it or leave it. It didn’t matter that I saw other people of other dispositions or another outlook on life, I for some reason, couldn’t see that my way was probably not alright.
It didn’t either matter that many people around me tried to tell me that “No you are not supposed to be accompanied by this darkness, you are young, this is the best time of your life – you are supposed to be happy!”
I don’t know what I thought on the many occasions I was told this, I do remember thinking that most of these people were idiots and I never wanted to see them again.
One was a very sweet doctor I used to see once a year to get “the pill” who every time for six years patiently listened and then booked a time with someone to “talk to”. I never showed up to those meetings - once I did get as far as the waiting room but when they called my name I didn’t respond and soon afterwards I left.
Another was a teacher at university, who gave me a business card and said “I am worried about you, call this person, she is expecting your call” The card was for a psychiatrist. I threw it away and never went back to class.
It is strange, the people who told me “to talk to someone” were always people who were not close to me. With my family and friends I hid the darkness or disguised it, I think or rather I hope…
My mother, sweet but self centred as she is, even if she would have seen my need she would NEVER have advised me “to talk to someone”, the prospect of her child being “insane” would be too much. Although just talking to someone doesn’t mean one is ”insane”. But if I did “talk to someone” I would automatically be qualified “mentally instable” in the books and records of the state. Big brother sees us and it would always be on my shoulders, I would never get a job or a man and probably no one would ever love me, I would never be rich and consequently of course never be happy…
(that’s her view)
And still when I speak to most friends about my depression, they will laugh a little and hit me on the shoulder and say “Oh you are exaggerating, ok, you might have been down but you’ve never been really bad, like suicidal…”
Even if I say “Yes I was or have been or am” they will still laugh it away.
And I don’t blame them. I don’t like to talk about it, I hide it and I do joke about it – a lot. I mean would you take a person seriously if when you met them and asked how they were they would answer with a shrug and a laugh “Oh, today I am just a little under the weather but yesterday I was nearly under a train”?
I didn’t always know that it was there, I used to think that I was meant to feel the way I felt. That “this was life” take it or leave it. It didn’t matter that I saw other people of other dispositions or another outlook on life, I for some reason, couldn’t see that my way was probably not alright.
It didn’t either matter that many people around me tried to tell me that “No you are not supposed to be accompanied by this darkness, you are young, this is the best time of your life – you are supposed to be happy!”
I don’t know what I thought on the many occasions I was told this, I do remember thinking that most of these people were idiots and I never wanted to see them again.
One was a very sweet doctor I used to see once a year to get “the pill” who every time for six years patiently listened and then booked a time with someone to “talk to”. I never showed up to those meetings - once I did get as far as the waiting room but when they called my name I didn’t respond and soon afterwards I left.
Another was a teacher at university, who gave me a business card and said “I am worried about you, call this person, she is expecting your call” The card was for a psychiatrist. I threw it away and never went back to class.
It is strange, the people who told me “to talk to someone” were always people who were not close to me. With my family and friends I hid the darkness or disguised it, I think or rather I hope…
My mother, sweet but self centred as she is, even if she would have seen my need she would NEVER have advised me “to talk to someone”, the prospect of her child being “insane” would be too much. Although just talking to someone doesn’t mean one is ”insane”. But if I did “talk to someone” I would automatically be qualified “mentally instable” in the books and records of the state. Big brother sees us and it would always be on my shoulders, I would never get a job or a man and probably no one would ever love me, I would never be rich and consequently of course never be happy…
(that’s her view)
And still when I speak to most friends about my depression, they will laugh a little and hit me on the shoulder and say “Oh you are exaggerating, ok, you might have been down but you’ve never been really bad, like suicidal…”
Even if I say “Yes I was or have been or am” they will still laugh it away.
And I don’t blame them. I don’t like to talk about it, I hide it and I do joke about it – a lot. I mean would you take a person seriously if when you met them and asked how they were they would answer with a shrug and a laugh “Oh, today I am just a little under the weather but yesterday I was nearly under a train”?
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
Prickly business
We have a restaurant in our office building, my company a service management company is in charge of this restaurant. We are also in charge of information regarding the building and events within the company. That is my job amongst other things. I manage a few television screens on which I put important or interesting pieces of information which will then go in a loop.
During the last couple of months the restaurant (a self serve place) have been getting a tray back into the “dish area” on which lies a needle from an insulin pen.
A needle that someone pricks themselves with at lunch time and then they leave it on the tray.
After a while the restaurant asked me if there was anything we could do information wise. First we put up notices in the restaurant in various place. Asking people not to leave sharp objects on the tray on which the restaurant staff could hurt themselves.
It has now been three months and the needle on the tray business has not stopped. Last week one of the staff actually pricked herself on the needle. I was asked if I could put some more information out onto the television screen.
So I wrote a short piece in and we put it on the screen today.
My boss was standing behind me whilst I was writing, he read it and didn’t say anything.
An hour after it goes up on the screen my boss comes in and says to me in front of everybody “I used my VETO and shut it down!”
“Shut what down?” I asked cause I hadn’t got the faintest idea of what he was talking about.
“The television screens with your message” he said “I don’t think it is appropriate with our role here, the screens are supposed to be used for information regarding the workplace!”
“Well first of all, the message does regard our workplace and also it wasn’t MY personal message, people have been hurt from a needle and no one knows what the needle contains, it is not safe” I replied. “And besides, you read the message before I put it on the screen so why didn’t you say anything then?”
“Erm I didn’t think of it then but anyway I think the message you wrote was bad, it had a testy/nasty tone” he then told me and marched off.
I was not a little hurt and embarrassed and angry, my work mates were also slightly embarrassed.
So tell me is this message so nasty or testy or inappropriate?
“During the last few months a needle, the tip of an insulin pen, has been left with the dishes on a tray. Although it may seem that the needle is protected there has been an incident were an employee of the restaurant was pricked by the needle.
During the last couple of months the restaurant (a self serve place) have been getting a tray back into the “dish area” on which lies a needle from an insulin pen.
A needle that someone pricks themselves with at lunch time and then they leave it on the tray.
After a while the restaurant asked me if there was anything we could do information wise. First we put up notices in the restaurant in various place. Asking people not to leave sharp objects on the tray on which the restaurant staff could hurt themselves.
It has now been three months and the needle on the tray business has not stopped. Last week one of the staff actually pricked herself on the needle. I was asked if I could put some more information out onto the television screen.
So I wrote a short piece in and we put it on the screen today.
My boss was standing behind me whilst I was writing, he read it and didn’t say anything.
An hour after it goes up on the screen my boss comes in and says to me in front of everybody “I used my VETO and shut it down!”
“Shut what down?” I asked cause I hadn’t got the faintest idea of what he was talking about.
“The television screens with your message” he said “I don’t think it is appropriate with our role here, the screens are supposed to be used for information regarding the workplace!”
“Well first of all, the message does regard our workplace and also it wasn’t MY personal message, people have been hurt from a needle and no one knows what the needle contains, it is not safe” I replied. “And besides, you read the message before I put it on the screen so why didn’t you say anything then?”
“Erm I didn’t think of it then but anyway I think the message you wrote was bad, it had a testy/nasty tone” he then told me and marched off.
I was not a little hurt and embarrassed and angry, my work mates were also slightly embarrassed.
So tell me is this message so nasty or testy or inappropriate?
“During the last few months a needle, the tip of an insulin pen, has been left with the dishes on a tray. Although it may seem that the needle is protected there has been an incident were an employee of the restaurant was pricked by the needle.
Please discard you insulin needle elsewhere.”
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Do You Really Want to Know How Insane I am?
Some days one wakes up feeling like shit or rather that the world is shit and since you are a part of it, you yourself is entirely made of shit too.
Today was one of those days.
I do not know if it had to do with falling asleep with a splitting head ache or if it had to do with the fact that the sun forgot to rise today.
But I woke up and the first thought in my head was “I am not good enough for him!”
Why this should be true I do not know. Since I am better looking than him, much smarter and overall nicer than the loved one. But even so, I woke up thinking “Nah, there must be someone better for him!”.
And from there on it starts, the stories I build up in my head.
I mean all of my free time and some of my un-free time goes to making stories or movies in my head. Many times I am actually "writing" in my head as the story progresses. I will go back and erase words or changes phrases. (Nuts!)
Every since I was a kid I would play the “worst case scenario” scenes over and over again like a mantra in my head. If we were in a car I would make movies about for instance the breaks failing on a downward hill and what would happen in the short span of time before impact into the deep ravine.
Every movie is different. Sometimes we would survive and other times we wouldn’t.
I would try to figure out in what way could we survive. Pulling the hand break? Swerving in a zig zag way till the car slowed down and came to a stop? What if there was a lot of meeting traffic? Maybe doing a sharp turn so that the car would point up wards or sideways over the road?
And then if this didn’t work, what happens after impact? Do I survive and nobody else? And in what way would I be hurt? What would the pain be like? When and how would I be rescued? How would it feel to lose the person sitting next to me?
But maybe I die and the others in the car would survive? Hmm? In this case I would probably find bliss in my heart, cause after death there is serenity. No more worries. Nothing to wonder or make movies about. If my movie ended with death for myself it would be good.
But the main movie of today was “He Met Someone Better!”. It was quite a good film.
First scene: How do I find out.
Do I catch them in the act? Maybe he tells me or maybe worse, a friend of his tells me?
And then what, what do I feel?
What is my first reaction, throw up? Getting that “ice cold pail of water falling on top of you”-feeling?
Second scene: What so I do next.
Do I coolly pack my stuff and leave?
Throw a tantrum and break a few glasses and plates over his head?
Third scene: Does he regret
Does he come begging for my return? And how do I react to that?
Usually I watch the movie over and over again, each time changing a setting or a phrase or an action and trying the different emotions out.
Its like testing to see how I feel about something that might happen but hasn’t yet. Like an emergency plan made up beforehand so that when the thing actually does happen I will know how to deal with it because I’ve done it or a version of it a hundred times before.
Now don’t get me wrong, this isn’t about my love or any love for that matter. This is what I do with every single event in my life. If I am to have dinner with a friend, I will beforehand make a movie about how the dinner will be. Tasty, disgusting, friendly, argumentative…
Every day will have at least ten different movies in various genres, today was a day full of negative energies so it is not a good day to give as an example, but here is todays repetoire:
Matinees:
“He Has Met Someone Better”
“My Friend will Overdose and Die”
“The Gas Station is Leaking and all the Neighbourhood will Explode”
“My Best Friend Committed Suicide Last Night”
“My Mum and Aunt were in a Car Crash”
“He Has Met Someone Better”
“My Dad is Sick”
Evening shows:
“He Has Met Someone Better”
“My Friend will Turn into Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde from all the Drugs”
“Telling the Boss’s Boss that the Boss is Shit”
“New Work Site up North”
“He Has Met Someone Better”
“My Dad is Sick”
“Death in a Car Crash”
“Headaches from a Brain Tumour”
“Wisdom Tooth – Goodbye!”
“He Has Met Someone Better”
and the last movie of the night will be “Arrgh! I hate the Soppy Comments to this Post”.
Now off to bed with head still splitting.
Today was one of those days.
I do not know if it had to do with falling asleep with a splitting head ache or if it had to do with the fact that the sun forgot to rise today.
But I woke up and the first thought in my head was “I am not good enough for him!”
Why this should be true I do not know. Since I am better looking than him, much smarter and overall nicer than the loved one. But even so, I woke up thinking “Nah, there must be someone better for him!”.
And from there on it starts, the stories I build up in my head.
I mean all of my free time and some of my un-free time goes to making stories or movies in my head. Many times I am actually "writing" in my head as the story progresses. I will go back and erase words or changes phrases. (Nuts!)
Every since I was a kid I would play the “worst case scenario” scenes over and over again like a mantra in my head. If we were in a car I would make movies about for instance the breaks failing on a downward hill and what would happen in the short span of time before impact into the deep ravine.
Every movie is different. Sometimes we would survive and other times we wouldn’t.
I would try to figure out in what way could we survive. Pulling the hand break? Swerving in a zig zag way till the car slowed down and came to a stop? What if there was a lot of meeting traffic? Maybe doing a sharp turn so that the car would point up wards or sideways over the road?
And then if this didn’t work, what happens after impact? Do I survive and nobody else? And in what way would I be hurt? What would the pain be like? When and how would I be rescued? How would it feel to lose the person sitting next to me?
But maybe I die and the others in the car would survive? Hmm? In this case I would probably find bliss in my heart, cause after death there is serenity. No more worries. Nothing to wonder or make movies about. If my movie ended with death for myself it would be good.
But the main movie of today was “He Met Someone Better!”. It was quite a good film.
First scene: How do I find out.
Do I catch them in the act? Maybe he tells me or maybe worse, a friend of his tells me?
And then what, what do I feel?
What is my first reaction, throw up? Getting that “ice cold pail of water falling on top of you”-feeling?
Second scene: What so I do next.
Do I coolly pack my stuff and leave?
Throw a tantrum and break a few glasses and plates over his head?
Third scene: Does he regret
Does he come begging for my return? And how do I react to that?
Usually I watch the movie over and over again, each time changing a setting or a phrase or an action and trying the different emotions out.
Its like testing to see how I feel about something that might happen but hasn’t yet. Like an emergency plan made up beforehand so that when the thing actually does happen I will know how to deal with it because I’ve done it or a version of it a hundred times before.
Now don’t get me wrong, this isn’t about my love or any love for that matter. This is what I do with every single event in my life. If I am to have dinner with a friend, I will beforehand make a movie about how the dinner will be. Tasty, disgusting, friendly, argumentative…
Every day will have at least ten different movies in various genres, today was a day full of negative energies so it is not a good day to give as an example, but here is todays repetoire:
Matinees:
“He Has Met Someone Better”
“My Friend will Overdose and Die”
“The Gas Station is Leaking and all the Neighbourhood will Explode”
“My Best Friend Committed Suicide Last Night”
“My Mum and Aunt were in a Car Crash”
“He Has Met Someone Better”
“My Dad is Sick”
Evening shows:
“He Has Met Someone Better”
“My Friend will Turn into Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde from all the Drugs”
“Telling the Boss’s Boss that the Boss is Shit”
“New Work Site up North”
“He Has Met Someone Better”
“My Dad is Sick”
“Death in a Car Crash”
“Headaches from a Brain Tumour”
“Wisdom Tooth – Goodbye!”
“He Has Met Someone Better”
and the last movie of the night will be “Arrgh! I hate the Soppy Comments to this Post”.
Now off to bed with head still splitting.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
The Rose
Instead of telling you all about what has happened in the last week like finding a new brave Japanese friend; crocheting twenty hats; watching a male friend pick up a gorgeous girl who in turn tried to pick up my sister; experiencing a smiling French boy called Surkin making a dance floor of people go wild; becoming mesmerized by the enthusiasm of the drummer in "The Midnight Juggernauts"; drinking way too much but ever so good Cooper’s Sparkling Ale; watching my sister trying to pick up a sexy bartender only to see him fall head over heals for her Aussie male friend; and finally even though I fell asleep on my desk yesterday at work from exhaustion, I went to the concert of "Arcade Fire" last night and came out more awake than ever before.
Well, instead of telling you all about these things I thought I would tell you about another of my favourite Unusuals.
I don’t have a name for him, this old man who lives on the same street as I do. He is probably around 65 years old, tall and very thin. His face is papery and lined, all the lines are vertical they start somewhere and all go straight down as if water has run down his face for a very long time leaving imprints. He has greyish eyes that are very alert and they look up from under very bushes white eyebrows, every hair in the eyebrows point downward as well so they form a little curtain from under which the eyes peep. To match his very white eyebrows he has a spectacularly bushy white moustache. The moustache is so big and since it also strays straight down it completely hides his mouth.
One morning as I went to work he stood in the tunnel that leads to the underground. This tunnel is one of the most uninspiring and windy places to stand in. It has a dirty yellow floor and even dirtier but glazed yellow tiled walls. The light is bright, hard and white. The length of the tunnel is about 30 metres and it leads into the ticket hall of the underground.
Well as I was saying, one morning at about 6:30 a.m. this man stood there, hands behind his back just staring straight ahead into the wall opposite him.
In the afternoon when I got back from work, he was not there anymore but the next morning - there he stood again, slightly rolling on his feet from heel to toe. He nodded to me and other neighbours whom he recognised.
This behaviour went on for about one week, every morning he stood in the windy tunnel, hands behind back and nodded to people passing by.
Then one morning he had a small keyboard standing next to him. He didn’t touch the keyboard, just stood silently by it.
For a few days he stood next to his keyboard not touching it until one morning as I was walking down the stairs to the tunnel I heard him tinkling on the keys, just one or a couple of tones at a time. Not a tune, just randomly plonking away. The man still nodded seriously to us neighbours as we passed by.
After another week he had increased not only his props with a small mat and a stool on which he sat, but by now he was playing melodies on the keyboard. Nothing too complicated, simple stuff like “When the saints came marching in” or “What a wonderful world”.
Also next to the old mans foot on the dirty floor lay a single red rose wrapped in plastic.
This old man stood in the tunnel every single day for about six months, playing the same tunes over and over again, seriously nodding to his passing neighbours and next to his foot lay the red rose wrapped in plastic.
Beautiful.
Well, instead of telling you all about these things I thought I would tell you about another of my favourite Unusuals.
I don’t have a name for him, this old man who lives on the same street as I do. He is probably around 65 years old, tall and very thin. His face is papery and lined, all the lines are vertical they start somewhere and all go straight down as if water has run down his face for a very long time leaving imprints. He has greyish eyes that are very alert and they look up from under very bushes white eyebrows, every hair in the eyebrows point downward as well so they form a little curtain from under which the eyes peep. To match his very white eyebrows he has a spectacularly bushy white moustache. The moustache is so big and since it also strays straight down it completely hides his mouth.
One morning as I went to work he stood in the tunnel that leads to the underground. This tunnel is one of the most uninspiring and windy places to stand in. It has a dirty yellow floor and even dirtier but glazed yellow tiled walls. The light is bright, hard and white. The length of the tunnel is about 30 metres and it leads into the ticket hall of the underground.
Well as I was saying, one morning at about 6:30 a.m. this man stood there, hands behind his back just staring straight ahead into the wall opposite him.
In the afternoon when I got back from work, he was not there anymore but the next morning - there he stood again, slightly rolling on his feet from heel to toe. He nodded to me and other neighbours whom he recognised.
This behaviour went on for about one week, every morning he stood in the windy tunnel, hands behind back and nodded to people passing by.
Then one morning he had a small keyboard standing next to him. He didn’t touch the keyboard, just stood silently by it.
For a few days he stood next to his keyboard not touching it until one morning as I was walking down the stairs to the tunnel I heard him tinkling on the keys, just one or a couple of tones at a time. Not a tune, just randomly plonking away. The man still nodded seriously to us neighbours as we passed by.
After another week he had increased not only his props with a small mat and a stool on which he sat, but by now he was playing melodies on the keyboard. Nothing too complicated, simple stuff like “When the saints came marching in” or “What a wonderful world”.
Also next to the old mans foot on the dirty floor lay a single red rose wrapped in plastic.
This old man stood in the tunnel every single day for about six months, playing the same tunes over and over again, seriously nodding to his passing neighbours and next to his foot lay the red rose wrapped in plastic.
Beautiful.
Friday, November 02, 2007
The Kid
I had held an hours meeting at work, at which one of the participants was a very unenthusiastic 7 year-old grandchild of one of my colleagues. After the meeting we stayed and chatted for a while. The girl who had been staring at me or rather at the hat I was wearing all through the meeting started to talk.
- Did you make that hat?
- Yes. I actually just finished knitting it just before this meeting.
- What?! Don’t you have a job to do?
- Hehe…yes…I suppose. (my colleagues laugh nastily)
- So how can you knit when you are supposed to work?
- Ehm…well I had ten minutes to spare just before this meeting so I thought I might as well finish. One could say I was having a break.
- Oh!
- Do you like it?
- Yes, very much!
- Thanks.She was silent for a little while before she popped THE question.
- Do you believe in God?Pause, to let my colleagues get a grip of them selves. Then I start to grill her, one can't let kids get the upper hand:
- Wow! That is sort of a difficult question to answer. I do believe in something...
- Why difficult?! Just answer the question “DO YOU BELIEVE IN GOD?” Yes or No? (more laughter from colleagues)
- Ok, so what is God?
- It’s an old man who sits on a cloud.
- Ahhh… does he have a long beard?
- Yes a very long grey beard.
- Ok, so No, I do not believe in God.
- Oh you are so stupid…
- So how do you know that God is an old man, maybe it is an old woman?
- Oh now you are even more stupid! It is a man!
- But how do you know?
- Argh! Because I’ve seen him in the newspaper!!
- What, like a picture?
- No, it was an interview.
- Oh?! Ok. So answer this, if he sits on a cloud how come he doesn’t fall through the cloud?
- What do you mean?!
- Well, when you’re in a plane, the plane flies right through the clouds, right?
- Yes?
- Well, so if planes can fly right through clouds don’t you think that God would fall right through the cloud if he was sitting on one?
- You are really stupid aren’t you?
- Ehm…I don’t think so… (colleagues are by now falling off their chairs with
laughter)
- You must be a moron! Well God doesn’t fall through the cloud BECAUSE HE IS MADE OF THE SAME THING AS CLOUDS!!!
- Ohhh!I surrender...
- I think I must go and do some work. See you later!
- Knit or work?
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Stuff
I started.
The move.
Well at least I emptied four cupboards in the hallway and divided the stuff into different piles in the house.
In 2 weeks time I have an inspection of the apartment where I have lived for the past 3 years. So before then I need to sort of tidy up and move stuff away from the walls n floors. So they can check for damages like if I’ve scribbled on the wall or carved my initials in the wooden floor in the living room.
At first I was so eager, happy and excited about moving out.
Ok, I admit sending off the resignation of the flat was very heart breaking and getting the confirmation of it by post the next day felt like a nail in my coffin.
But I was still happy.
At night I would picture myself decorating our future bathroom or how I would renovate old furniture in weird unorthodox ways or just see myself reading by an open window with a different life and culture happening outside. My new life would become so much more colourful and better than the life I am leaving in Sweden. Much warmer, much brighter and happier that’s what my picture is like. I had butterflies flying around in my chest when I fell asleep and they would still be fluttering there when I woke in the morning.
Then I started to look around the flat.
Seeing all the stuff!
STUFF!
Collecting dust making everything stuffy!
What a hateful word - stuff.
Let me give you a description of where I’m sitting now:
It’s a big ugly but amazingly comfortable settee of light blue velvety fabric. To hide the ugliness of it, I have draped it, with an equally ugly and dust collecting dark blue Indian bedspread. Behind the settee are a large number of pillows and blankets, hidden by my sweet sister who hates stuff. To my left - a small sewing table which belongs to a friend – on top of it a huge stereo and hundreds of CD cases - mostly empty. Inside the sewing table a few packs of cards, dice, and more empty CD cases. Underneath the table a big wooden box with no real purpose in its life; a colourful kitschy tray full of candles that have burnt down into one large mass of candle wax and maybe a hundred or so vinyl records. Etc etc this goes on for ever, I have just describe one square meter of my living room.
So there I sit in my ugly comfortable settee and stare at stuff and think “what?”.
It is so sad and so scary to just get rid of it all and how does one get rid of it all? I can’t throw half the stuff I have cause they belong to friends who have loaned them to me (ugly Indian bed spread, sewing table) or they are too big to carry by myself the 500 m to the garbage room (the ugly settee) or I just simply can’t throw them away, games, cards and CD’s that are practically new or have some sentimental value like - this is the CD I bought when I was travelling with the Irish or this is the CD I listened to when that guy and I had passionate sex or this is the CD I listened to ALL the time when I broke up with that boyfriend.
Instead of dealing with the move I have played solitaire on the computer for hours every night.
It became harder and harder to move out of the settee and DO something. The butterflies disappeared and instead I had nightmares about moving and playing solitaire till my fingers bleed.
But then yesterday I started.
I did the hallway - two big cupboards and 2 smaller ones. What was once inside them is now sorted into different piles of my life:
“Daddy pile”
“Mummy pile”
“Garbage pile”
“Israel pile”
“Flea market pile”
”I don’t know- pile”
Every pile full of stuff and a piece of heart.
And last night I didn't have nightmares.
The move.
Well at least I emptied four cupboards in the hallway and divided the stuff into different piles in the house.
In 2 weeks time I have an inspection of the apartment where I have lived for the past 3 years. So before then I need to sort of tidy up and move stuff away from the walls n floors. So they can check for damages like if I’ve scribbled on the wall or carved my initials in the wooden floor in the living room.
At first I was so eager, happy and excited about moving out.
Ok, I admit sending off the resignation of the flat was very heart breaking and getting the confirmation of it by post the next day felt like a nail in my coffin.
But I was still happy.
At night I would picture myself decorating our future bathroom or how I would renovate old furniture in weird unorthodox ways or just see myself reading by an open window with a different life and culture happening outside. My new life would become so much more colourful and better than the life I am leaving in Sweden. Much warmer, much brighter and happier that’s what my picture is like. I had butterflies flying around in my chest when I fell asleep and they would still be fluttering there when I woke in the morning.
Then I started to look around the flat.
Seeing all the stuff!
STUFF!
Collecting dust making everything stuffy!
What a hateful word - stuff.
Let me give you a description of where I’m sitting now:
It’s a big ugly but amazingly comfortable settee of light blue velvety fabric. To hide the ugliness of it, I have draped it, with an equally ugly and dust collecting dark blue Indian bedspread. Behind the settee are a large number of pillows and blankets, hidden by my sweet sister who hates stuff. To my left - a small sewing table which belongs to a friend – on top of it a huge stereo and hundreds of CD cases - mostly empty. Inside the sewing table a few packs of cards, dice, and more empty CD cases. Underneath the table a big wooden box with no real purpose in its life; a colourful kitschy tray full of candles that have burnt down into one large mass of candle wax and maybe a hundred or so vinyl records. Etc etc this goes on for ever, I have just describe one square meter of my living room.
So there I sit in my ugly comfortable settee and stare at stuff and think “what?”.
It is so sad and so scary to just get rid of it all and how does one get rid of it all? I can’t throw half the stuff I have cause they belong to friends who have loaned them to me (ugly Indian bed spread, sewing table) or they are too big to carry by myself the 500 m to the garbage room (the ugly settee) or I just simply can’t throw them away, games, cards and CD’s that are practically new or have some sentimental value like - this is the CD I bought when I was travelling with the Irish or this is the CD I listened to when that guy and I had passionate sex or this is the CD I listened to ALL the time when I broke up with that boyfriend.
Instead of dealing with the move I have played solitaire on the computer for hours every night.
It became harder and harder to move out of the settee and DO something. The butterflies disappeared and instead I had nightmares about moving and playing solitaire till my fingers bleed.
But then yesterday I started.
I did the hallway - two big cupboards and 2 smaller ones. What was once inside them is now sorted into different piles of my life:
“Daddy pile”
“Mummy pile”
“Garbage pile”
“Israel pile”
“Flea market pile”
”I don’t know- pile”
Every pile full of stuff and a piece of heart.
And last night I didn't have nightmares.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
"Foot In Mouth" Disease
My stupid bad behaviour didn't stop there yesterday. What started out as fun, turned sour. I think I’m too nice to be mean cause soon those little angels who like to give you bad conscious, crept forward and danced around, telling me “Hey, the guy is maybe actually nice! And maybe his friends whom you know were a bit upset by your harshness”
It is so hard you know, when it comes to a different culture, even though people from a country and culture which is very similar to ones own. There are always misunderstandings, body language, wording and phrasing can easily be misunderstood.
So I wrote to this mutual friend of ours and told him, sorry if I had unintentionally in the process of insulting his friend ended up insulted him as well. I also explained that I had been very provoked by the pictures of uniform and gun and that maybe some girls are turned on by this but for me I just felt disgusted and got an urge to run as far away as possible when I see a uniformed person with a huge gun.
Two hours later it suddenly hits me.
This friend whom I wrote to, is one of those army types who had a very important job in the army (and maybe still has) and is extremely proud of it. I suddenly recalled a very heated discussion between this friend and another who is a pacifist. And here I was declaring to him my disgust of guns and uniformed people!
OUCH! Not so smart when I will be seeing very much more of him and be living in his country and culture shortly.
Oh why can’t I just shut up!
But it is much harder than one can imagine culture difference and it doesn’t really hit or hurt you until much later.
Body language is one such a cool thing and also can be so easily missed.
Once in the beginning of our relationship I was sitting and reading the paper with my loved one. I started to talk to him as one does, about something I read. He did something with his hand and I just kept on talking. The loved one was reading something at the moment and he did the thing with the hand again. I kept on talking. Suddenly he looked up angrily and nearly shouted “Wait, I tell you. Let me finish the page!!” I was stunned…
A few days later I was reading a Lonelyplanet Hebrew phrasebook and I found this: “When asking someone to wait a moment, an Israeli might place the thumb, index and middle fingers together and squeeze, with the palm facing up.”
My mind rewound fast to the café and me talking whilst the loved was reading. His hand fling thing was exactly this! DONG! The revelation was like a sledgehammer hitting my head making a very hollow dong sound from the vibrations of my head.
Other times it can be worse, life experience can be so different for two people of roughly the same age, and when you talk, party and have fun, it is something that can be easily forgotten.
Once we were talking to a wonderful person, having tea and just chatting. He had just burnt himself on a stove and he was talking about how disgusting his little scab was under the plaster. I started to tell the story of the Irish Red Lobster. A friend of mine who in Oz was so badly sunburnt on the back of his legs that when his friend accidentally kicked his shin under a table the skin of his shin peeled off as thick as an orange peel. Yes, it was very disgusting! But anyway after telling about this my friend - this wonderful person was very quiet for some time and soon after he left.
My loved one, then told me gently that maybe it wasn’t such a very good story to tell a guy who was inside a burning tank during a war recently and where most of his friends were burnt extremely bad or even killed.
Holy fuck! Did I run head first into a concrete wall?
I wanted to.Saturday, October 27, 2007
Facebook Frustration
It is dieing down a bit now, the Facebook mania that ravaged my life for a bit. Thank you God!
All kinds of stuff has been in the media about it, the amount of time and money all companies are losing now that their employees are Facebooking all day.
That all the pictures and texts that are published in the community can be sold i.e. we have signed over the rights for Facebook to do what ever they want with the pics.
There is also a huge conspiracy thing connected with Facebook which is quite fun: http://www.albumoftheday.com/facebook/
But I can’t be bothered anymore. I was sort of excited about Facebook for a while, as long as I was finding long lost friends with whom I hadn’t seen in 5, 10, 15 and even 20(!) years. That was great. But after the initial “WOW! How are you?! What are you doing?” things die down a bit.
Then I started to realise that people at work could actually see everything I wrote and did. Writing stuff like “Caroline is pretending to work” or “Caroline is trying to figure out an excuse so she can leave work early” in the status field might not be so smart of me, especially when I am already being completely shunned by my work mates and boss.
But then the hatred of Facebook started to seep into my heart. All the zombie, vampire, Super wall, X me, Aquarium, Film quizzes and other bullshit applications! What the fuck? Go away! Throw sheep and world wide travelling teddy bears at yourselves - if you think its so fun! Just leave me alone!
Just a few days ago I met a girl who told me she got weird guys wanting to add her just because she had big boobs. Now this has not happen to me yet (I can’t figure out why?!) but yesterday the first stranger tried to add me as his friend.
I got the request from a guy I didn’t know or had ever met. I was confused, thought for a moment that my memory was even worse than expected and that I actually had met him. He did know two other people I knew. So I had to ask “Do I know you?”.
The answer was: “No, but I saw that you knew two of my best friends so I thought I would add you too :)”
I had a look at this guys profile.
His profile picture was of him gobbling down whiskey or something like it directly from a bottle. Some other pictures of him depicted him posing in a police (?) uniform with a huge automatic weapon of some sort.
ARRGHH! (Sound effect of allergic reaction)
Ok, I know a lot of girls get turned on by uniforms and maybe I am strange cause it disgusts me. Police and military uniforms make me feel sick to the stomach and an urge to run as far away as possible hits my legs.
So I politely answered him:
“What's with the gun and drinking straight out of a bottle? Is it a description of the size of your dick and brain? In other words – tiny.
Your best friends are very nice people and maybe you are too, but so far I don't know. I have a thing about adding people I don't know so maybe you shall try your luck somewhere else. And if we happen to be introduced and you turn out to be a misunderstood nice guy, then I can add you later.
Sorry.”
Maybe a bit harsh.
But fun.
All kinds of stuff has been in the media about it, the amount of time and money all companies are losing now that their employees are Facebooking all day.
That all the pictures and texts that are published in the community can be sold i.e. we have signed over the rights for Facebook to do what ever they want with the pics.
There is also a huge conspiracy thing connected with Facebook which is quite fun: http://www.albumoftheday.com/facebook/
But I can’t be bothered anymore. I was sort of excited about Facebook for a while, as long as I was finding long lost friends with whom I hadn’t seen in 5, 10, 15 and even 20(!) years. That was great. But after the initial “WOW! How are you?! What are you doing?” things die down a bit.
Then I started to realise that people at work could actually see everything I wrote and did. Writing stuff like “Caroline is pretending to work” or “Caroline is trying to figure out an excuse so she can leave work early” in the status field might not be so smart of me, especially when I am already being completely shunned by my work mates and boss.
But then the hatred of Facebook started to seep into my heart. All the zombie, vampire, Super wall, X me, Aquarium, Film quizzes and other bullshit applications! What the fuck? Go away! Throw sheep and world wide travelling teddy bears at yourselves - if you think its so fun! Just leave me alone!
Just a few days ago I met a girl who told me she got weird guys wanting to add her just because she had big boobs. Now this has not happen to me yet (I can’t figure out why?!) but yesterday the first stranger tried to add me as his friend.
I got the request from a guy I didn’t know or had ever met. I was confused, thought for a moment that my memory was even worse than expected and that I actually had met him. He did know two other people I knew. So I had to ask “Do I know you?”.
The answer was: “No, but I saw that you knew two of my best friends so I thought I would add you too :)”
I had a look at this guys profile.
His profile picture was of him gobbling down whiskey or something like it directly from a bottle. Some other pictures of him depicted him posing in a police (?) uniform with a huge automatic weapon of some sort.
ARRGHH! (Sound effect of allergic reaction)
Ok, I know a lot of girls get turned on by uniforms and maybe I am strange cause it disgusts me. Police and military uniforms make me feel sick to the stomach and an urge to run as far away as possible hits my legs.
So I politely answered him:
“What's with the gun and drinking straight out of a bottle? Is it a description of the size of your dick and brain? In other words – tiny.
Your best friends are very nice people and maybe you are too, but so far I don't know. I have a thing about adding people I don't know so maybe you shall try your luck somewhere else. And if we happen to be introduced and you turn out to be a misunderstood nice guy, then I can add you later.
Sorry.”
Maybe a bit harsh.
But fun.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Writing
It's tough to write.
I mean I write all the time and some of it is good but most of it is extremely personal. I know that that bearing it all, undressing myself in front of everyone would probably be best. But knowing that people read the stuff I write and then I know some of the people who read which makes it hard.
There are times I am so upset about something or someone that I just want to rip their hearts out online but then there is the nice side of me thinking "Oh no be nice!" If I wrote a sarcastic exaggerated but slightly truthful story on every person I knew which is what I would like to do, I would end up with very few friends.
Sometimes I have troubles I want to share and to get help with but I then am too proud to receive the pity or the love from friends.
Now I have a secret that very few people know of, every day that passes it gets harder to tell the people who don't know.
I mean I write all the time and some of it is good but most of it is extremely personal. I know that that bearing it all, undressing myself in front of everyone would probably be best. But knowing that people read the stuff I write and then I know some of the people who read which makes it hard.
There are times I am so upset about something or someone that I just want to rip their hearts out online but then there is the nice side of me thinking "Oh no be nice!" If I wrote a sarcastic exaggerated but slightly truthful story on every person I knew which is what I would like to do, I would end up with very few friends.
Sometimes I have troubles I want to share and to get help with but I then am too proud to receive the pity or the love from friends.
Now I have a secret that very few people know of, every day that passes it gets harder to tell the people who don't know.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Old Young Man
It was Friday after work and some people were already dressed for the night out. I was waiting for the train, reading a book.
The wrong train stopped and let a black mass of autumn people out. A young man, about 25 years old, tall and good looking got off, stopped and then read the signs on the walls. He was trendy, a bit decadent with a long green scarf nonchalantly thrown around his neck over his tweed jacket. Actually he looked a bit like a modern day Michael Jackson in Thriller, Michael before he became white that is. The man approached me.
(He then switched to perfect Swedish but since most of you don’t understand Swedish I will do it in English, so just pretend it is Swedish)
I looked at him with a sceptical look, trying to convey a message through my eyes which was something like “What do you want? Are you hitting on me? And if you are, then forget about it pal? And if you don’t stop, then GET LOST!”
He actually understood this silent message and quickly took three steps back, put up his hands as protection and started stumbling over his own words.
That sentence began with a London accent and ended in a thick Jamaican accent, I was beginning to believe this guy was making fun of me.
Then we sat there silently and I let a few more trains pass because I was a bit worried about leaving this lost young man alone.
Suddenly the old young man jumped up, wiped away his tears and laughed
Then he ran across the platform and onto a train that stood waiting there.
The wrong train stopped and let a black mass of autumn people out. A young man, about 25 years old, tall and good looking got off, stopped and then read the signs on the walls. He was trendy, a bit decadent with a long green scarf nonchalantly thrown around his neck over his tweed jacket. Actually he looked a bit like a modern day Michael Jackson in Thriller, Michael before he became white that is. The man approached me.
“Excusez moi! Parlez vous Française?
“Eh…non!
“Aha! Hablas español?
“Non!”
(He then switched to perfect Swedish but since most of you don’t understand Swedish I will do it in English, so just pretend it is Swedish)
“Oh, so which language do you speak then?
I looked at him with a sceptical look, trying to convey a message through my eyes which was something like “What do you want? Are you hitting on me? And if you are, then forget about it pal? And if you don’t stop, then GET LOST!”
He actually understood this silent message and quickly took three steps back, put up his hands as protection and started stumbling over his own words.
“Sorry! Sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb you or bother you! I just wanted to talk to someone! I’ll back off, please forgive me!”
He was so apologetic and embarrassed that I felt bad about giving him the “GET LOST”-look so I said:
“No it’s ok. I speak Swedish and English and a bit of Polish so you can pick any of those languages.”
“Oh ok!” he sighed, then switched to a perfect London English “I am sorry but I thought you were French or maybe Spanish. Do you mind if I sit on the same bench as you?”
“You can sit anywhere you like.”
“Thank you! You seem very nice!” he mumbled shyly in flawless Swedish.
“Hey! You are switching between languages all the time, why? Where are you from really?”
“Oh my story is long and complicated. I was born in Jamaica man!”
That sentence began with a London accent and ended in a thick Jamaican accent, I was beginning to believe this guy was making fun of me.
“Why, is your story long and complicated?”The man produced his wallet from his jacket pocket; out of it he took a photograph of himself and a small beautiful child of about three. The picture was taken in Stockholm.
“This is my son!” the man said.
"Oh nice! Cute! How old is he?”
“Oh he will be 26 this year” the man said gazing lovingly at the picture.
“What?! 26?”
“Yes?” he looked at me questionably “Ohh! You thought the little child on the photo was mine! No, no that is my grandson!” he threw me a big sincere smile.
“But?!” I was sure he was pulling my leg off and having a dance with it now.
“This is my son!” he said and pointed proudly at the man on the photo who most obviously was himself, “he is 26 years old. And this little one is my grandson!”
“BUT…? No!” I smiled carefully, “that must be you!” and pointed at the young man in the picture.
“HA HA!” the young man laughed “thank you for the compliment! But no I am 65 years old! But you are so sweet for telling me I look young!”
He was completely sincere, there wasn’t a trace of a joke in his eyes or his face, but he kept switching between Swedish, Londonian and Jamaican English. I was confused. Then he started to tell me about his 'son' again. How 'the son' worked as a market analyst at a big company in Stockholm and that he was only visiting him for a short while before returning to London where he lived.
I had let more than 3 trains go past by now, because I had to figure out what this smooth faced young guy was all about. He acted so normal, apart from switching languages and claiming to be 40 years older than he clearly was. But after about ten minutes he began to crack. Instead of using the word “he” about his ‘son’ he let out an “I” instead. But as soon as he had, he stopped in his tracks. Looked very lost, wrinkled his forehead and shook his head a little. Then he took a deep breath and went on telling me his life story of moving from Jamaica to London 50 years before and how his son had met a Swedish girl and moved to Stockholm.
“I’ve been to a company party today” he said and stopped suddenly looked confused. Then he continued slowly “I mean he, my son has been to a company party today”
“Ok” I said “How was it?”
“It was great! But I don’t usually drink and today I had 2 glasses of wine” then he looked at me with a very shocked face and said slowly “I don’t know what is happening. I mean him, my son.”
“It’s ok” I said “you will be fine”
“My head hurts. I think I should go home. I don’t usually drink but the head of the company persuaded me. I didn’t dare to say no.” the man mumbled in Swedish and put his head in his hands.
“Don’t worry! You will be fine after you’ve had some sleep. Go home and rest”
“Yes, you are right” He started to weep. A few tears ran down his cheeks “I feel strange”
“Don’t worry” I said and patted his back.
Then we sat there silently and I let a few more trains pass because I was a bit worried about leaving this lost young man alone.
Suddenly the old young man jumped up, wiped away his tears and laughed
““I want to dance! Come and dance with me!”
“No, thank you but I need to go home. Maybe another time.”
“Ok” he smiled “you have been so very nice to me, thank you thank you thank you!" whilst he shook my hand between both of his. "I feel a bit strange because I never drink but now I want to dance, I think I’ll go and dance somewhere! See you later!”
Then he ran across the platform and onto a train that stood waiting there.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Drama Mama
For some weeks now, my sister and I have complained about a strange sour smell in our mother’s car. Today my mother phoned me at work sounding very distraught:
- Oy sweetie… I found out what the smell came from…
- Did you? What was it?
- Oy sweetie… it was something DEAD!
- Really! What?! A mouse?!
- No! But it was terrible! Absolutely terrible!
- Yes I suppose it was, But what was it? A rat?
- No not a rat!
- What then? A frog?
- Nooo! It was a…PEAR!!! And it was all brown and disgusting and soft and I had to touch it. Oy! It was TERRIBLE sweetie!
- Oy sweetie… I found out what the smell came from…
- Did you? What was it?
- Oy sweetie… it was something DEAD!
- Really! What?! A mouse?!
- No! But it was terrible! Absolutely terrible!
- Yes I suppose it was, But what was it? A rat?
- No not a rat!
- What then? A frog?
- Nooo! It was a…PEAR!!! And it was all brown and disgusting and soft and I had to touch it. Oy! It was TERRIBLE sweetie!
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Re-visiting Dr Mumble
- Welcome! Come in, have a seat!
(I sit and tremble)
- So…you wanted to see me about some headaches you had a few months ago…
- NO!
- Oh? Let’s see… (doctor scrolls on his computer) Ahh…here it is. You came to see me in the winter about something…
- NOO! I was here just ten days ago!
- Were you?! Oh! Hmmm…
- You took loads of blood samples and tests and stuff…
- Ahh…yes…maybe… But I haven’t got the results back yet…
- What?! You said you’d get them on Thrusday and that you’d call me, which you didn’t!
- Oh! Hmm… (doctor franticly clicks the mouse)…AHH! Here they are! The results… Lets see... Ah yes I can see that you’ve had encephalitis (Sw. hjärnhinneinflammation) before…
- What?! No, I’ve never had encephalitis!
- Well according to this, you have antibodies against it so you must have had it before!
- No, I’ve never had encephalitis before and besides I am vaccinated against encephalitis so maybe that is why you can see the antibodies?
- No! You’ve had encephalitis.
(I shake my head and sigh)
- Ok, but other than that, there is nothing wrong with you. So I guess you must be feeling better?
- NO! Nothing has changed! I still feel faint and half my body still goes numb.
- Oh?! Well then…hmm…maybe I’ll take some more tests for Lyme disease (Sw. Borelia).
- But you already took those tests?!
- Yes but they were negative, so I’ll take them again.
- But you know, I’ve been thinking I think all of this has to do with my back, muscles that are inflamed or a nerve that has become crushed or something…
- No.
- What do you mean “No”. You haven’t examined my back! I always have problems with my back.
- No I don’t think it’s your back. I think it is Lyme disease. Have you been bitten by a tick?
- No never!
- We will still do the test. I’ll just call someone…The doctor then proceeds to call (by speaker phone) another doctor at a big hospital for a second opinion. In this conversation my doctor tells him about my encephalitis and is told directly “Well isn’t that because she has been vaccinated” Whereupon my doctor mumbles something and turns bright red. End of conversation.
- Look Dr Mumble, I still think it has something to do with my back because if someone touches the muscles around my shoulder blade I feel even worse and something like an electrical current runs down my arm.
- Nooo…I don’t think it is your back.
- But…
- No buts. Listen, we will do this Lyme disease test again and if it is still negative we will send you for a CT scan.
- A CT Scan?!
- Yes, to look at you brain!
- I know what a CT scan is! Why do you want to do a CT scan?!
- Well, it could be that you’ve had a brain haemorrhage or stroke.
- WHAT?!
- Yes…but a very small one (doctor shows with his thumb and index finger how small).
- Fuck you!
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Sick
Sunday, the day after the Circus wedding it hit me. I woke up completely blocked and my face was swollen like a big round moon. My throat was soar and I felt weak.
Monday I was worse, had a high temperature and when I phoned my boss to say I was sick he could hardly hear what I said, that’s how hoarse I was.
Tuesday – ALL symptoms were gone! No blocked nose, not a trace of fever and my throat was perfect. It was strange, I still felt weak so I allowed myself an extra day to sleep instead of going to work.
Then came Wednesday and Thursday, funnily I was weaker and felt very odd, something was wrong, I felt dizzy and faint. But still no other symptoms, I was by now beginning to have a bad conscious about not going to work cause outwardly I looked perfect.
So on Friday I went to work, got there a bit late of course (only 3 hours), sat at my desk, switched on the computer and felt weird. Then I fainted. Sort of semi fainted anyway, caught myself before I hit the floor.
Fainting is a very fascinating experience, the hard floor under ones feet suddenly turns into wobbly jelly and colours and shapes shift back and fro, swaying or are warped out of proportion.
Anyway a nurse took my blood pressure and it turned out to be pretty low (90/60), I was recommended to lay down or go home. Now an interesting thing happened, my mother called and when she found out she freaked! This may be a normal thing for a mother to do, when they find out their child is sick. But my mother has never actually enjoyed that part of motherhood. Only rarely did she believe us if we were sick and to pamper a sick child was not her thing. My father on the other hand was the one who bought us ice cream if we had a cold and sat on the balcony with my sister wrapped up in blankets all night when she couldn’t breath from asthma attacks.
But this Friday my mother freaked out for a little low blood pressure and rushed over to take me home by car.
Saturday and Sunday were pretty much spent in bed and by now I was getting annoyed cause my head was completely clear, I was not tired, on the contrary I was full of energy. But my mother was worried and this as I’ve already mentioned was odd.
Monday – I had promised to call my very kind but mumbling doctor and ask him about it. Our conversation went something like this:
- Hi Doc! I don’t feel very well. I feel strange.
- Hmm.. ok..mmm…so what are your symptoms?
- Well that’s the thing I don’t really have any, I just feel really really weak.
- No symptoms? Fever?
- No fever, only one day. No I just feel strange, weak, as if I have a temperature but without the actual fever. Do you know what I mean?
- Ehh..no…
- Oh… Well it feels a bit like walking on candyfloss and rotating at the same time. Do you understand?
- Well, actually I don’t.
- Oh…How about if I’m walking on a spinning cloud or like on a gigantic pannacotta?
- No, I am sorry, I don’t know what you mean. Do you have any pain anywhere?
- No, no pain. But my arms - especially the left one – and legs fall asleep all the time. You know “pins and needles”, but it will occur for no reason. Oh and my blood pressure is low 90/60 and has been for some days now.
- Oh, hmm… I don’t know…mumble mumble…heart…mumble…mumble… test…
- Eh? Sorry? Did you say heart?
- Hmm…yes, I think you better come and have some tests on your heart. I don’t have any times left but I will let you come in after practice, I think I should see you soon. How does Thursday sound to you?
No. No. That is not my heart you can hear thump at night when I can’t sleep for worrying.
No, I am fine really, what?
Why I am rubbing my left arm?
Oh its just a bit cold and I lost the feeling in it strangely enough.
But it will be back soon.
No worries.
Monday, September 03, 2007
The Culture Festival of Stockholm
Two weeks ago I worked for a big festival in town. I had got the job from an acquaintance of mine who lives in the same neighbourhood.
At the festival I was in charge of organising the dressing room areas for the artists who numbered to between 50 and 300 artists per day. We had 2 very large auditoriums to our disposal and I arranged them like little rooms, only without walls. Instead of walls I taped the outline of walls and doors on the floor, so it would look like a blueprint of a house. I thought it was quite fun.
Everything went splendidly or so I thought, my acquaintance who was now my boss wasn’t very thrilled by anything I did or said. She constantly checked up on me “Have you missed this?” “Have you forgotten that?” “Maybe it is better if you do it this way” “Maybe you can do that instead” But the worst was her tone of voice, she spoke to me (and to everybody else) as if she was talking to a five year old, with her head leaning a bit to the side and a patronising smile on her lips.
But since we are still on speaking terms and she wants me to work at the festival next year I must have done something right or maybe I just didn’t do too much wrong…
The best part of the festival was working with the unpaid volunteers. We had about 20 of them, all different sizes, colours, shapes and ages.
There was the greying 50-ish German man who loved everything to do with electricity, if you asked him to move a table from one end of the room to the other he would find some electrical extension cords and start taping them to the floor instead.
Another elderly French speaking man from Burundi was very sweet and he said “Yes of course” to everything one asked of him, only then to disappear for an hour. On his return and questioned why he hadn’t done what he had been asked, he would just smile sweetly again and shrug. (At the end of the week we realised he could talk but didn’t understand any Swedish)
Then there was the little plump old lady who smiled so much her face shrivelled up in a thousand wrinkles. I asked her to fill ONE (1) thermos with coffee. This she did, the only problem was that when I came back from some other chores she had continued to brew coffee and filled every single thermos, jug and cup in the whole room with coffee (about 20 litres of coffee) and she just stood there completely lost and begged me for some more vessels to fill.
There were some young stars as well.
The funniest character must have been a young girl who tripped in on stilettos, tiny shorts and a minute bikini top late one afternoon. She clicked her way over to me and flashed a great big Miss Universe smile at me from behind her huge Chanel sunglasses.
Our job was to make coffee, fix catering and tidy up, her attire was more suited for sipping cool drinks by a pool. I didn’t say anything because I figured that she would come dressed more appropriately the next day – but alas the stilettos, the bikini top and tiny shorts were with us the rest of the week. This Little Miss Universe was more of a talker than a doer, a wide eyed naïve thing. Everything was amazing and fabulous and wonderful and brilliant and WOW! She questioned everything to pieces: why this and why not this and who are you? And why are you? And what are you? She actually prepared 100 questions for me to answer about my life...
But I also met a very nice girl from London, a writer who just moved to Sweden to be with her love. She was (thank you god!) one of those people who when given a task she would do it 150% and then do some more, intelligently as well, without complaining and always smiling.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Parents
A difficult species, parents are the two beings one is born from and then grow up with.
Two people, who love you unconditionally. Or so they think?
Two personalities, with their own lives that they have lived to the fullest. Or rather not?
Two grown ups. who say when you are little “As long as you are happy, we don’t mind what choices you make in life” and then when you get a little bit older they say “Maybe it would be better if you take flute lessons instead of guitar, it’s a much nicer instrument”.
A father, who dotes on the child and loves her to bits by singing and telling her stories and answering all those impossible questions of an innocent. But when she gets old enough to see his unhappiness and she asks about it, he breaks her heart into bits, by ostracizing her. Taking away her right to his words, by silencing her world.
A mother who dresses her daughter lovingly up in flower patterned dresses and rosettes in her hair, praising her prettiness. But when that same daughter grows up, the mother’s focus turns to the ugliness of the legs or the scruffiness of the hairstyle.
A dad who says “I refuse to send our daughter to the University of Arts Saint Martin’s in London, she will suffer terribly from homesickness” just because he dropped out of the same school and also because he would suffer from longing, even though our relationship was silent.
A mother who wishes for me to find a nice proper man with a good education preferably a doctor or lawyer and it would be nice if he was Polish as well. But when I find a proper Polish man with a good education she still tries to hook me up with other guys.
A man who still says “As long as you are happy I am happy” but when I, his daughter tell him I am moving to another country to be with my love, to be happy, he suddenly breaks his silence and tells me in icy cold hard words about the stupidity of my choice.
Why is it so hard to walk away from that? Why is it impossible to let the words slide off my back without touching me? Why is the bond so strong to these people so hard to break? Why do I still feel so guilty?
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Festival number one
The last two months have had so many impressions and overloaded my brain that now I can hardly breath without burping up some confused memory or picture. LESS than a week after I got back from Israel and the wedding there my loved one decided to surprise me in Stockholm. I hadn’t even unpacked my bag yet!
I was overwhelmed, over the moon and over worked. Luckily I was the only person at work so I could “work from home” another term for “pretend you are working hard when you actually aren’t”.
I can’t really remember what we did during the 3 weeks I made food some days, other days we had dinners at various friends and family.
One week we went up north to a hippy trippy festival. You know the kind, world music, dreadlocks swinging over Djembes, rainbow coloured cars, cute girls giving away free hugs and strangely enough a Thai food stall behind every tree or bush.
Most of you would probably say that this was the perfect place for me. For some reason people think of me as some kind of hippy which pisses me off no end.
Ok, I have long flowing hair without styling but that’s just because I would rather spend my money on a book than a haircut. Long flowing skirts – hmph, something I only wear at home or on a journey far away. But a long skirt is the most practical attire. A long skirt is warm on a cold day and cool on a warm day. Great protection against mosquitoes and comfortable and one doesn’t have to wear underwear. Plus if I had the gorgeous slim legs of my sister, I too would be wearing uncomfortable and impractical miniskirts like her. But as long as I can hear the tiny voice of my mum’s in the back of my head going “Oy, sweetie, it is such a pity you didn’t get daddy’s thin legs!” I will not bother with the minis.
So why does everyone think I am a hippy?
Because I like roaming the world? Not really true, all I want is to find a place where I want to stay and get out of the place I’m currently in.
Do I embrace the philosophy of love, peace and smoking dope? I love love that much is true, but I do not believe in peace and I don’t smoke dope any more. It’s boring.
And all that stuff that many hippies are on about – healing, auras, dream catchers, wicca, astrology and energies – I am truly sorry because I am sure I will hurt someone’s feelings now but all those things are to me just what they are – bull shit.
So after a week I had overdosed on hippies and Thai food and even though we had a great time, as soon as we got on the bus home I was overjoyed.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Israel in July
Since I wrote last I have been to Israel for my loved one's brother's wedding. It was "over the top", by the sea, massive amounts of food and exciting, but finishing long before it should have finished. It was also a bit nerve wrecking meeting a load of family and as usual a bit boring at times when I stood in a group of Hebrew speaking friends with a phoney smile on my face pretending that I was not present.
The Drummer Boy had got us an apartment in the centre of Tel Aviv so that we could enjoy being together more fully. I mean, I adore his parents but it feels a bit weird sleeping on a bumpy fold-away bed that sqeeks every time you breath - in the room right next to his parents.
The apartment in Tel Aviv was huge and empty apart from some humungous cockroaches who fought for my attention with the hungry mosquitos. Also it was extremely noisy because of the cars, mopeds, trucks, buses, people and cats on the streets outside. What is it with all the honking in Israel?!
I became very sick just after I arrived in Israel, only a major cold but a few days after the Drummer Boy caught it as well only this time the major cold germs had metamorphosed themselves into deadly super cold germs. This is according to the Drummer Boy who was seriously dying for 24 hours. After surviving that first day and night (I mean myself) everything more or less went back to normal. Drummer boy a little paler after his near death experience and myself a bit less impressed by my love.
One of my favorite things in this apartment was our neighbour who every day around noon got up and stood with one foot on the balcony railing next to his dog and watched the world go by.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Queens Birthday Party – Death
My father gets up telling me “Maybe it’s time to leave.”
“Ok” I reply, and turn to George, say goodbye shaking his hand adding that it was a real pleasure to meet him.
George nods approvingly mumbling “Likewise” as he struggles slowly out of his chair extending his hand to my father. “You have a delightful daughter!” he tells him.
Father looks pleased and says “Yes, thank you! Maybe we will see you next year at this function?”
“Next year… no, I don’t think so” George mumbles “I’ll be dead by then!”
“Hehe” father laughs in discomfort “you won’t be dead. But maybe I’ll see you before then, at the party held by Eva next week?”
“Next week? Ahh, yes…maybe. But I think I’ll be dead by then!” George’s replies seriously.
“Don’t be silly!” my annoyed father waves his hand disapprovingly to ward off the difficult subject. “Anyway, it was nice meeting you” he adds and turns to leave.
“But it is time you know!” George raises his voice after him “Its time to die! I’ve had my share of women, drink and fun, it really is time to go! I don’t know what’s keeping them from getting me…” his voice trails off.
My father with a firm grip on my arm guides me away briskly mumbling to himself "Crazy man! Absolutely crazy, that man!"
“Ok” I reply, and turn to George, say goodbye shaking his hand adding that it was a real pleasure to meet him.
George nods approvingly mumbling “Likewise” as he struggles slowly out of his chair extending his hand to my father. “You have a delightful daughter!” he tells him.
Father looks pleased and says “Yes, thank you! Maybe we will see you next year at this function?”
“Next year… no, I don’t think so” George mumbles “I’ll be dead by then!”
“Hehe” father laughs in discomfort “you won’t be dead. But maybe I’ll see you before then, at the party held by Eva next week?”
“Next week? Ahh, yes…maybe. But I think I’ll be dead by then!” George’s replies seriously.
“Don’t be silly!” my annoyed father waves his hand disapprovingly to ward off the difficult subject. “Anyway, it was nice meeting you” he adds and turns to leave.
“But it is time you know!” George raises his voice after him “Its time to die! I’ve had my share of women, drink and fun, it really is time to go! I don’t know what’s keeping them from getting me…” his voice trails off.
My father with a firm grip on my arm guides me away briskly mumbling to himself "Crazy man! Absolutely crazy, that man!"
Monday, June 18, 2007
Queens Birthday Party - Sex and Money
“So where do you work?” George says leaning towards me.
“Core Service Management” I reply.
“Oh! Really?!” he says with some surprise and a touch of awe in his soft voice. “That must be good money!?”
“Do you think so?” I say puzzled “It’s ok I suppose”
“Well if you are into Whore Service Management it must be very good, you could even buy your father here, a very nice Mercedes?!” George sounds very impressed.
My father turns bright red and looks utterly chocked; and I nearly fall off my chair laughing.
“No George, not Whore Service Management. Core, as in the core of an apple, Service Management!”
"Oh." Clearly disappointed. George takes another sip of tea.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Queens Birthday Party - Feelings
In a posh suburb garden they hold the Queens Birthday Party - a gathering I never want to join, but never miss.
To give our father the treat of showing off his daughters to the British Ex-pats, my sister and I suffer the agony of eating scones with cream and jam while chit chatting to our first school teacher “Mrs Torture”. Later we have strawberries and ice cream paired with a tiny drop of champagne and experience a shaky display of an older generation mumbling ”God Save the Queen” accompanied by a Swede in a kilt(!) playing the bagpipe. (God save her indeed)
I am sitting between two deaf older men under a small and perfectly pruned chestnut tree. With my knees together, feet under the chair, I smile appropriately and nod to strangers with whom the only thing I have in common is being on that spot in that moment.
On my left, my father daydreaming and on my right George, a very thin WWII veteran, clean shaven but with a spot or two of dried blood on his chin where he probably cut himself in the morning process. George looked bored and he declared himself to be bored. With large unshapely lips that never stopped moving he declared his boredom more than once in a very soft voice.
“I'm bored! It was much better in the Fifties when the Ambassador had the party at the Embassy and they handed out free drinks, cigarettes and cigars. Back when my friend who was an anti-royalist always joined me just so that he could stuff his pockets full of cigars before getting pissed and lurching home. But this! This is so dull!”
My father looked up and smiled a lost smile, he had caught the topic of the monologue although not the details “Yes, but they stopped those parties because people got too drunk and destroyed the Embassy garden”
“What was that?” George asked, I repeated my father words but louder to which he replied “Yes, they stopped them. It was too bad and this is really worse!”
“Sorry?” my father questioned and I turned to the left and repeated George’s words but clearer. “Ahh.. yes” my father mumbled.
“Have you been in Sweden long?” George asked my father mouthing each word slowly as if a marble was turning over in his mouth, it was even hard for me to catch his words.
“Mmmm…?” my father said, clearly trying to disguise the fact that he had not heard. I twisted left and repeated George’s words again. “Oh, yes it must be 40 years now” he answered unemotionally.
"Come again?” George said, turning his ear towards my father, I turned (again) to the right and repeated my fathers words. “Ahh, yes… long time. I’ve been here more than 50 years now… on and off…going and coming…” George’s words trailed off into forever.
George looked away for a long while. We all sipped tea. Then George turned to my father and said “Do you ever feel at home here?”
My heart stopped. But I dutifully repeated the question to my left, father looked surprised and laughed that little laugh he does when he is a bit chocked and then said “No, I never felt at home here, but I never felt at home in England either.” My heart sank, I had known the answer but I hadn’t wanted to hear it.
After turning to George and repeating my father words, George looked at him hard, knowingly, searchingly and said. “Yes, I know what you mean. I’ve looked and I’ve looked and I've never found it, I doubt if I will find it either – home I mean.”
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Queens Birthday Party – Prologue
There are a few topics in life one does not talk to my father about.
“Feelings”, “Sex”, “Money” or “Death”.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
The Most Perfect Morning
The most perfect day begins with waking up after sleeping. Waking up after sleeping should not be overrated. Then stretching and rubbing away sleep from the eyes is nice. A perfect morning is waking up in a silent house. The sound of someone else pottering around in a kitchen or bathroom is the worst. To get up and meet a cheery face and have to do small talk, be nice or even smile is very difficult before breakfast.
The most perfect breakfast is eggs in one way or another and bread – I can NOT do yesterday’s leftovers from dinner or a take away pizza – bread is a must and eggs, second best is feta cheese, red onion and tomatoes and just a pinch of black pepper.
But before I can have the most perfect breakfast I have to do the most essential act – the washing of dishes.
The most perfect place to do dishes is with a window to look out of. It is also nice to talk to someone who is sitting nearby - but do not try to help me.
It disturbs my order. The kind and helpful words of “You wash and I dry” stresses me out no end. To do dishes under stress “hurryhurry so the person drying doesn’t have to wait for the next item” or the other way round “Slowslow because there’s a mountain of stuff waiting to be dried” - this is not ideal.
For the most sublime dish washing experience on an ideal morning I want a sponge with a scouring pad on one side. Not a brush - splatters too much. Nor a cloth – freaky texture.
Another important thing is the dish washing liquid. It should be a nice smelling and a very foamy dish washing liquid. I would like it to be environmental friendly but usually and unfortunately these are not foamy enough.
Then there are the different colours of liquids. Blue is a nice unnatural colour but it smells of “Sea Breeze” i.e. salty and very perfumed, like a sweaty brat on a beach – which is not so nice. Then there are the weird colours of pearly white or yellow. These are the two most strange colours for washing up liquids. I mean who imagines dishes will become clean from washing in a spermy substance or something that resembles snot? Even though these have an “Apple Bloosom” or “Lemon and Lime” fragrance they can’t fool me. Green works the best for me I must admit, probably some sort of brainwashing from the “Fairy Liquid” commercials on English television in the beginning of the 90:ies.
The left side of the sink has to be empty and clean, this is the area for the clean items to dry. If this area is already cluttered with cleaned and dried items this might cause a problem. Because even though I love washing dishes, putting clean dishes in the cupboards is less rewarding and I tend to not do this step of the procedure. If I am lucky I have a friend, sister or partner who understands my aversion of putting stuff in the cupboards and does this for me.
The right side of the sink and the sink will be filled with everything waiting for a cleansing.
And then I wash. When the actual washing occurs my mind wanders; goes into a blank or daydreams, it is like meditating. I don’t know what I think about but I always figure things out when washing, it is second best to taking a shower. Most of my answers to mathematical problems or issues in relationships come in a shower or whilst washing dishes.
Then finally after dishes are done or semi done (cause the left side of the sink has become too cluttered for more dishes to dry) it will be time for my perfect breakfast as mentioned above. Which should be enjoyed in silence. A newspaper is ideal but if this is not possible, reading five or six news sites on the internet is great.
Bliss.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Fight Club
Setting:
Around 1 a.m.
On the Underground packed with partied-over people.
My friend and I have just taken our seats.
Action!
As the train door closes with an accompanying beep, a scruffy looking man without a jacket or bag rushes in - just in time. After him and holding on to him, a well dressed guy squeezes in, forcing the closed doors to open.
Doors close.
Fight begins.
Scruffy looking man is holding a CD-walkman in his right hand and trying to keep the dressy looking man off him with his left hand.
Dressy man - jeans, chocolate brown pin-striped vest and jacket, is also holding on to the CD-walkman and trying to hit Scruffy whilst shouting “Give me my CD player! What the fuck!? You can’t just take my player from my pocket you idiot! Let go!”
Us witnesses, can also see ear plugs in the Dressy’s ears and the end of them swinging unplugged by his waist.
Enter young Punk Girl, about sixteen years old. She looks like a boy with short curly hair and Sid Viscous on her leather jacket. Punk Girl is the first to react, springing in-between the two fighting guys screaming “STOP! Calm down! Stop!” Another man rushes forward from the other end of the train and grabs Dressy from behind. After a scuffling dance for four, Scruffy finally lets go and runs off down the wagon. Dressy stands panting with his CD-player in hand.
Everybody sighs with relief.
Dressy straightens his clothes.
Then:
Suddenly Dressy roars. Rips his bag, jacket, vest and t-shirt off, throws them on the floor and still roaring, charges after Scruffy.
Repeat action without CD-player and lesser clothes.
After this colourful display late at night I started to wonder.
A cockerel pulls himself up and bushes his feathers to signal that his fight is getting serious. An elephant folds its ears out to frighten off his rival. A gorilla thumps his chest and roars to threaten others. Does a male human takes his clothes off on the upper part of his body to start the action?
I know that some of you will say “well no, not really, it is much more comfortable to fight without clothes , the swing in the punch will get better etc” and yes this is true. But really! In the middle of a fight the instinct is not to get undressed. Your instinct is to hit or avoid getting hit.
And how does one do this, with hands caught up behind ones back, struggling to get a jacket off?
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Phone Call from Mum
- Hello my sweet daughter! I’m reading a good book and it reminds me of you!
- Ok? What book is it?
- You know Rubinstein?
- Ehh…well… there are a few Rubinstein’s. Which one do you mean?
- Oy sweetie! You know the pianist!
- Ok?! So you are reading a book about the pianist and it reminds you of me?! I don’t even play the piano.
- Noo! It’s not about him! It’s a cookbook!
- Ok?!? And the cookbook reminds you of me?
- Nooo!! Sweetie! It’s written by Rubinstein’s wife…
- Ok?! So you are reading a cookbook written by Rubinstein’s wife that reminds you of me?
- No! Well you know Rubenstein, he is a pianist!
- Yes! But I thought we were talking about cooking?
- Yes, but the cookbook is written by his wife!
- Ok, I’ve got that now. But why does it remind you of me?
- Rubenstein is Jewish by the way.
- Yes? So?
- Well, he had a lot of mistresses, even though he was married.
- Mhm? So where do I get into this picture?
- Well, I was thinking of your boyfriend…
- Hmm…So what are you trying to say? That just because I have a Jewish boyfriend he will have a lot of mistresses?
- NOOOO! No! You know I love Jewish people!
- Ok. So you are saying that just because my boyfriend is a musician he will have a lot of mistresses?
- No! No!
- But I don’t understand mummy?! Are you saying that just because my boyfriend is from Israel AND a musician he will have a lot of mistresses?
- No no no! I was just reminded of you when I read about Rubinstein because he married his first big love and she was much older than him, as you are older than your boyfriend.
- Ok! So you think that just because I am older than my boyfriend he will have a lot of mistresses?
- No no! You don’t understand me!
- No I don’t.
- Well, Rubinstein was married for over 40 years and then he left his first wife at the age of 90 for a much younger woman.
- Ok, but they were married for more than 40 years?
- Yes.
- Were they happily married for 40 years?
- I don’t know.
- But anyway, why did this remind you of me?
- Well, they are bohemians both of them your boyfriend and him…
- Ok? And?
- Well I don’t want you to be unhappy…
- But mummy if I have 40 happy years with one love then I would be pretty pleased.
- Yes but…maybe you can find someone who is not a bohemian, like a doctor or a lawyer or someone…
- So, what are you telling me? That doctors and lawyers do not have mistresses?
- No, but at least you will have money…
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Work
Today I was a good girl. Today I arrived at work not too late only about 30 minutes instead of 2 hours and I said “Good Morning!” to everybody. Not with a smile because my cheeks were paralysed from sleep deprivation, but at least I greeted everybody. I did some of that stuff they call small talk with my closest boss who sits about one meter away from me and I even managed to give her a compliment on her clothing.
All this time my brain felt as if it was recoiling and my spine was twisting. It is an odd feeling that of a recoiling brain, its as if my brain is trying to shrink and escape from the reality which it can see through the eyes.
All this time my brain felt as if it was recoiling and my spine was twisting. It is an odd feeling that of a recoiling brain, its as if my brain is trying to shrink and escape from the reality which it can see through the eyes.
At lunch today, which I for the first time in two months had with three colleagues I managed to chit chat and I think my mouth tried stretching into something that was supposed to mimic a smile. But after about twenty minutes of friendliness I started to feel nauseated by this fraternising. And when my colleagues started to warm up and say that I wasn’t myself I really had to sit on my hands to stop myself from throwing my plate in the air or screaming.
I hate my job.
I have never felt this way before, I recognise the feeling of total despair and wishing that I rather was dead than being in a place but that feeling has never been apart of my job. At work I’ve always managed to hide behind a nice happy mask. People thought I was quirky and strange but I did a hell of a job. I was too honest and in the bosses faces but I tried to make peoples lives better. And they laughed with me.
I was an odd ball who could one day give a little show with fluffy hand puppets or sneak in one night and fill the aquarium with colourful fish to keep the lonely grey fish company and I’ve been known to make everybody a smoothie of their own choice on a Friday.
I might never have enjoyed working in an office but I always liked my colleagues. And now it is really killing me that I can hardly look at them and am behaving like a bitch towards them.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Funny Farm
One of my best friends has a Bipolar disorder, another friend of mine has some Borderline disorder and three years ago I was diagnosed for having suffered from Dysthymia since the age of eleven.
I know quite a number of people who take a Happy pill every day and some others who take Ritalin for an ADHD-disorder. I have friends who suffer from anxiety attacks, panic attacks and OCD. Still others who abuse alcohol in large amounts or are drug addicts. I know many who go and see a “person to talk to”, some who go on “silent retreats” and others who try every New Age ritual in the world to find their "true inner being". They meditate, drink herbs and use hot stones to drive bad energies away. Some people look to the stars for guidance and others use tarot cards or religion to answer the questions of life.
All of these friends of mine, have one thing in common which is - all of them are completely “normal” for anyone who doesn’t know what diagnose they have or what pills/herbs/drugs they pop.
When travelling or talking to friends from abroad the subject of Sweden being notorious for suicides and a high rate of depression, always comes up. I’ve heard the notion that in “other countries” there aren’t as many mentally "sick" people.
This I think is totally absurd, maybe we have higher statistics and more people are diagnosed here, but couldn’t this be because there is a greater understanding of depression and other mental health issues here? Also, since media writes about these things everyday it lessens the negative stigma and people become more open about it.
In countries with corruption, wars and/or other social miseries, media concentrates on those news topics instead. The mental health matters are not talked about and therefore the negative stamp and ignorance is still strong.
But then what is a mental health problem?
What is the difference between people who take sleeping pills prescribed by a doctor against insomnia, and people who self medicate them selves with a ‘spliff’ before bedtime to help them sleep?
Why is a person who takes a drink to calm his nerves every day more “normal” than a person who takes a prescribed Ritalin pill to focus?
Is a person who goes on ‘silent meditation retreats’, drink St Johns Wort tea (against depression) and visits a tarot card reader so much dissimilar from a person who talks to a psychiatrist and gets a prescription for Prozac?
Why is it more shameful to have a 2 week psychosis caused by a hereditary disorder than a psychosis caused by smoking too much hashish?
Is one of them saner than the other? And who decides what sanity is? And when is a person so insane that he/she should be institutionalised?
Too many questions.
All I know is that if someone wants to institutionalise me and all my friends – because I am sure every single one will fall under some category of insanity if one looks closely enough - on a beautiful tropical island because we might be a danger to ourselves or society, then I will welcome them.
But hang on a minute, maybe Sweden (which on the map looks like a big dick) already is a big loony bin or funny farm for people who worship phallic symbols (the midsummer pole) and copulate like mad men in every bush?
I know quite a number of people who take a Happy pill every day and some others who take Ritalin for an ADHD-disorder. I have friends who suffer from anxiety attacks, panic attacks and OCD. Still others who abuse alcohol in large amounts or are drug addicts. I know many who go and see a “person to talk to”, some who go on “silent retreats” and others who try every New Age ritual in the world to find their "true inner being". They meditate, drink herbs and use hot stones to drive bad energies away. Some people look to the stars for guidance and others use tarot cards or religion to answer the questions of life.
All of these friends of mine, have one thing in common which is - all of them are completely “normal” for anyone who doesn’t know what diagnose they have or what pills/herbs/drugs they pop.
When travelling or talking to friends from abroad the subject of Sweden being notorious for suicides and a high rate of depression, always comes up. I’ve heard the notion that in “other countries” there aren’t as many mentally "sick" people.
This I think is totally absurd, maybe we have higher statistics and more people are diagnosed here, but couldn’t this be because there is a greater understanding of depression and other mental health issues here? Also, since media writes about these things everyday it lessens the negative stigma and people become more open about it.
In countries with corruption, wars and/or other social miseries, media concentrates on those news topics instead. The mental health matters are not talked about and therefore the negative stamp and ignorance is still strong.
But then what is a mental health problem?
What is the difference between people who take sleeping pills prescribed by a doctor against insomnia, and people who self medicate them selves with a ‘spliff’ before bedtime to help them sleep?
Why is a person who takes a drink to calm his nerves every day more “normal” than a person who takes a prescribed Ritalin pill to focus?
Is a person who goes on ‘silent meditation retreats’, drink St Johns Wort tea (against depression) and visits a tarot card reader so much dissimilar from a person who talks to a psychiatrist and gets a prescription for Prozac?
Why is it more shameful to have a 2 week psychosis caused by a hereditary disorder than a psychosis caused by smoking too much hashish?
Is one of them saner than the other? And who decides what sanity is? And when is a person so insane that he/she should be institutionalised?
Too many questions.
All I know is that if someone wants to institutionalise me and all my friends – because I am sure every single one will fall under some category of insanity if one looks closely enough - on a beautiful tropical island because we might be a danger to ourselves or society, then I will welcome them.
But hang on a minute, maybe Sweden (which on the map looks like a big dick) already is a big loony bin or funny farm for people who worship phallic symbols (the midsummer pole) and copulate like mad men in every bush?
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Freeze and reflect
I’ve come back to Sweden after 3 months in Israel and most people ask me “How was Israel? Did you see any…?” Then there is always a strange pause. A trail of unsaid words after “Did you see any…”. In the beginning I automatically filled in the unsaidness with the word “trouble” and would answer accordingly. “No, I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, no suicide bombers, no horrific wall, no poor Palestinians being abused by nasty Jewish people” but now I am so fed up with the preconceived picture of Israel and Israelis that I just answer “Did I see any…what? Blue monkeys?”
It saddens me that no one seems interested in knowing what Israel is like. As soon as I’ve made them unsatisfied with my answer lacking juicy tragic details of the Middle East I’ve lost their attention. However if a person does against all odds listen to me out of politeness they look bored and sceptical and end up telling me “ Well yes, it seems like you’ve been lucky to meet nice people with good views”
So now, whether or not you want to know what I thought of Israel I am going to tell you.
In Israel I met a large number of amazing people, very warm, generous and open-minded. The Israelis that I’ve met are the most positive and funny people I’ve met. Nothing is a problem, but if it is, it will be solved in an instant. And if you don’t laugh till you nearly wet your pants at least once a day something is wrong or else you’re not hanging out with an Israeli.
It was a surprise to me that the countryside of Israel reminded me so much of South Australia. Sometimes, it felt like I was in the Barossa valley. The reason for this was because one of the most common trees is the Eucalyptus tree, stringybarks and ironbarks everywhere. Imported once to help dry out the swamps and get rid of Malaria. Also in Amiqam where I lived there where orchards and vineyards everywhere just like Oz.
But it is a pity that the wine culture is nearly non existent. If you go to the country yourselves, don’t be surprised if the only wine you get is when the host on the Friday Shabbat meal opens a bottle of red wine and shares it between 14 guests. If you are unlucky the wine might have stood opened for two or three weeks in the fridge.
I liked the fact that all road signs are written in Hebrew, English and Arabic; but I think it is sad that it is not compulsory to learn Arabic in school, in a country where 20% of the population are Arabic. But 15% of the population is now Russian and growing so maybe the next compulsory language in school will be Russian.
I loved the architecture in Tel Aviv or the White City as it is also called. Tel Aviv has the largest concentration of Bauhaus style buildings in any one city. It is a modernistic style, clean-cut and gives me goose bumps of pleasure. However I hate that the buildings are so run down and dirty. What could have been the prettiest city in the world is...not. Someone should get seriously tortured for letting it get so rundown.
Oh and I've never felt so cold in winter in any country.
In other words I saw a lot of things I liked and a few things I liked less.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
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