Wow. Ok. What is this? A Wednesday night typing furiously away on this blog. Unplanned and nothing travel-related. Seems like someone’s wild on a school night. What the hell did I eat?!
Two (or maybe three) weeks ago, I started writing this long post about how we all made it through 2016. (In my blog I like to think me as “we all”). I started by congratulating this group of very supportive and imaginary audience, which I called “You” – for making through 2016, because it’s such a damned, hard year. Then I moved on to the second paragraph congratulating myself (this time it’s directed to just me) because it’s a double if not quadrupled damned, hard year.
I blabbered on about the global, almost pandemic, interest in politic slash socio-economic changes all thanks to Brexit and Murica’s defeat in over-combing Trumph (hahaha I am so funny) (and please, save me the ear-bleed from listening to your pretend interest in Europe’s welfare system or military coup in Turkey), then moved on to making a joke about how 2016 saw the departure of two Davids – David Bowie and David Camera (hahaha I am really funny af aren’t I. Say it.), before finishing with a graceful curtsy firing my guns at the bloody annoying Snapchat dog filter (hahah notice the pun??) and social media for how it has maniacally cut our lives into a bazillion (unnecessary) dimensions, inexplicable even in the name of quantum physics.
Then I deleted the whole thing.
Last two weeks (or one and a half), I tried again. But this time, I started by writing about what exactly happened in my life in the latter half of 2016. I called it “coming clean for 2017”. I couldn’t make it pass the second paragraph before thrashing the entire post (again) because I thought it “too much” of an information to disclose. (What?? I have more than 700 likers on the Facebook Page of this blog, half of which aren’t even my friends. Big deal ok. Don’t burst my bubble. ) But honestly? I was too embarrassed, worried and above all uncomfortable to put myself in such an open, unedited, #nofilter position. Ah darling, for the love of God, of all the lousy, cliched excuses in this world, let me tell you something new – I have a problem being myself.
(Oh what a surprise you too. )
Almost a month ago, someone told me I am too guarded, I am a bad decision maker because I get stressed over each and every single decision I make and that I like to think that I am strong , I like people to think that I am strong but in truth I am very vulnerable inside. I put too much pressure on myself. For fuck sake I thought, did you just swallow crystal meth thinking it’s crystal ball Why the hell are you reading me??
The words stayed and lingered on somehow. Lingered long enough for me to mull over them.
I always have a problem being myself. And I always stuff myself with pressure because why not right they are free. Except now these problems have aggravated to a new level because. Keep reading.
Precisely a week after that month, I pulled myself together (ish) and started going back to the gym, eating healthily, getting enough sleep and surrounding myself with people with whom I am 120% comfortable. I am talking about me who had been sick for weeks, coughed like a hag, had a face full of pimples, few months worth of serious self-loathe and looked like a rotten cabbage in stained jumpers. Yes, my insecurity hit rock bottom no amount of bullshit Pinterest motivational quotes could help.
Despite all the get-back-on-my-feet effort, I only managed to write one post on this blog. (And that post had less words than the ones on park-bench memorial plaques. This is sad.) For someone who scribbles daily in her journal and sees writing more importantly than anything else in the world, I couldn’t get myself to publish one post, properly and publicly. (Big deal again, while refugees from war-torn countries marched across borders in dark and the Belgians and French and Germans are still plagued by acts of bloodthirsty terrorists. Me not being able to write is justifiably raised to the top of Global Crisis. Of course.)
(Then again, the news of Brangelina’s divorce and Kim Kardashian’s robbery were enough to take over the covers of papers and screens of TVs for daysss on end. My problem can’t be obliterated.)
It didn’t take me too long to realise that the reason of my inability to write properly and publicly is that I am blocked. Like you know, asking a widow to wear neons to her partner’s funeral or pining for your shit to magically disappear from a blocked toilet.
It’s not possible.
Food reviews, beautiful writings about places, happy style shots…anything presentable just doesn’t seem right coming out from me at this point. The best writers, the best creative talents that have ever breathed are those that serve emotions raw-er than celery sticks on hummous dips. When I am not allowed to write exactly how I feel and about things that I feel strongly about, I can’t write. End of.
2016 is damn bloody hard ok. Because I lose people. My heart’s broken. I am sad.
I am bloody, damn sad.
Ok there, I said it. I wrote it. Now take it and go. The toilet’s flushed and boy, this feels liberating.