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Never say never

Never say never. Slightly more then a year ago, I was living with my parents again (at the age of 33) paying off medical debt which was supposed to be my deposit on my first house. Well, after saving and sorting out that shit for two years, I just moved into my own apartment. Eat that Dr advising 24 watch, a different career, cause people with my symptoms should not be in IT and should definitely not travel… I’m going to Greece in 2 months and Finland for my 35th. Fuck people telling you to change who you are! 

Never say never

Never say never. Slightly more then a year ago, I was living with my parents again (at the age of 33) paying off medical debt which was supposed to be my deposit on my first house. Well, after saving and sorting out that shit for two years, I just moved into my own apartment. Eat that Dr advising 24 watch, a different career, cause people with my symptoms should not be in IT and should definitely not travel… I’m going to Greece in 2 months and Finland for my 35th. Fuck people telling you to change who you are! 

I’m a bit different, but that is not my box thank you!

Talking to myself

If you’ve ever imagined that making more money, friend or having more wild experiences would solve your lack of happiness…you’re not alone. Unfortunately, I thought that, and got all off that, and still wanted to kill myself. 

If you wish upon a star, wish for happiness. It comes from the inside, if it doesn’t, then you know you’ve got some work to be done.

Love yourself xxx

Why now?

Since writing my first post, the question of WHY has been bouncing around in my thoughts endlessly. Why do I now, have this overwhelming urge to tell my story, even if no one ever reads or listens to it. For years I’ve been try my utmost best to avoid thinking, talking, not even considering writing about an awesome, but equally fucked-up 31 years of existence.

The terrifying memory comes to mind of finding myself in a mental institution (hence forth, clinic…) for the first time, and being told that I have to produce a minimum of 10 pages called a Life Story, and read it to a group who will have the opportunity to judge the performance based on content, sincerity and what not. The weird setup and judgement I could deal with, but the fact that I had to play back my entire life from birth, and pen down everything that I thought had an impact on me was a whole new level of torture. I hated the exercise, is like saying, “well this rape is uncomfortable…”

Point being, now suddenly, I feel like I wish people wouldn’t shy away when they see my scars. A possible answer might be two fold. I’m emotionally strong enough to wander through my memories and just observe them (thanx mindfulness) without getting sucked into some or other worm whole that ends in disaster. So it’s a new adventure, and since being of the meds*, my memory seem to function a hell of a lot better. The second option might be when I started thinking that I’ve seen so many broken people, myself included, tried every available avenue; holistic, scientific and everything home remedy you can imagine…I want my story to have been told. As I’m writing this, I’m thinking, isn’t that just a natural human instinct almost, to want to have your story told, at least by yourself. Why people drew on walls before they could talk or write?

Whatever the reason, this story is going to get told, even if it comes out making no sense to anyone but me. I’ve experienced the discomfort caused by too much wine and talking about hospitals and institutions to friends, so clearly a social environment is not the place. Hence, I find myself here, and what a liberating space!

I think moving forward, I’m going to try the traditional structure of starting at the beginning 🙂

*As of about 18 months ago I made the rash decision to stop taking all my meds (Epilum, Lamictan, Cilift, Convulex, Olexar – I think that’s the whole list, excluding Venlafaxine). Then shit hit the fan 3 days later and I found out that I wasn’t in fact going crazy again, but I was experiencing severe withdrawal from Venlafaxine. So, I’m off everything expect my Venlor and to be honest, I’m very happy taking it.

We start

I’ve had to much wine to write a book tonight. So, I start by saying “Hey” to the void, and taking note that today 28/03/2017 I’m truly happy, optimistic and smiling. Not because everything is perfect, fuck the last week has been a salad of stress from my best friend landing in ICU in a town 1000km away, to me potentially exposing my pregnant sister to measles. It’s been stressful, but I don’t have to convince myself that I’m positive, happy, optimistic, looking forward to the future…turning all those positive slogans into daggers because I have to fight to convince myself of their truths.

I’m just naturally happy. In itself, it’s amazing, cause after about 10 years on meds, I could not say these word and honestly believe them even once.