întunericul e un văl, ascunde tot ce vrei să lași la vedere. liniștea de dinaintea furtunii, lung culoar spre uitare
e bine să ierți, conștiința repetă de zor nopțile. eu îmi adun în oase culorile ca să uit până dimineața tot ce mi-a zis aseară
feminitatea e un pariu pierdut cu prima înjurătură. nu-s nimic din ce ar trebui să fie o femeie. periferia, primul acasă, marginea lumii, primul loc de joacă
corpul, primul prieten și dușman, rebeliune fizică, alungirea distanței între două mâini, două piepturi, două priviri. carnea lui, cea mai complicată clepsidră
timpul măsurat și oprit la o atingere plăcere, vinovăție, uitare. ciclul de degradare a unui corp înainte ca timpul lui viu să fie finit. simțuri trezite, desperecheate, gata să pună totul în prim-plan din prea puțin. din ceva. din nimic.
viața se-ntâmplă între două respirații, două momente-n care afli ce-i cu tine, cine ești. străinul din tine știe povești ce n-au să prindă glas niciodată despre latura ta rămasă neconturată pe cine iubești, când tot ce ești, ce știi că ești devine un fundal? pe cine iubești când nu te vede nimeni?
This is a piece I’ve deeply thought about writing, as I can’t tell myself that I’m a fan of cheesy writings. However, this is about me, about you, and everything in-between, a little longer Thank You note.
I can recall starting this column in November 2019. It was a gloomy, cold day, and I was feeling low. I was trying to find something to do that would actually make sense, something that would help both me and others. So I thought that it would be a good time to actually put my Psychology knowledge and my personal background to good use. This is how Tuesday Conversations started: from the mix of the thought that I’m not able to write consistently, the need of finding meaning in my life, and the wish to tell my story.
This is how the blog column got to cover all kinds of topics, talking about feminism, suicide, eating disorders, anxiety, saying no, or creating boundaries for the interaction with other people. And I’ve been up for a pretty big surprise, have to say. Not only I have found that I actually can write about various topics consistently, but I have also discovered that there were people that needed these topics to be addressed.
It seemed like those were not just parts of my story, but parts of a whole bunch of other stories which have, by now, found their voice. It was like the tribe I didn’t know I was belonging to found me without me asking for it to happen.
And this brought me to one of the most surprising conclusions so far: something can be built from scratch, even if the foundation is a ruin. Ruins are not dead. Even if what you build is a narrative, a story having her focus on aspects that have been rather hidden than put on display your building has meaning and a purpose to serve.
I can’t help but remember a thing a friend told me when we were talking about writing, drawing, and letting our writings and drawings roam free on the internet: I have always wondered how it feels to write about things so intimate and to share them with the world. It was that moment when I understood that I don’t see the things I’ve faced or the things that hurt me in the past as a private area of my life. Not anymore. Once they stopped hurting, they turned into stories to be told about passing through dark places, as I believe that no one should ever pass through dark times alone.
For me, life means stories to be told, as they are the best way to actually put together a group. Because a problem that no one talks about is a problem that doesn’t actually exist. And mental health has been for too long an invisible problem to keep being ashamed of it, especially when that shame affects us all.
Obviously, it was and still is a process that leaves me speechless every now and then. I write, I post, and it happens to look at those materials and tell myself Did I really write that? Whoa. as my 16 years old self would rather have died than admit there’s something wrong with her. This column helped me not just bring some issues to light or help other people recover, but it has also given me a measure of my evolution. I’ve read the writings and seen how far I’ve come, sometimes without even noticing the evolution, the direction of the process.
In the end, this is how we learn, by doing things and looking behind us every now and then. And this is how one gets to understand that healing is, indeed, a process. Something beautiful, something spectacular, something deep, unique, and extremely personal. At the end of the day, there is no actual recipe for fast healing and even the thought of a universal recipe to heal one’s wounds sounds like a fantasy plot.
Just like our traumas and our life history, our ways of healing are unique. There are no two individuals with the same way of healing their wounds or the same way of living through their suffering. Actually, the mere idea of it sounds absurd as one is reading this. But this doesn’t involve that there are no common points, as they certainly do. The beauty of it though is the fact that you can’t find those common points without being brave enough to step in the lights and tell your story. You don’t even have to tell the world all of it, or to use words. You can sing, dance, paint, act, sculpt, run, draw, photograph, even film your story, your way out of the hurting. You have total freedom when it comes to how much you’re feeling to express about your journey, and you have total freedom when it comes to the way you choose to do it.
Tuesday Conversations, my mental health column, will go on. I’m deeply thankful for all the wonderful people I’ve met along the way, for their support and critics that helped me make it better, and I hope that more and more people will become brave enough to start telling their stories. Your stories matter, your feelings are valid, and your healing process is worth it. You, as individuals, are worth love, appreciation, respect, support, and help. Go into the world and allow yourself to get them.
alb, alb, alb. imaculat, cețoș, perfect, de neatins alb și dincolo de tot ce-i alb în mine, cerul.
răni invizibile cu AN se adâncesc zi de zi, zidesc în mine falii și-o aspră nemurire dureroasă.
timpul nu vindecă dureri, uitarea a tot ce-a fost bun răspândește frânturi de voce, de priviri, de atingeri vag, tot mai vag, mai distilat până când nu se mai disting semnalmente.
nu există medic să despietrească ființe încremenite de frici. liniștea din mine nu-i de-aici,
mă caut în fiecare pansament cu chip și-adresă, un alt AN de rană-ntunecoasă, altă stafie ce se simte-acasă printre dureri și răni și vise ne-mplinite. șaman e doar uitarea ce nu minte și zboară liberă de “va fi” și cuvinte