Forget you are suffering

Stomach cramping. Palms sweating. Maybe even some mom's spaghetti. Nervous. Sitting restlessly trying to peak behind the curtain. Wondering what kind of audience there is. This is the premier and there's no guarantees of another show. It's time. Stand up, walk tall. What ever you do, don't cry. Don't be so nervous. Walk out there. The curtains open, it's time for your monologue.

40 minutes in, the critic stops you. That's not good. Why? What? Heart pounds. It's because you cried. You should not have cried. But the critic almost cried too! Twice you saw tears in their eyes. Well, it's done now. The moment of truth. Did you pass on to the next level? Is there going to be a sequel or will the buzzer mark for all the X's?

You passed with flying colours. Why you didn't have to finish the whole hour monologue was because 40 minutes was enough. You will definitely continue with this path. They'll see you again next month. You leave the stage with a smile and a bow. First breath of fresh air makes you want to call all your loved ones...

...and tell them that you had your first ever mental health consultation.

But who would want to hear about that?

The point going to see a professional is to pour it on someone who is trained to handle someone else's pain and not to bother my friends who has their own problems. I always knew I was crazy but I wanted to know how crazy. It's a mystery because I've always been a high-functioning lunatic. My sense of duty has always exceeded my need to sleep the whole year, close the drapes and sit in darkness with songs about never loving again playing on the background. One of my friends once quoted Hemingway to me: "You are so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering." I've never thought myself brave.

Quite the opposite. Walking home alone at night is scary and I'm practising that. Getting yelled at in a public place is very scary. Either I don't have the guts to answer or maybe it's best not to answer so I don't get all worked up and hurt someone. Falling in love is scary. Trusting anyone is a nightmare. Trusting myself is even scarier. "I wonder how much of what weighs me down is not mine to carry."

The nurse I had an appointment with asked me three times if I've ever talked with a professional before. If anyone at school ever asked me if I needed to vent. If the place I worked when I had the long sick leave ever offered me to cope with such things. Nope, never had the pleasure. What would it help anyway? Talking won't make it go away. My life's been what it was and there's nothing that can change that. There's no band aid for scars.

There are three reasons I went this time. First because my friends have been telling me I should for a long time and because one of them said that my childhood experiences are not normal and basically grounds to be taken in custody. Secondly because as a student I get help for a very low price and because it's for once easy to ask for help. Thirdly because I still dream of having kids one day and I don't want to have them deal with my problems. Hopefully generations of pain will stop in me. And let the kids get their own traumas.

It was quite weird to go talk about the darkness when it's so bright right now. For a long time I haven't felt this optimistic about the future. I have as we Finns say "the buns well in the oven" (golden buns, not offspring). Gorgeous, huge, sweet buns that I made myself by just being myself. I love and feel loved. But maybe this is the best time to tackle the problems. The ego boost I've gotten at work and the field work and with the short summer love and everything, gets nicely balanced with talking about the most horrendous things ever happened to me.

There's not going to be applause, but there's a chance for peace, which is so much better.

I'm a bit scared of the process and I have a lot of school and work lined up for the autumn. Maybe it's a good thing to not have as much time for my friends than I would hope because once your brains have been set to one track, it might be hard to briefly visit other tracks.

And now my friend, while you're reading this and thinking "what the hell am I supposed to say to that?" or "can I like this or is that weird?", the answer is that you don't have to say anything. You can pretend you didn't read this. But I wanted to tell you. I needed to tell you, as I always need to. I want telling about mental health issues be the same as telling about carpal tunnels or rash in weird places. There's a time and place for all of those and no one wants to hear about them endlessly, but that shouldn't mean they're not normal things. Because that's what we all are. Normal. Even if we wanted or not.

The song of the day would have been Pain of Salvation's Ashes, but I think Blogger has make the rules what you can show from YouTube stricter again. Pffft.

"Good night and good mental health." -Frasier

Following your heart means losing your mind

Song of the day first this time. It's Ratatat's Wildcat. 

Do you know when you get the "I should do this, I should do that, why haven't I done that already, I really have to think about that" mood? And then you run out of money. And then something emotional happens. Suddenly you're so deep in your thoughts again that you don't know which way is up and which down. Deadline for an essay is lurking in the corner, the vacation is almost over and back to work soon and school starts in few weeks and I haven't picked the courses and and and...

"Do you believe in Fate? Are we but trains, traversing on rails laid before us, given only an illusion of freedom?

If our lives are predetermined, shouldn't it be simple to peer into the future and see the end of the rails? If choice is but an illusion, why do you spend so much time worrying about whether yours was right? If there are no options, why do you ponder at what-ifs?"

This is a piece a friend of mine wrote for a photography portfolio. I find myself pondering about it often. I've been playing the "is it better" game in my head again. And of course it has something to do with men. I've met a man.

So confusing, so assertive and same time shy, insecure and cocky, funny but so serious man. So confusing that I have no idea what it is about him. Why I blush when he looks deep into my eyes, why do my knees go weak when he kisses me. And mostly why do I want to tear off his clothes and then mine and lay in bed until someone forces us out of it.

He makes me confused, but mostly in a good way. Though I found out something about myself that I hoped didn't exist. Long story short.

 We met in the internet. Of course. Where else people meet other people anymore? He is from another country. Of course since apparently there's something wrong with Finnish men. I was in the forest for a week doing field work for my masters thesis and the next day I left, he came here. But our paths crossed. I knew I had about 24h time to meet him when I got home. So after being a wildling with nature growing in my eyes and the wind and the rain in my hair, I came home, threw my stuff on the floor and left to meet him.

It wasn't a date. We both knew it wasn't. It wasn't romantic, it was fun. It was casual. It was natural. Natural was to talk with him, joke with him, dance with him, hang out with him. And because of that it was natural to kiss him. It was natural to get weak knees. We spent the night talking and making out like teenagers.

He left the next day. 

He also stayed the next day. He postponed his leave for a week. So we met again. It was natural again, and again the time just flew by. We spent the night kissing, spooning and what else innocent you can do with your clothes on. 

He wants to take it slow.

And here's the thing. It drives me crazy. I've never had the "problem" that the person I like doesn't want to sleep with me. Quite the opposite. If someone is willing to kiss me, they're usually more than happy to make me forget the world entirely.

And he's so fucking sexy. The way he kisses, the way he touches... It's hot. I want to pounce him, scratch him, rip off my clothes in front of him. I want to make him see that it would be a good idea to get oh so very naked.

But he doesn't want me. Maybe he doesn't find me attractive after all. He says he does. He says he doesn't want to fuck it up. I look at him my head tilted. Is he serious? Does he mean it? Is he serious with me? Is this getting too serious? But if it is going to be serious, what does it matter how soon we do it. He is leaving the country in few days anyway!

Hold on. Am I trying to pressure someone to have sex with me? What the hell? What have I become?

This is the point I threw him out. Or I will do something I'll regret. Either torture myself around him so much that I will feel like shit and cry, or turn into somekind of monster who pressures someone to have sex with them. Distance is a good idea.

But I like him. No idea why, but I do. 

And now he doesn't answer my message.

I guess it was me who fucked it up. In relationships, either way, we are screwed. And not in a good way.