I write letters to myself

Dear Zed!

I am happy for your sense of humor and your endless sense of irony in all life situations. I know you use them against yourself just as much as you use them against other and I know that you hide behind a combination of them and that mouth-stained smile because you think they will prepare you for everything. I'd like to point out from behind the wall, that - in my opinion, because who the hell am I, you ask, and you have all the right to, so let me stress once again: in my opinion - this whole thing you're doing is totally useless, it's bullshit.
Darling, why don't you take the time to look deep into all of your dens, your pits, but make sure you don't miss any of the dark and dirty corners: see? there is no fucking way you can be prepared for every single scenario. And by every single scenario I mean EVERYTHING: life, death, sudden movements, long awaited actions, love, disillusionment, smells, tastes, leaving and coming back, mum and dad, son and holy spirit, all of the variations and dislikings. You get it, right? EVERYTHING. And my point is still this: you cannot be prepared. I mean, sure, you can make yourself believe that if you have your fingers crossed real tight behind your back, holding on to the multi-colored strings of your life and placing your thighs in just the right way, that if you do all this, then people will realize what a jackpot you are. Dear Zed, forgive me for throwing my truth in your sour face in this way, but: bullshit. In my opinion. You are not a jackpot. No, let me put it in another way: you are not a jackpot because of your crossed fingers and rightly put thighs. No no, I'll rephrase: there is no such thing as a jackpot. Zed, don't you get it? It's just you and Pablo Neruda and the butterfly, and Leonard Cohen, and the girls and the guys, and Melina, and desire and stupidity, and the smell of garlic, heartburn, your stuffed animals, radio in the early morning, pigeons on the square, you are just this way and just that way, and you have your faults, too, and you can be too loud, and you can also provoke people to get offended because of breast-sized handful of facts, and someone else can also stroke you with good intentions, but with their foot by mistake, which you take as a kick in the back, everyone can be momentarily stupid and sweet at the same time, it is possible to be happy because of nothing and unhappy because of something, even when you think you have your shit all together. Zed. Don't worry, it's all good. How can I make you understand that you cannot break anything, and if you do, then that's just the way it should be? It's OK to kill yourself over anything you feel is worth it, all right? But when you do, be so kind as to get right back up and make me some of that stuffed pepper in salted oil, you know, the one you had at that amazing little grocery store, and if it's OK with you, please cry your tears in it, too, while laughing, I really don't mind, because there are a lot of wonderful things in life, but let's be honest, there is nothing more wonderful than the stuffed pepper in salted oil. In my opinion.

(Bullshit. There is. You'll see.)

Here we go again

Confused is the word I'd use. I'm confused.
Tuesday was the third time I was told I have cancer. It was the third time my world fell apart. This time it took just a few hours to recover from the initial shock. This time I told people. This time something's different, because this time my doctors seem more worried than I do. I am confused because it used to be the other way around.
They are playing Beatles in the hospital waiting room and as I go in for my bone marrow biopsy, I can hardly believe that the music doesn't stop in the operating room. And then I kind of hate the person who decided to have music play in there because I will never be able to listen to Lucy in the sky with diamonds again without remembering the pain of the needle searing through my bones. I'm not one to complain about pain, but when it brings tears to my eyes, that I do not like at all.
My hospital roomate had a mastectomy yesterday, and all she talks about is how she hates it when there are homeless people on the street because they disgust her. So do the people on the bus, but thankfully she hardly ever takes the bus, her driver takes her everywhere. I'm just sitting there listening to her and I wish I was brave enough to go up to her and shake her, tell her to be grateful she is still here to witness the world around her. But I'm not brave enough, I just sit there and I am furious in silence.
My friends are amazing. I feel horrible for the worry I put them through, but I'm working through that. People have surfaced, because rumors travel fast. I get phone calls and messages telling me they are there whenever I need them. People I thought I would never hear from again are calling me to let me know they are thinking about me, praying for me.
This has always been a silent time for me. This has always been a time to reflect and to realize all the wonders around me.
I'm not scared at all. I'm ready to go if it's time and I'm ready to survive and keep living. I'm ready for anything right now, I'm ready for the fight. And if I happen to fall into the other 50%, well then so be it. It's been amazing.

3 ... 2 ... 1 ...

She says she is ready for her new heart, and that it will suit her well, and once again, she writes not just for herself, but for me too.
I'm not in love with him anymore, but my throat still closes up when I see him. I go to sleep thinking of another boy now, but I know my heart is still broken.
I also know that the new Boy is a special one and that I am the luckiest girl alive. I couldn't have asked for a better person to tell me that it's OK to feel sad after 7 years of nothing but the Ex. And while I know he's right, I also know that I've been sad so many times and for so long because of the Ex, that I'm done with that. I choose to remember why I wouldn't trade those 7 years for all the money in the world. Coz I wouldn't, that's for sure. But I also wouldn't go back there. I am ready to understand myself without him, to understand myself by myself and to understand myself with someone else.
Ready, steady, go!

5 years clean

I encourage people to talk about it. I'm an anti-drug activist. I talk to addicts, I volunteer for clean-needle organizations. I do everything I can, and I just realized, I never really talk about my story. I never share what it was like to be on it, to depend on a substance. I never talk about the disgusting shit I would do to make sure I got my next dose. I don't tell the tale of how I got clean.
It's an ugly story, as are all stories about addiction.
I got into it because "everyone else was doing it". In reality, the guy I liked was doing it, so what better way to get close to him than to try whatever he was into? I got what I wanted. I got the guy, and I got wonderful years of feeling like the world was mine. I lost a lot of weight, which was pretty cool for a girl like me, who has always been way bigger than her peers. When I snorted, I was invincible. When I looked in the mirror, a hot chick was smiling back at me. The dark circles around my eyes disappeared as soon as I got my hands on the first few grams of the day. We were a family, we spent most of our time together. We helped each other out, but really, we were all self-obsessed and very very protective of our belongings. I had it easy, to be honest. My guy was the dealer, I never had to pay for anything. Well, not in money, anyway.
People died around me. They overdosed or their body got tired of the harrasment it was going through. I remember thinking this could never happen to me, I'm a smart user.
It was the 1st of February, 2009. We were hanging out by the bridge behind our apartment. By that time nosebleeds were a very frequent visitor in my life. Days, sometimes even weeks would just drop out of my head, I would have no idea of what I did a few hours ago. I thought I was happy and great. Our usual provider got caught, so we got our daily dose from a woman we had never even heard of. I clearly remember taking the first snort of the day, which would be the last in my life. It took about a minute for me to pass out. The next thing I remember is waking up on a hospital bed with my hands tied to the rails. I was so.fucking.scared.
What followed was hell on earth. It's not pretty when after days and nights of screaming from pain, sweating your heart out, pissing yourself, scratching the skin off your bones, shaking in misery, you finally give up, your muscles release themselves, and you just collapse and surrender. Rehab, missing your friends, a few months in Kuala Lumpur in a correction facility for privileged youngsters, regaining the weight, depression, losing all faith in yourself, loathing the world, your family, but mostly yourself. So many lessons to learn!
Today I am celebrating five years of not using. In those five years I bought cocaine twice, was offered pot and cocaine a number of times, thought about snorting millions of times, but I never did it. And for that, I thank myself every day. Every day I don't use is one more day I get to be proud of myself, and that's pretty cool.
So that's my story, there you go. No, I wouldn't change it even if I could, but I do want to make people understand that you shouldn't necessarily try everything. You should first know yourself to be able to decide whether you will just be trying it, or whether you will get hooked for life. Because once you become an addict, you are always an addict.

Guidelines

You have to know that sometimes I'll act like a 5 year old, I'll throw tantrums, I'll be insufferable. Mostly because I like you so much, I'll be frightened of the possibility of you leaving me. You have to know that sometimes I need my space, my alone time, my quiet time. I also need quiet time together with you. I need to be able to feel comfortable not saying anything, sometimes for hours. You have to know that when I'm wearing closed fancy shoes with long pants, I will be wearing ugly, goofy socks with them - just my way of rebelling against dressing up. I hate dressing up. Don't get me wrong, I'll do it if I have to, I'll even feel comfortable, but I will never ever actually like it. You have to know that I eat my side dish before anything else. No reason, I just do. OCD, perhaps. My routines are untouchable. I don't go to sleep without brushing my teeth. I can skip the shower if I'm really tired or drunk or there is no way for me to shower, but I will find a way to brush my teeth, no questions asked. In the morning I will listen to at least two songs of my choice, and if I'm running late and don't have the time to, I'll be crabby all day. You have to know that I love flowers. Yes, even if they were cut and killed. I just love them. Roses and lilies and those yellow ones I always forget the English name of. You'll have to let me go running alone at times. I love sharing the miles with you, but running is when I think, when I let all my stress out, when the world is mine and I dictate the rules. You have to know that I will go through fire and lightning for you, but one bad word about my family, and we are over. You need to support and encourage me when I find it hard to even look at them. You have to know that there are certain food types I don't eat. It's a texture thing, not a taste thing.You need to make me write when I'm in a slump. I am proudest when I write something I am satisfied with. You have to know that I need to go offline at times. I love the Internet, I love Facebook, I love Instagram, I love Whatsapp, I love texting, I love my cell, but there will be times when I need to switch it all off and enjoy the peace. A throwback-day of some sorts. Oh, and I need to go out into nature at least once every two weeks. If I don't by myself, you have to kick me - believe me, it will be better for both of us. Give me grand surprises any day! I don't need them to be public, I just need them to be well thought out and really meaningful. And grand does not mean expensive, remember that. I need you to know me inside out, I need you to be the person I will let in.

I need you to know that there is a lot of baggage I am carrying, but I am not that baggage anymore. I am OK now and I can promise you that I will give you my all, my everything, all of the minutes of my days, one at a time.

I am so fucking lucky

His sad eyes make me happy. His goofy smile cracks me up. His questions challenge me. His answers delight me. The way our eyes lock together makes everythin OK.

I have so much to be thankful for. I have this fairytale I am living, with the most wonderful friends, amazing flings, so much love. Conversations that make me think, that make me reconsider, that make me a better person. I have these truly mesmerizing people around me, people who I know could change the world, and I actually know that some of them will. I have friends all over the world, friends who are there for me no matter what.

I am so fucking lucky. I am so fucking lucky to be the person that I am.

c'est parfait

This. This is what I consider a perfect Friday night. My head resting on his shoulders, he's working on his laptop, I'm writing on my phone. In the background, some movie is on, but neither of us are really paying any attention to it. Pomelo and wine on the floor by the bed, occasional glances at each other. Quiet time, his deep brown eyes, the feeling of not needing anything else but this very moment. No worries about what happens when he goes back to New Zealand, no unnecessary sentences, no fake smiles.

It's been a confusing week. I've been happy (even when I was sad), I've been crying a lot (but I didn't mind at all), I've been having the most amazing conversations (with the most random people), I've been falling madly in love (with a guy who is home for a very short two weeks and lives about 18000 kms away).

But yeah. To be honest, I feel fine. Open, silly, calm, happy, relaxed. And loved by quite a few amazing people.